Letters to Elle

08 | Flirting with Death

            08 | Flirting with Death

Max’s Mixed Martial Arts. Every time I passed this building before today, I never thought that I’d ever be entering it let alone talking to Max himself. I’m not in any danger, nor do I have any urge to learn how to learn self defense. I’m not exactly the most agile or physically fit person in my grade. I don’t even play a sport.

            The first thing I notice when I walk through the door is the receptionist sitting behind a wooden desk. There are bamboo plants placed in the corners of the room and pictures are hanging from the wall in various places. The environment is very warm and welcoming, which I appreciate. I feel less awkward and out of place.

            “How may I help you?” the woman at the counter asks. Her dark brown hair is piled up on top of her head in a neat, precise bun with a pencil sticking through the center, keeping the whole thing together.

            “Uh, I’m looking for Max.”

            She raises her eyebrows. “You mean the owner?”

            “Yeah, that Max.”

            She sighs, as if she’s done this a million times, and she’s sick of people asking for her boss. “Max is busy right now. A lot of his customers don’t get to talk to him directly, so don’t be too put out by the fact that Max won’t see you. It’s normal that he has me deal with his business.”

            I shake my head. “This isn’t business. I just need to . . . talk to him.”

            She smiles sympathetically as if all of Max’s “customers” just needed to “talk” to him. “Hon, hate to break it to you, but the only way you’re going to get to get any information to Max is through me.”

            “I just need—“

            Her eyes turn hard, and I know that she’s not kidding. “I’m sorry. Max is unavail—“

            “Tara,” a deep voice drawls, “what did I tell you about people asking for me specifically?”

            I turn toward the new voice and see a man about 6’4”, his composure looming and thick. His muscles bulged underneath his tight shirt. This guys was clearly trying way too hard to show off his body and how he was in such great shape. I don’t like people like that. The ones that always tried to show off what they have.

            Tara purses her lips. “You said that you don’t have the time for anyone who doesn’t have a one-on-one appointment with you. I was just doing what you told me to do.”

            In a reproachful tone, Max says, “No, I didn’t. Don’t put words into my mouth.”

            “But—“

            “No.” He averts his attention toward me, his eyes searching my face. Is he looking for a reason to cast me away? A reason to not waste his time on me? “And what’s your name, girl?”

            I swallow my protest. Maybe it wasn’t such a good idea to come here. . . . Max appears to be quite frightening. “Um, my name is Waverly.”

            A smile appears on his face, and he gestures for me to follow him. “Hello, Waverly, and welcome to Max’s Mixed Martial Arts. I think I might know why you’re here.”

“So, why do you think I’m here?” I ask him.

            Max led me to a back room—his office, I’m assuming—and now he’s sitting in a swivel chair across from me, a desk separating us. He was kind enough to offer me a seat, but now I’m pretty convinced that the only reason he let me sit down was because he wanted to scrutinize me.