2019-09-06 - Lady & the Tramp

Late in the day on Friday, maybe an hour before closing on one of the gym's late nights, the door opens and in steps a blonde. Sutton's off shift, showered, and gone for a run. Her run has brought her here. Her muscles are warm and her hair and shoulders are damp from a warm summer rain outside. The crowd tonight is thin, perhaps most of the regulars are taking in the sights somewhere else on a Friday, perhaps over at the Platinum Cabaret for amateur night.

Sutton might have gone herself, but for once this week, she's not in the mood to drink. Doesn't mean she's not still hungover, though. It's been a serious few days. She pulls her hair down, finger-combs it up and secures it into a short ponytail. "The singular stink of a fighting gym." She pulls earbuds from her ears, lazily twisting a long white cord around her knuckles.

"You only get it in the good ones."

Mark's already here, month-long-bearded and watching the late-hour dregs. Black sweat-pants are spread-eagled as he sits on a folding chair by the ring, a white towel hung around his neck and being used to wipe down his face as Sutton enters and elicits the reply. He, unlike her, might be drunk. He might not. It's pretty hard to tell with this guy. What he most definitely is is wearing a grubby grey vest, crucifix tattoo clearly visible on the outer edge of his upper left arm as he switches from wiping his face to running the towel back through his hair.

Sutton pulls her music player from the pocket of her shorts wrapping the long cord around it. She slips it back into her pocket, and glances over when a meat slab speaks up. She gives him a look over, top to tail and back. She flicks a glance down to the tattoo that's visible on his arm. It only takes her a moment to recognize him. "How's your heart?" She glances toward the ring, moving over to stand nearby Mark where he sits.

"Do you have anything left tonight for the ring?"

Mark does the slow blink of a cat being suddenly addressed when a reply actually comes, slowly turning his head to look at the source of the voice. There is absolutely zero recognition in his expression. At all. While Sutton might recall the man, it's immediately obvious and clear that he doesn't have a chance of returning the same kindness.

"What?" The question comes as she approaches, dropping his wrapped hands from the towel as he adds another slow blink, rolling his eyes up in an attempt to rattle free a name, or a memory, or anything. Luckily, she's asking about the ring. Which he can glance to instead of digging himself a hole any deeper. "Lady." Maybe a little incredulous. "I've got, what, hundred pounds on you?"

Then he throws out a shrug that almost seems to verbally say 'Fuck it.' "An' you've got thirty years under. No grabbin' my dick, and no hooks if I need to take a moment to hurl."

Sutton reaches up to pull off a pair of stud earrings in her ears, one at a time. She hooks a folding chair with her foot and drags it closer. On it she puts her earrings, the music player from her pocket, a key, then piles that all on the chair along with her street shoes. She moves over to climb into the ring, ducking between the ropes. "I don't think quite that much, but close enough," the blonde says.

She waits. And it's not long before he basically agrees to get into the ring in the classiest of ways possible. "I'll do my best to leave your dick to its own devices, but no promises." She almost smirks, but not quite "Hurl rules apply. Same courtesy for me, love." She leans on the corner post. "Got any tape?"

Mark seems content to haul himself out of the chair, letting the towel slide from his shoulders as he checks his hands with a little flexing of the fingers, bringing his head up to watch the woman's ass as she ducks beneath the ropes with all the tact of a derailed train. "I ate a burrito." It's said to a rope of his own as he hauls himself into the ring. He doesn't so much climb, no. It's more of a slide. A slither. With all the energy of a hungover caterpillar and the body movements to match, letting out a low groan and a slight belch as he hauls himself up for the second time in half a minute.

"It's a pretty big dick." He casually throws out. The words, that is, not the d-nevermind. Adjusting the waistband of those pants, his head uptilts towards the far corner post when she asks about the wraps, there were some draped over the back the last time he looked, at least.

"It can be distractin'. Temptation for an easy win is a foul seductress, I'm well aware."

Sutton's only five foot four to Mark's six foot one. She's quite a bit younger, bonier of elbow, but no doubt quite a bit lighter. For her to walk up to a slab of muscle and ask him into the ring barely an hour before closing, it seems like probably she's faster than she looks, or she's a little bit crazy. She's met Mark the once, but only the once, and she knows he's a little bit nuts.

Her toenails are painted bright fuchsia, which becomes apparent as she crosses the ring barefoot. Her legs are well-muscled and long for her frame. She smells floral, sweet, with an underlying something an accomplished alcoholic might recognize as the lingering sweat-out of some booze or another. She looks sober enough, but excellent physical conditioning can lie. "A chunky or a spicy burrito?" Asking so she knows how far to move back if he looks like he's going to boot. The comment about size actually makes her smile a little. "Well, congratulations." This as she finishes wrapping her left hand. That's the first hint she has some idea what she's doing. She makes quick work of it.

"I didn't come here to win, love." Sutton takes a moment to wrap her right hand, concentrating again on the knuckle padding. She flexes her fingers a couple of times to test the tightness. "Did you?" She smiles fully at that question, and moves into the center of the ring, light on her feet. Probably fast, yep.

Mark doesn't look like he belongs in a ring at all. Physique aside, which is actually legitimately impressive for a guy feeling the outstretched fingers of sixty, he's definitely got the alcohol sweats, his left eye twitches ever so often, and he seems content to avoid looking at ANY of the lights in this place directly. He's also got a somewhat casual sway going on. His body odor, though? That's all workout sweat and burrito breath. He might have put aftershave on. At some point. In the past 12 hours. Maybe.

"Both chunky and spicy." He replies, watching her wrap her hands with a practiced touch. If he's impressed, or second-guessing, it doesn't show. What does show is another slow blink, and a look of confusion at the words that just left his mouth, as if he actually forgot what he was replying to.

Which he didn't. He was just unaware if he was still talking about his dick.

And by the time Sutton's settled into the middle of the ring, he's actually thrown on a pair of additional gloves, heavily, heavily padded over the knuckles, but still leaving his fingers free to grasp and grab. Which he proves by adjusting himself as he half walks, half cowboy-struts to meet her. "If I did anythin' to win, you think I'd be here at this time of night?"

A sweaty, spicy burrito breathed grunge. That's about right for the mood she's in. Not that Mark knows it. Sutton rolls her shoulders slowly, hands coming up. Chunky and spicy. She hasn't seen him chew, but there's a good chance that's going to have some serious splash factor. "Oh. Good."

The blonde settles into a stance that indicates her training might be mixed. It also suggests he's going to have to watch her knees as well as her hands and elbows. She watches the approach, the swagger that brings him over. At the question? No words. Just hands. There's not much of a reply before she gets to it, proving she is quick on her feet. Sutton dances in and, given that Mark's so tall, she swings a couple of getting to know you body blows for his midsection. She stays clear of the magical points that could end in a burrito siege! For now. "Jesus."

Mark doesn't look like he belongs in a ring at all.

Right up until Sutton starts moving. And she is fast. The hop in is quick, and the blows would be accurate and a great depth tester on what his technique's like. The thing is that his demeanor and stature changes as soon as his swagger drops, his left arm coming out as something of a range-finder. The problem for Sutton would be that when you've a guy with what's probably a seven or eight inch reach advantage, a hand hovering around your face does amazing things to block a few vital things in a fight. Like, oh, your vision. And your freedom of movement. His right arm drops low to protect the body hits he seemingly knows is coming.

Well, that's one problem. The other would be the right hand shifting from defense to offense as she talks, coming up to glance against her rib almost softly when she backs far enough that his rangefinding outstretched left says 'Yeah you should swing now.'

She's definitely faster than he is, though. So it only glances.

Sutton's posture shifts, crouching lower, when she's suddenly strong armed a bit back, forced to either duck or retreat and find a new angle. It's a bit like being straight-armed by a big kid on the playground. Her feet are light on the ring's floor, moving around him to try to get clear of that long arm, without making the mistake of coming in range of the other. That's the idea. She hits hard enough that she grunts with each swing. Sutton's nothing if not an all-in kind of sparring partner.

The blonde's reach isn't as long as his, so it's a combination of left, right, right that has her going low. She moves like someone used to working with a smaller, faster target, perhaps with a weapon in her hand. Several swings meet with blocks. Mark's arm is outstanding in this capacity. When she starts to get frustrated, she takes a risk, and it puts her in range of his enormous paws, while she goes in for a body blow. The attempt: block his arm wide and treat him to a knee to the gut. The reality: very different.

Mark's movement is at odds with his appearance as much now as it ever was. He's light on his toes despite the mass, only planting when Sutton threatens to step in and throw, and using that outstretched left as a distraction, a bother and a threat all at the same time, even using his forearm to straight-up shove her off-step and out of position at times. And it has to be stated for legal reasons that Mark was going for another rib shot, a low looping cross from his right hand that triggers as soon as Sutton's focus is on moving his left out of her way.

But when she does just that by bodying it aside and moving low to get enough spring in the knee to really drive it home is where the problem occurs. Where once her body was presenting a target, there is now only head, the heavily-padded mitt thrown like someone triggering a snare as soon as her hands are out of position. It doesn't quite catch her on the button of her jaw, landing a little higher than that, and if this were an actual fight, there'd probably be blood and screaming.

But Mark is wearing heavily, heavily padded gloves. That don't drop their stance at all until he knows how much that rattled her. His stance which has now switched, right hand out, left hand drawn back to guard. Because if everything else wasn't enough, Mark's just as comfortable as a southpaw. He also looks pretty smug. Or, at the least, unconcerned.

You really know how to pick 'em, Sutton.

Heavily padded hands or not, that's a hard shot to the head and she's already rocking a bit of a headache. Hangovers are amazing. It goes like this: Sutton goes low to start some shit and gets cracked hard, like a mid-sized truck to the side of her head. There's a grunt, but it's followed quickly by the sound of her body hitting the floor of the ring hard, a heavy, solid thump. She's light on her feet, but when she goes down, it's hard, limbs akimbo. If this were a real fight, she'd probably be done.

Everything goes blurry and spinny when you're popped like that, and if he pressed his attack right now, she'd likewise be pretty much boned. Sutton tries to push herself up, and ends up wavering and then lets her shoulder drop, and goes down on her back on the mat. Wow. "Fuck me."

"Gimme a minute." Her accent is fucked up, mostly American, with a hint of English now and again. Sounds like she's struggling against her brain's desire to say no thank you, and an urge to puke. Hangovers and headshots. Nope. She's not entirely sure she's not going to throw up. To that end, she rolls over, and takes a sharp breath.

Slowly, slowly, she uses the rope to get to her feet. She hangs onto them for a moment.

Mark's hands drop the second Sutton does, still hopping on his feet for a couple of seconds either from adrenaline, nitroglycerin, or both. When she sprawls, there's a brief glance to the skeleton crew group in the gym, a few looks thrown ringwards from the sound that he can only respond to with a shrug before he slowly lowers himself down to the mat as well, first sitting, then letting himself relax on his back, forearm moving to cover his eyes from the light above. Solidarity in floor buddies, basically.

Her expletive gets a little laugh that sounds like a frog slid into his throat when he wasn't looking, the skirmish getting enough of a renewed sweat going that he's actually wiping at his eyes with that forearm when he responds with a slightly croaked "Would, Lady, but that was nowhere near enough to get me hard."

Which probably means he's actually lightly drunk as opposed to hungover. The confirmation of that is the nod he gives when she asks for a minute. "Take y'time, and then thank me for putting on the gloves."

When she's fully upright, he hasn't moved but to look at her from below. No curiosity, very little concern, and with a slight rubbing of his belly. Burrito doesn't like movement like that without warning. "Remember: F'the room spins, siddown and get a bucket. Maybe two. The lil' ones always have the largest tank."

Sutton is probably having second thoughts. She should be having second thoughts after she got slammed like that. A completely sane person would peace out of the spar — check that; a completely sane person wouldn't have opted in in the first place. Mark's ridicu-huge and she looks more like a yoga instructor or a runner than a fighter. Must be the hangover making her decisions.

"That's really tempting." She grunts out, finally letting go of the ropes. "Seeing as you smell like something that died in a Crown Vic full of two day old takeaway and spilled liquor." She straightens and steps away from the ropes. Hey! Upright and moving. She drops her hands to her knees and takes a couple of breaths. Stays on her feet, though. "Thanks for putting on the gloves." Bless, she really means it.

"Probably won't need bucket, thanks." May need a bucket. Must now show weakness. "You're a beast." She straightens again. "Okay, let's go once more." Bad decisions year long.

"Not that I care-" Mark starts, sitting up from his comfortable nap spot with only three attempts at swinging his arms to get the momentum going to get the job done. "But why you askin' guys twice your height and twice your weight to punch you in the face?"

His expression looks like he cares. Well, no, okay, that's a stretch. His expression makes it look like that at the very least he's intrigued, especially when she offers to go once more, a request that sees him moving towards ropes of his own to lift himself from up the floor, brush off his sweats both front and back (with, if we're honest, far more focus on getting dust off of his ass than is really necessary), and then sniff an underwing to see if what she said is really true.

And Sutton is a dirty liar. He smells like something that died in a 1999 Toyota Corolla full of two day old takeaway. And that's it. Mark does not spill liquor.

"I had a shitty week, and this seemed like a way." To make it worse? To make it better? She doesn't say. Sutton also doesn't reach up to feel across her temple and the side of her face. She doesn't want to know if that's going to bruise. She's also not entirely sure how long it put her down, either. She's sure she didn't go out, which is the important bit. "I haven't been to a gym since before I left Seattle. So like — ten months. Little out of practice." Also donuts and a recovery period, but she doesn't add more fuel to the you-suck fire. "We can talk about it later."

Part of what she said is definitely true. Saying it wasn't necessary. Saying it when he could easily slam her for it doubly so. Then again, maybe she's in the kind of mood where it is necessary. While he's sniffing himself, she pulls a little bit of an asshole move and slides in. Hey, one of his long arms is busy. He's not puking. Not against the rules at all. Fist, right elbow, left elbow, knee. She takes a gamble with that last one, again well within reach, close to a grapple. Maybe she really did come her to get thrown around.

Whatever Mark's retort to her explanation will never be known. It could be the solution to all of her problems, said with a cocky attitude and that hint of truth that burrows into your brain and never quite let go. It could be a tiny bit of unexpected wisdom that helps her put the last few months into perspective, giving her a new viewpoint to look upon and compartment the issues in her life with a renewed gusto for a brighter future.

He could have had a voucher for liquor store discounts.

What he gets OUT is a "Fai-" before she's hitting him four times in a row, sending him back up against the ropes, the knee clipping his side and sending him side-stepping like his future kids depend on it. A coupla inches to the left, and his CURRENT kids might have faded from existence. And you try explaining that to a school district.

Apparently, that makes her feel better, because Sutton jams her foot into Mark's instep. He's not going to pay her for her lack of judgment, she's going to take advantage of it before he wakes up enough to throw her. The move that follows has the chance to crush both of them. She jams her hip against his, kicks her foot between his ankles, and hooks a leg. The aim is to trip-throw him to the ground, catching up his foot so he can't adjust and keep his feet. If he goes down, she's going down on top of him. He didn't want to slam her to the ring, but she weighs considerably less, and is happy to introduce him to the ring's floor.

It's probably going to hurt at least a little, even if all goes as planned. And she does have those bony elbows.

Mark likes his feet. They're good feet. When he first came to Grey Harbor, despite owning a car, he walked everywhere. Still often does. One particularly sober week, he decided he'd do nothing but walk the streets of the town until he could tell what road he was on by the feel of how good a job the sidewalks were maintained. He knows the boardwalk has eight boards that flex a little more than the rest where the waterproofing wasn't properly applied. Outside of the trailer park, about 35 yards down the road, there's a hairline crack of a root beneath that's raising the asphalt by a matter of half an inch or so every year.

Mark. Likes. His. Feet.

Which is why the interrupted yell of "Oh you CU-" is probably not directed at Sutton as those feet he oh so loves completely fucking betray him.

He's four steps behind, caught out by the earlier flurry, and in his haste to reclaim some idea of what's going on, the move completely blindsides him. His back slams down to the mat hard, and the ring, boxing in name, style and nature, wasn't made to cushion such a thing. The wind leaves him, carrying a soft scent of minced beef and peppers, and he's certain he felt something in his back get re-aligned. Which, hey, at least Sutton's cheaper than a physio.

She's got him bang to rights for about a second and a half. Then we'll see if Mark's actually capable of anger.

See, all that was awesome. It worked our near perfectly. The rapid attack, Mark's struggling to keep up with it, the sharp jabs and tangle and trip and fall. It worked. It worked and she goes down with him. But. Woof is the sound of her breath leaving her body when Sutton's esteemed self slams down on top of Mark, adding bony elbow to insult, or is that bony elbow to injury?

She goes down with him and, important reminder, she has had her cage rattled pretty hard once already tonight. This second time is a bodying down hard enough to knock the wind out of her, and very nearly something else. She's momentarily stunned, having forgotten how hard a boxing ring's floor is compared to, say a fighting mat. Which is her mistake, her very unfortunately timed mistake.

Mark's old. Mark's so, so old. Those elbows are like tent pegs into a mummy, and Mark has no oxygen left in his lungs. That and there's a woman half his age laying on him and all of his blood has left his brain. And the fall made him land on a testicle. But she gave him an opening as her life choices fought against her current decisions.

Which means that Mark can SPRING INTO ACTION.

It's so very easy for him to loop an arm around her, using his superior weight to regain leverage so that the two of them can roll, bodying her physically with his chest once she's been moved on to her back and holding her there with a forearm to the collarbone as he angles his body slightly into a perfect textbook example of side mount ground control. From there, it's as easy as breathing to raise his hips slightly and start driving a couple of knee shots into her ribs as she lays there, a glorious and well earned revenge for the tiny little tornado daring to blindside him, and no less than she deserves.

When Mark recovers from that concussion induced hallucination, however, it's to find himself ineffectively and very gently flailing a hand somewhere near her face, a slight bit of drool leaking from the side of his mouth as his eyes slowly come back into focus.

Sutton has no idea what Mark's thinking there, or how lucky she is that he hit harder than she did. She, on the other hand, manages to slide off of him most of the way. He's big enough that that takes her almost into a seated position on the floor of the ring. She smacks back at is hand, catching his wrist to keep him from smacking her, or worse, sticking a finger up her nose.

"Stop moving." Sutton mutters. She sounds like she might be the one to puke. Her tone is a little strained, reedy and strained. "Serious —" ly stop is what she was going to say. The blond tries to scuttoe to the nearest corner, but Mark's a mountain she cannot summit in time. He's between her and the potential of a bucket. What she drank last was vodka, so at least it's clear. Unfortunately, she enjoyed it with half a bag of gummi worms. At least they were organic?

Right? ... Right.

Mark's hand is grabbed, and he's blinking against the light above him when Sutton's words reach his ear, the man stopping all motion at the strain in her tone. But alas, alack, too little, too late. And it's not like he can move out of the way. His spine is slowly re-calibrating. All he can do is but shut his eyes, inhale before the strike hits, and listen to the noise of someone upturning a slightly-past-sell date bucket of soup across his upper torso. Feel it seep through his vest and slip in around the hems at his collarbones. Move a hand to, blindly and with a little delay, rub the spewing Sutton's back. 'At least-' he thinks, unwilling to interrupt her purge with words for the moment '-she was less full than I thought.'

What he actually says, after a moment of silence has passed, is:

"Is it weird I'm still at half-mast, here?"

It's been an age since Sutton's puked on a man.

She pukes on Mark and, look at that folks, he takes it like a seasoned professional. A champ. A caring fellow, even. Goodness.

She's tangled up with him, half over his body, which means his shirt takes the most splash damage. Her hair's pulled back, thank god, so there's none of that to deal with. Just vodka, warmed by her stomach, and hunks of translucent, colorful jelly style candies. She's left to contemplate the decisions that have led up to this, and ultimately she chooses to wipe her mouth with the back of her hand, wipe that on her shirt. All the while, the big man rubs her back.

There's a lengthy pause on the heels of Mark's words. "You're absolutely repulsive." She spits out a lingering hunk of gummi worm. She really should chew things better. "I think we're going to be friends." She wipes her mouth again.

"Sorry, love. Thought I had a handle on that." It's all very proper the way she enunciates those words. She dismounts the homeless looking gent and sits on her knees beside him. "I yield." Obviously. She glances down, because of course she does. "Huh."

Eyes still closed, Mark's mouth breaks into a wide, toothy grin at Sutton's words, the man not really moving until she's ready to. When she mentions the being friends? That's when an eye cocks open, rolling over in her direction. His hand's actually higher on her back than he thought. "I'm honest, lady. Which, when you really think about people, might as well be synonymous with repulsive."

Really, hearing a word with four syllables leave Mark's mouth will never not be unsettling and unexpected. What is expected is the slow seep of body-temperature damp settling in against his chest, to which he gives a little sniff of the air. Yup. Definitely Vodka. His tongue rolls over the top of his teeth as he contemplates this for a moment, letting out a little grunt and a withdrawl of his hand when she moves, letting her settle for a moment before pointing out the bucket. "You ain't got a handle on shit, lady. But s'alright. Who the fuck does? Mind gettin' me that bucket when you're ready so I can try and keep most of this from the mat and myself from another ban?"

That sounds honest. The almost-laughed "I know, right? Like a todder graspin' a satsuma." when she looks down?

Also sounds honest. Oh god.

"Everybody needs a redeeming quality." Sutton finally moves to rise. This is well after he's discussed the fruit, so it's a toss up as to which quality of his she's is indeed referring to. It could go either way. "I feel quite a bit better now." After being thrown around, cracked in the head, and puking. Sometimes you just need somebody sweaty to rub your back and give a kind word. "Vodka's the worst, but it's cheap and easy." She pads across the ring barefoot, sidestepping any splashes, and hops out to fetch the bucket she might have made it to were Mark such a climb.

Yeah, there's a bucket there. She chose the correct corner. That's swept up and she ducks under the ropes into the ring, sliding it over with a rag. She hops back out to find their bottle of cleaner and more towels. At least it was clear liquor. At least she didn't eat a burrito before she came here. She walks steadily enough, seems okay on her feet. The headache, though. Yowsa. "You like pancakes? I should eat some pancakes." Not that there's any alcohol left in her stomach, or anything else.

"Redemption is overrated, Lady. Folks're either good or they ain't." Mark: Most Zen when vomited upon. He moves nothing but his head until the bucket is summoned, watching Sutton go with little more than a "Same." in retort to the 'praise' of Vodka and a second stare at her ass of the night. Look, if this is working on a barter system, he's still well and truly in the black.

Once the bucket's slid back and over, it's positioned with the care and skill of someone who has done this many, many times before, placing it low on his abdomen, tilted, and he sits up with absolutely none of the earlier arm waving he had to employ previously. One second he's flat on his back, the next he's sat up, with only one gummy slipping out over the side of his chest to fall to the mat. What vodka wasn't seeped into his vest rolls in as well, followed by the vest itself that he pulls off with a single arm up and over the shoulder, balling it up and adding it to the contents. He does nothing to fix the hair that sticks up as a result, then reaches out to pluck up the single escaped gummy with his hand like it's nothing at all, dropping it into the bucket before sliding it aside.

His chest? Shows signs of his age.

It also shows signs of him seemingly being used as a knife block in some psychopaths kitchen one time or another, but he seems about as apathetic as that as he does the vomit.

"I fuckin' love pancakes." comes his reply, right as he's sniffing the bucket. Because... y'know. Curious. She's given a glance as he places that aside and goes for the rag to start cleaning what he couldn't catch. "You buyin' me pancakes, Lady?"

Sutton liberally sprays the floor of the ring, wiping up any leftovers she can find, soaking the paper towels she grabbed out of some dispenser or another. Luckily, Mark caught most of it. Good job, Mark! Without video evidence, no one's going to know, except anecdotally, the mess they've made of the ring. Ok, the mess she made. "Yeah, I'll buy you some pancakes. Definitely not fucking making them. My building is a crime scene again." That last part is muttered.

Did she hear the EMS boots thumping down her hallway and then fuck off out of the building? Maybe she did. Is someone probably going to want to question her on if she heard anything later? Probably they are. Is she available? No she fucking is not. "We're eating all the pancakes we can stomach. Maybe carryout. Now we both smell." She takes a long look at his bare torso. The look of his chest prompts a stare. She's seen a lot of scars and a lot of trauma in her time. Maybe she's amazed a man his age with his aroma has abs like those. At the very least, she's noticing both.

"Had I seen you without your shirt..." Sutton considers. "No, I would have still asked you into the ring." Thus proving that self-destruction isn't just for the boys in this town. Mark's a brick house, even if he looks like a total drunk hobo. The hair certainly doesn't help matters. "Sutton. My name is Sutton."

"That's nice, Lady." Mark replies as the two of them clean, showing that he either has no intention of remembering her name, or has no expectation that he'll actually be able to. "Mark."

And so they get to work, Mark noting but not really commenting on the fact her building is yet again a crime scene and confirming that yes, that would be the Bayside apartments. Because what part of telling Mark roughly where you live seems like a bad idea, right? Between the two of them, with some elbow grease, some talk, mostly Mark approving about pancakes and confirming that yes, he has a spare shirt, they actually do a damn good job of clearing up the mess they made. And yes, Mark considers it 'their mess', although he never admits that out loud.

And somehow, they do it. By the time they leave, the ring is cleaner than it was when they arrived.

And Mark's chest is covered.

In a lurid black shirt covered in bright parrots.

He only looked at her ass four times.

"Jesus," Sutton says, as she catches sight of the shirt, and they push out of the gym doors and into the warm night beyond. "You look like a retired hitman."