Page 15 of Lethal in Pink

“I do now. She appeared to me in a vision. She was wearing crocs and holding a god-damn casserole.”

I bend down, grasp her wrist, and pull her up to her feet in a swift motion. She's lightweight, all sharp edges and restless energy, with a body that's better suited for hunching over computers in dimly lit rooms, not for eating combos on a mat. Her sneakers find the surface again, and I move behind her, plant both hands on her shoulders, and square them.

“Elbows in,” I say. “Tuck your chin. Also, you’re telegraphing that jab from South Wyoming.”

She pokes out her bottom lip and curls up the right side of her top lip and says, “I’m not telegraphing, I’m advertising. It’s actually a courtesy and you’re welcome.”

I shake my head and laugh, stepping back and letting my hands fall to my sides.

I guess I can give her a moment to breath.

The place is super fancy, but in a subtle way that only comes with a hefty price tag. It's got the scent of a high-end spa, not your typical training facility. This is where the Underground operates, running the most exclusive revenge-for-hire networks on the West Coast. They've got multiple facilities like this one, hidden beneath the city, off the grid, and not found on any official map. Everything here is top-notch—custom mats, state-of-the-art equipment. Every room, from training facilities to offices, exudes luxury without being too showy. It's where the most skilled, yet unknown, operatives come to hone their skills. And you won't find any membership cards here, just a biometric scanner at the entrance that decides who's in and who's out.

Penelope shakes out her wrists, rolls her neck, and gives me a look that’s equal parts exhaustion and defiance. “Can we be done now? I think my soul has left my body and I’d like to go find it before it gets on the wrong bus.”

“One more round.” I plead, giving her my best puppy dog eyes.

She groans.

It’s the kind of groan that comes from deep within her diaphragm and could easily be mistaken for a Banshee battling the worst cold of its life.

“I hate you. I hope you know that.”

“Lies. I’m your favoritest person and we both know it.” I say, already circling her, barely able to contain my excitement.

“You think my great-aunt Martha would approve of this?” Penelope asks, her fists up, but I can tell she’s not happy about it.

“She’d want you to keep your guard up.”

“She’d want me to go home and eat the casserole she brought from the afterlife.”

The laugh that bursts out of me is instant. I seriously can't handle this girl at times, she's just too much.

“Ready?” I ask, once I finally stop giggling.

She gulps, then nods her head yes.

I shoot forward, my fist flying directly to her face. She squeals and jumps back, almost losing her footing as she does. I circle her again and her eyes track me with the weary focus of a cat watching a laser beam on a wall.

“Hear me out,” she says. “If you kill me, who’s going to forge your passports? Huh? Think about that. Think about your international travel plans dying with me on this very mat.”

I roll my eyes, “Your deathbed guilt trip needs work.”

“I’m just saying, my funeral would be very sad. People would cry. There would be a eulogy. Someone would probably read a poem.”

I ponder her scenario for a moment. “That’s fair.” I say with a shrug, knowing she has a point and I would be the saddest person there.

I fake a move to the left, and she instinctively flinches to the right. That's all the opening I need. I quickly slip around to her other side and catch her off guard with a soft but firm strike to the ribs, using the palm of my hand. To my surprise, she still crumples to the ground, her body folding up like a cheap lawn chair.

“That’s it! I’m fucking done!” she says, clutching her side. “That’s enough torture for the day.”

“But your footwork is getting better,” I offer.

“My footwork isn’t any better now than it was three rounds ago. Stop lying to me.”

“Pen.”

“No, Amiyah. I. Am. Done. Period.”