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Barrett
She sinks into a sparring pose, legs spread wide, knees slightly bent, arms up. I match hers. Her face isn’t eager or curious. She could tell I wasn’t going to reply. She said what she wanted to say, but she tried to keep me from feeling pressured.
It dawns on me, as I spar with her, focusing on her weak spots and cataloguing responses she could offer with one of the other martial arts, that no one has invited me to do anything in a long time. Not since my team within ACE was stateside and training at Fort Bragg. When was that? Last June?
No one but this girl has sought my presence. Not even Kellan. He’s been sick, although he’s getting better all the time, so the few times I’ve seen him and Cleo, it was my idea. I guess that’s pretty fucking sad.
I push the thought away and keep on trying Gwenna, testing her to see how much she knows. I’d put her at about a first degree black belt. I still feel impressed with her mobility. Finally, just when my left shoulder has started aching, I stop and show her some new tactics.
I show her a few pressure points I teach sometimes for use in street fights gone wrong: like when you lose a gun, or God forbid, run out of rounds. After I’ve shown her, I step back and raise my eyebrows. “Try one on me. Your pick.”
She presses her lips together, quiet and round-eyed. “I don’t want to hurt you.”
I arch a brow and give her a smirk.
“Oh—” Her funny smile blooms on her face— “so it’s like that, is it?”
Instead of answering, I lunge forward on the balls of my feet and shove her shoulders. She springs toward me, feinting for my neck, but balling up her right fist and striking me in the solar plexus instead. The bundle of nerves, just underneath the sternum, is sensitive as fuck if you hit it right. I know she did because my diaphragm locks up, and I can’t get a breath. I clench my jaw to keep from yelling—the natural foil to that maneuver—and I don’t step out of her reach until my head is feeling fuzzy. Then I snatch her wrist and twist her elbow so her body follows that motion; she hits the ground with her right side and flops onto her back.
I’m panting over her.
Her eyes are wide. “You’re insane!” She laughs, jumps up, and makes a grab for my inner elbow, attempting another new trick. She’s a righty, so she goes for my left arm, which doesn’t have sensation in that region, so I have to shake her off. She looks pissed. Her eyes cling to my left hand. “How can you keep your balance on that hand? Some of the fingers don’t work, right?”
I grin.
“You jerk.” She shoves me and I let her, laughing at her energy. She’s like one of those little yappy dogs: more show than actual threat, although I’d never tell her that.
“Truce.” I swing my hand out, faking a hand-shake, and when she grabs it, I hook a foot around her good ankle so she’ll have to use her injured one to fall. I haven’t taught her that, and I’m not positive she knows it, so I catch her on her way down, pulling her atop me.
She spins around to face me, her ass rubbing my crotch in such a way that I’m glad when she hops off my lap so she can face me fully. “Holy hell. Are you a gymnast or something?”
I stand, and hold a hand out for her.
“No thanks, mister. I don’t think I need your kind of help,” she teases. She hops up and brushes her rear end off. I keep my eyes locked on her face. “Barrett, that was seriously impressive. You’re acrobatic.”
I laugh. I’m breathing a little hard. “Out of practice.”
“God, I’m glad.” She laughs. “This was awesome! Just enough ass-kicking so it was fun without me feeling totally pathetic.”
“Next time I’ll show you more target areas around the neck and head.”
I swallow. Next time?
Fuck.
She’s grinning. She waves me toward her front door. “Come here. Come inside, absinthe or not. I got your cupcakes.”
“Serious?”
She beams like Betty fucking Crocker. Little tendrils of auburn hair float around her flushed face as she moves toward her door. “Made them last night—from scratch, by the way.” She winks. “Easy peasy.”
I decline the absinthe, take another Tupperware box from her, and ask to use her restroom before I go.
That night, when I’m in my chair drinking Red Bull, I navigate to my phone’s camera mode. Without opening the lens of the camera in her room, I punch the code for audio and listen to her snore.
TWELVE
Gwenna
