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I led her over to one of the heavy bags. It was a tattered, lumpy thing, more duct tape than bag at that point. It probably weighed more than she did. "Okay, let's see you punch."
"Really? This is your grand plan? Turn me into the next Karate Kid?"
"Ah, so you do have some appreciation for the classics then."
"Wax on, wax off," she replied solemnly.
I grinned. I missed joking about movies with my squad. Those had been some of my happiest memories in a sea of shit I'd otherwise rather forget. "Well, maybe there's hope for you yet. But to get back on track, this isn't about turning you into anything. It's about making you feel good. Boxing is a great way to release tension, and it also happens to be a hell of a work out. Now, show me what you've got."
She considered this for several seconds, then her eyes flicked to the bag. She took a hesitant step forward, arranged herself in something that looked more like a dancer's pose than something that belonged in the ring, then flung her fists out through the air several times in wide arcs, striking the canvas awkwardly.
"You hit like a girl," I deadpanned.
"Oh hahaha. Like I didn't see that one coming."
I grinned. "The joke may have been obvious, but it wasn't as obvious as that punch. If you swing your arms like that, you're telegraphing to the whole world 'I'm going to punch right here.' Anyon
e with half a brain is just going to take a step backward."
"So you'd just stand there and take it then?"
It was my turn to roll my eyes. "Yep, dumb as a pile of bricks over here," I replied. "Anyway, first, we need to correct your stance. Turn slightly to the side, but not all the way. Your back foot should be pointing to the side and your front one should be about forty five degrees." I demonstrated by dropping into a fighting stance. "The goal is to present the smallest target possible while not restricting your visibility or movement."
She shuffled her feet uncertainly.
"Here, let me show you," I said, stepping behind her and placing my hands on her hips.
I'd always been a natural at hand-to-hand combat. I studied a whole bunch of martial arts as a kid, and I drank each one up like I was just remembering something I'd learned long ago. By the time high school ended, I was a black belt several times over. As a result, during quiet times on duty, the brass sometimes had me running combat training courses for other troops. I'd taught my fair share of people to fight. I'd made adjustments to stances and techniques a thousand times, even with women on occasion, and it never felt anything but professional, but touching Grace this way was something else entirely. It felt intimate, exhilarating, and utterly sexual. I couldn't help but be conscious of the fact that I was mere inches from touching her ass, that fucking perfect ass that just begged to be squeezed. It was the same sort of grip I'd have if I was taking her from behind. Just that image had me growing hard.
She stiffened and drew a sharp little breath as my fingers tightened involuntarily. I don't know why, but that sound just turned me on more. Christ, I had to pull myself together. I was trying to help this girl, and all I could think about was fucking her, which was most certainly going to be the opposite of helpful. One of the mantras Charlie had instilled in me was that I was in control of my life. Booze didn't rule me. Nothing did. But in that moment I didn't feel in control at all. I felt almost helpless, helpless to this tiny girl and her fucking magnetic curves.
I cleared my throat and forced my mind back to the task at hand. "Like this," I said, turning her until her body was parallel with mine and nudging her feet into position. "And you need to loosen up. You're rigid as anything, right now. Float like a butterfly, sting like a bee and all that."
"Sorry," she said. If what I'd guessed about her boyfriend was right, she was probably freaking out about having some giant scary dude manhandle her. I uncurled my fingers and stepped away, and some of the tension bled from her muscles. God, I was a dick.
"Better. Now, there's several different types of punches." I moved back around in front of her, raised my fists and unleashed several quick blows against the bag. "When you punch with your front fist, that's called a jab. It doesn't look like much, but it's your most versatile weapon. It's fast, it disorients people and it sets up your big hits."
I switched to a combo using both fists. "Now this is your most basic combo. Left, right. A single good right can end most fights, but you need the jab to make it effective. The technique is also different. Contrary to what most people believe, a lot of punches aren't just about the arms. They're whole body actions. See how my legs spring up and my hips twist as I attack? That's where all the power comes from. You don't need to swing wildly. Just punch straight and fast and your body will do the work."
She tried to mimic me. It was better technically than before, but she clearly wasn't putting in maximum effort. "This is stupid," she said. "I've never been in a fight in my life. I've never had any reason, and I don't see that changing."
That was interesting. Maybe I was wrong about her boyfriend after all. But it didn't change anything. "This isn't about whether you'll use it or not. Quite frankly, it'll make me very happy if you never have to. This is me trying to help the only way I know how. Maybe it won't work for you, but you promised you'd try."
She considered this for several seconds, then her jaw tightened and she gave a brief nod. "Okay."
"Just practice that one-two combo. Left right. If you want to mix it up a little, throw in some extra jabs." I demonstrated, left, left, right. "The other thing to focus on is your footwork. Circle the bag, stay moving, stay light on your feet. In a real fight, it makes you harder to deal with, and in here it makes the workout that little bit better."
She turned to the bag once more, a hint of determination in her eyes now. Again, she started timidly, but as she slipped into a rhythm, she gradually began to throw more and more energy into each punch. Soon, she was hitting with everything she had.
"Good," I said. I could almost feel the anger fueling her movements now, and if she was anything like me, it felt really good. I've never found any activity that is nearly as cathartic as hitting something. I wondered what she was picturing as she did it. Everyone pictures something. Maybe a shrink would say that wasn't the healthiest way to deal with the situation, but I never had much time for men in white coats. I was just glad she was doing something.
Chapter Ten
Grace
If you've never experienced true addiction before, it's impossible for you to really understand the pain of trying to quit. I used to think such poor self-control was just a sign of weakness, that you were making a choice to drink or smoke or eat, in spite of the consequences, but there's so much more to it than that. An addiction is a living thing. It's insidious, it's powerful, and it will do anything to ensure it is fed. It hijacks your body and whispers in your ear, and it knows exactly what to say to snake its way past your guard.
I nearly broke a hundred times, in those first few days. Drinking had become like scratching an itch, an almost subconscious gesture. My mind would wander somewhere dark, and before I knew it, my hands would be searching for a bottle. It would have been so easy to give in, to just sink back below the surface and let nature take its course. That's what it felt like to me, inevitable. Several times I made it as far as reaching for a bottle, but whenever I raised it to my lips, I found myself thinking of Logan. For some inexplicable reason he had faith in me, and strangely, that gave me faith in myself. Maybe I felt like I owed it to him, I don't know. He'd put himself out there for me, and I didn't want to let him down.
