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“Uh, if I’m going to get punished for not knowing pop culture, I’m screwed. Remember? Strict grandparents and the lack of attention span to watch more than a commercial?”
That only gets me another grumble and stern look. I silently do a little celebratory dance.
“The kid in the movie wants to be trained to do badass karate so he can defeat the bullies, but his mentor makes him do things like sand his deck, paint his fence, and wax his cars. Daniel, that’s the kid’s name, gets pissed because he wants to get to the good stuff… ya know, punching and kicking. However, he eventually realizes that the chores he did—like wax on, wax off—were preludes and a necessary foundation for effectively using karate.”
“Sounds boring as fuck. In other words, I have been waxing on and waxing off for fucking days.”
That gets a little lip twitch, which is always a point in my favor.
OK, so he's also had some fun with me at the club, naturally. He is very skilled in the use of his hands, his mouth—most notably his tongue—and most especially that famous magical dick of his.
He's gone for hours at a time, though. And since I'm not the kind of girl that sticks around, I'm dying over here. I'm ready to travel again. I've even run through various scenarios involving me sneaking onto a bus and traveling somewhere, just for a night. I start to feel itchy, restless, when I'm in one place for too long, even if I do love it.
Our self-defense lessons have become the highlight of my day, not including, of course, the times we spend in the private rooms. But I want more.
Adriano tugs off his tee in that gloriously masculine way of his where it’s one swift move of muscles and efficiency, tosses it to the dirty laundry, and tugs on a clean tee. God, I could watch the man trim his beard and slide on deodorant all day long. There’s something endearing about the everyday.
"When are you going to teach me actual moves?" Maybe I'm a little impatient. I have a feeling that if Adriano and I ever became that old married couple that spent decades together, we would fully establish this routine where we would need to buy something pedestrian, like, say, a ceiling fan, and I would pick the first one off the shelf, while he stood there in the aisle, reading safety recalls and reviews, and checking out the longevity of the lives of the stupid ceiling fans.
"Patience, grasshopper," he says, doing that manly stern thing where he raises one eyebrow at me. "Today, I'm teaching you something that you'll be pretty good at right out of the gate."
I give him a curious look, because I already know when he is giving me shit about something.
"Blow jobs?" I say, giving him a little wink.
"Keep going," he says, undeterred.
"Hmm. My sharp tongue and quick wit!"
"Closer," he says, and there's a little twinkle in his eyes.
"Maybe you should just tell me!"
"I will, because we don't have a lot of time, and Lord knows you could spend hours listing all your many fine qualities and things you're good at."
"Adriano…"
"One of the best self-defense tools you have is your voice."
"Ah-ha!" I wag a finger at him. "I knew that would come in handy."
He anchors his hands on his hips, one of my favorite moves of his, because he looks all dommy. His muscles flex, and his jaw clenches, and he stands there looking ready to tackle somebody, hopefully me.Squee!
"Okay, so what does my voice have to do with self-defense?"
"Everything. When someone is in a traumatic or dangerous situation, they often forget that screaming, yelling, and making as much noise as possible alerts people that they're in danger. The more noise you can make, the better. And if you ever get into a situation where you can't speak, find something around you that will make noise. Garbage can lids, breaking glass, try to get the attention of a loud dog."
"Now I just know you're teasing me," I say.
He sobers and gets that look on his face he does when he's thinking about something that happened once. He focuses on lacing up his shoes. "Worked for me in Italy."
I stand still because I feel like it’s sacred when he talks about his past. Magical. If I move suddenly, I’ll break the spell and he’ll withdraw from me again.
"There was a stray dog that used to roam the city streets. And every single time he saw a squirrel, he would bark so loud everybody would come to the door and scream at him. One day, I was taking a walk and I saw a little stuffed animal on the side of the road. Most of the stuffing was out of it, but that's not what I needed. I shoved it in my pocket. The next night, the neighborhood bullies were hunting me. I waved that thing over my head, caught the attention of that stupid dog, and he barked his damn head off. It saved me."
Interesting. I add this to my mental image of a waif of a child on the streets of Italy, barefoot and dirty and homeless. It makes me want to cry.
“Alright,” he says. “Let’s practice those moves.”
