by SK Ryder
The phone rang again.
“For God’s sake,” she griped, reaching for the device. “Nothing can be this important on a weekend.” Seeing Jackson’s smiling mug on the screen, she steeled herself before accepting the call. “Is the world falling apart?” Not that she’d care until Monday morning. She had working AC now and a comfy bed.
“It might be,” Jackson replied, sounding relieved. “Are you staying at your place tonight?”
“What? Why wouldn’t I?”
“You may have heard of this tropical depression that’s coming in?”
She sat up, sleep fog clearing. “What about it?”
“It might get rough out by the beach. Wind, rain, loss of power, maybe some flooding.”
“Oh, is that all? Remember you’re talking to a girl who has routinely shoveled herself out from Colorado snow storms.” She moved the curtain aside to see the ocean lying like a mirror beneath a cloudless sky. Nothing moved out there. Not even the bugs. “I think I can manage.”
“I’m glad to hear it. As long as your roommate is staying put as well.”
She hesitated. The presumably female roommate wouldn’t be anywhere near. Dominic was far too preoccupied with getting out of the cottage at night—running from her, she imagined, the nuisance invading his peaceful home . . . on the beach.
She blinked. “Wait. How do you know I’m by the beach?”
“Did I say that?”
“Yes. You did.”
“I . . . um . . . saw you drive in that direction after work the other day.”
“You’re spying on me?”
Alarmed by her sharp tone, Eddie sat up, green eyes round with questions.
“No, I was . . . oh, hell. Yes. I followed you home last week. I had to make sure you’re somewhere safe.”
“Oh? And does my place pass muster?” Outrage had her as wide-awake as three cups of espresso. “Not exactly Striker standards, I bet.”
“Babe, listen . . .”
“I’ll have you know it’s got a top-of-the-line AC system.”
Jackson laughed. “Well, sounds like a winner then. It’s supposed to hit ninety-three today.”
“I don’t think you spying on me is funny.”
“I wasn’t . . . oh, for fuck’s sake, Cass. Would you have rather I put a GPS tracker on your car? I do know where you work, you know.”
Cassidy hung up. Jackson knew where she lived. This meant he could stop by any time. She rubbed the goosebumps off her arms. The thought disturbed her more than she could say.
All day long, she watched for Jackson, but all remained still on Seagrape Lane. Almost eerie, in fact. There wasn’t even a hint of a breeze, and the sky lay like a dense, hazy blanket over the landscape, trapping the oppressive heat.
After completing her list of weekend chores and managing soup and a sandwich for lunch, she braved the oven-like conditions for a grocery run that included bottled water, canned goods, and a flashlight. Just in case. She also collected an assortment of newspapers and a tub of butter pecan ice cream to celebrate Sunday and her career finally rumbling to life. After pulling that article on Garcilla Health out of her hat by deadline and with more insightful detail than expected, Dave had been impressed enough to send another, much more straight-forward assignment her way. Life was looking up.
While the furnace blasted outside, she read news and spooned ice cream in air-conditioned comfort. She also kept an eye on the TV for weather updates. The storm stalled, and energetic debate surrounded the timing and location of its arrival in Florida. The reports of murder and mayhem from around the world were far more intriguing. There were plenty from right here in Florida, too. Decapitated bodies kept appearing in odd places in the escalating inter-city gang war, and another young woman had disappeared in the Keys, her sad fate a foregone conclusion.
Eddie lay beside her on his back, the picture of feline bliss. The stark white stripe on his chest and belly ruffled in the cold air blowing from the overhead vent. He was content, and after a while, so was Cassidy.
For dinner she made a pot of mac-n-cheese with peas and added a boiled egg to her serving. This dish, her favorite comfort food, made her feel close to her mother’s spirit, but also made her dwell on all the things she had lost.
By the time her bowl was empty, she added another loss to the tally. Eddie, her faithful companion all day, roused from his snooze, dropped to the floor and stretched with a toothy yawn. Then he shook out his shaggy coat and padded away. “Hey, where’re you going?” The cat didn’t hesitate in his climb up the stairs. “Oh, suddenly my company isn’t good enough for you either?”
“I told you he is allergic to me,” Dominic said as he emerged from the hall and headed for the kitchen where he helped himself to a bottle of Perrier. Once again his attire was limited to the well-worn gym pants, his hair tucked behind his ears. He still maintained the clean-shaven look he had adopted last week together with a new, more powerful air of confidence.
“And a cheery good evening to you.”
He drained the bottle before eying the pot on the stove. “You are eating shit again.”
“Oh, we’re back to that, are we?”
“If you waited for me, I could fix you something.”
“A body could starve waiting for you. Or do you want me to haul you out of bed when I’m hungry?”
A slow smile spread across his face. “You could try.”
“Right.” The installers had clanged and banged around the house for the better part of Friday, impossible to miss, yet he emerged that evening looking surprised to find the house thirty degrees cooler than before. “I know better.”
“Pity.”
“Besides, why would you care what I eat anyway?” she said even as her attention caught on an updated weather bulletin. She turned up the TV to learn that the wad of green radar signature over the Bahamas appeared to be on the move again. “I take it you’re staying in tonight?”
When there was no response, she turned to find him watching her with an odd expression she couldn’t even begin to place. “What?”
Dominic looked away and shook his head. “Nothing.” He pitched the empty bottle in the recycle bin and headed for the door. “Bonne nuit, Cassidy.”
“What the hell,” she muttered when the door closed behind him.
So he preferred spending the night in a tropical downpour rather than talk to her. Or not talk. Fine. As long as he was here, pretending at least to tolerate her presence. God, she was tired of everyone disappearing on her, leaving her, dying on her, or pushing her away—the cat included. And now even the annoying gay roommate. His leaving shouldn’t matter to her. After all he was almost a stranger. And yet . . . it did. Tonight of all nights with a storm threatening, she would be alone. Abandoned. Again.
Fifteen minutes passed before Cassidy realized she hadn’t heard the bike start up. Not that he was dressed for riding. Maybe he was on the beach. Whatever. He was a big boy and could look after himself.
An hour later, there still was no sign of him. The wind rose to a steady blow off the water, and she could hear the surf rumbling now even through the closed windows and over the drone of the AC. Dominic wouldn’t be crazy enough to go swimming in that, would he? Or had he been caught by a rip current and carried out to sea?
Guilt set in. He might be lying washed up on the beach in need of medical attention while she sat here nursing old grudges. “You’re a freaking pain in the ass, Dominic, I swear.” She toed into her flip-flops, grabbed her phone and flashlight, and stepped into the restless night.
A chill went through her as she descended the porch steps. In all the time she’d been here, she’d never gone out after dark. Cassidy looked around at a landscape full of rustling shadows. Warm wind, heavy with weather, brushed against her skin and tugged at her
ponytail. Above, scattered clouds hustled like sails through the sky in the vague light of a quarter moon.
She was alone.
“Uh-huh. What else is new?” Swallowing her nagging apprehension, she switched on the flashlight and strode toward the beach.
She spotted Dominic when she crested the dune. Not a lifeless form in the sand, but a body moving along the water’s edge in precise patterns, his bare torso edged in moonlight. Back and forth he went, slowing and accelerating, while swinging a stick of some sort with such force it hummed in the wind. Every movement radiated power and purpose. Fascinated, she stood and watched.
Less than a minute later, he stopped and looked to her.
“I just came to see if you’re okay,” she called, giving a half-hearted wave. “I didn’t mean to interrupt.” She wasn’t sure he heard her over the thundering waves, so she came closer. “The storm is moving again. They say it’ll get nasty here in the next couple of hours.”
“Do they?”
Keeping her light politely averted, she could make out little of his face beyond the occasional glint of his eyes and the silvered edges of his straight nose and high cheekbones. But the smile in his voice warmed her. “You should not be out here, then.”
“Well, that makes two of us.” She glanced at the stick, a piece of driftwood. “What are you doing anyway?”
“Practicing control.”
“Oh?”
He tossed the stick aside and sat in the sand, draping his arms over drawn up knees. “It is a Kata, a martial arts practice. It helps to focus the mind.”
Cassidy sat beside him and switched off the flashlight. A sense of déjà vu swept over her. This was much like a recent dream high up in the mountains, in the snow, in the too-warm sun, when they sat like this together in companionable conversation. When all was right with the world. She sighed but stopped herself from leaning against him as she did in the dream.
“So you practice Kung Fu, too?” A useful skill for a covert government operative, which was her latest theory about him. Though which government he might be working for was debatable.
He glanced at her. “Aikido.”
“What’s the difference?”
“Kung Fu is Chinese. Aikido is Japanese. Aikido is defensive in nature and focuses on avoiding conflict. Control is everything.”
“And going after them with a stick is the backup plan?”
“Sword.”
“Of course. Off with their heads.”
“Oui. If required.” He sounded dead serious.
“Interesting hobby.”
“A discipline. I hold the rank of Shodan. First degree black belt.”
In spite of herself, she was impressed. “Chef, hacker, motorcycle stuntman, and now a black belt? Is there anything you’re not good at?”
Dominic laughed without humor and turned back to the foaming waves. “Many things. But mostly . . . I seem unable to avoid trouble.”
The sudden bitter edge took her aback. True anger vibrated behind those words. Her gaze dropped to the faded tattoo on his left shoulder. The tribal sun with a solid core looked as bleak as it did cheerful.
“What kind of trouble?” she asked, feeling like she was stepping over a cliff.
Dominic snorted. “Why would you care?”
“Why wouldn’t I? I like to think we’re—” She stopped, recalling their earlier exchange. He gave her a sidelong look that told her he thought of it, too. “Friends,” she said softly.
Dominic considered. “Ma amie. My troubles are dangerous.”
“I figured as much.” When he said nothing, she added, “Might help to talk about it.”
“Oui. Perhaps.” He paused as if gathering unpleasant memories. “The life I knew before . . . the life I told you about . . . that all ended one night when my sister Anastasie left the restaurant early.” Pause. “Three drunks followed her. It was complete coincidence that I found them when I did.” His voice all but disappeared, and Cassidy strained to hear him. “Two of them held her down and covered her mouth while the third . . .”
She closed her eyes. Cold nausea knotted her gut.
“Aikido is a peaceful martial art,” Dominic went on. “But at a certain level, if there is a loss of control, defensive techniques can become . . . lethal.”
Cassidy tasted tears in the back of her throat. “Did you? Lose control?”
He gave her a long, searching look. “I did.”
Nodding, she wiped at her face with the heels of both hands. “Good.” His silence told her all she needed to know. No details needed. Taking a life was no small thing, even when in self-defense. “And your sister was okay?”
“In a manner of speaking.”
That, too, spoke volumes. While her own close call had been over two years ago, her flesh still crawled with the memories of rough hands on her, ripping her clothes, shoving her into the dirt.
On impulse she said, “Teach me. Right now.”
“Teach you what?”
“How to defend myself. Like you defended Anastasie.”
“Oh, chérie.” He sighed. “That takes many years of dedicated practice.”
“But there must be something? Something that would give me a fighting chance?”
“Oui. Maybe. But why?”
“Because—” Her voice twisted and vanished, and fresh tears burned in her eyes. Like gritty stones, she pushed the words from her throat. “Because I was her once. Two years ago. On campus. A couple of jocks thought I’d be . . . fun.” She wiped at her eyes again. “Jackson saved me from the worst of it, but he just used his fists. It’s how we met, actually. Our first three dates were on a shooting range where he taught me how to use a gun. But I don’t like them. I refuse to carry one with me.”
Dominic was silent for a long time. “Nothing I can teach you will save you against someone with a gun. The bullet always wins.”
“I know.”
“Très bien,” he said softly and rose to his feet in one fluid motion.
Cassidy staggered upright and faced him, hyper-aware of the subtle power of his presence, the lines of his chest and arms—and the gym pants that rode too low on those slender hips. But above all, she was aware of him as a weapon, capable of defending those he loved—to the death if need be.
In the beam of her propped-up flashlight, he spent half an hour showing her basic maneuvers, simple ways to get out of holds and inflict great pain, and touched on using an attacker’s own momentum against them. Most importantly, he taught her to gain control of a wrist.
“Once you have control of the wrist, you have control of him. And with control you have power.” He demonstrated with the gentlest of twists of her arm that dropped her to her knees with a yelp.
Cassidy was more than impressed. These techniques were potent and potentially more effective than a firearm as the target would never see it coming. Tuning out the building storm, she paid close attention, intent on absorbing all she could. Dominic’s demeanor was all business as he demonstrated, often landing her right up next to him or flat in the sand. Though he himself used only enough force to make his point, he expected no such consideration from her.
“But I’m going to hurt you.”
“You cannot. And if you don’t practice properly, this will do you no good.”
Cassidy tried harder and soon realized he meant it. She really couldn’t hurt him. She stopped trying to defend herself. In her mind, his shadowy form morphed into the shapes of her nightmares. He touched her and it was other hands she felt, other arms she grasped and other bodies she sent slamming to the ground. As though sensing her need to vent years of helpless anger, he ceased giving her direction. He let her do as she wished.
Until her foot came flying out in an all-out assault on his groin in a most
undisciplined move.
He twitched his hips out of reach, leaving her foot to connect with nothing. Off balance, she landed hard in the sand. The jarring impact rattled her out of the frenzy she had worked herself into. She lay catching her breath, appalled by what she had almost done.
“Oh, my God, Dominic. I’m so sorry.” She propped herself up on one arm. “That would have hurt.”
He stood nearby but beyond the flashlight’s glow, quiet as though he wasn’t even breathing hard. At the horizon behind him, lightning flickered and snapped.
“Maybe a little,” he conceded, and she was relieved to hear the wry humor in his voice. “I think you have had enough for your first lesson. We can practice again tomorrow if you like.”
She got up and brushed the sand off her. It flew away in a cool gust. Thunder rumbled over the crashing waves. High time to get indoors.
“Thanks. I would like that. Assuming I can still move tomorrow.” Every muscle in her body felt like a giant bruise.
“Ah, ma petite. Have I worn you out?” he cooed.
She snorted. “In your dreams.”
He laughed, a rich, warm sound of palpable joy riding on the wind, and something deep inside her soul resonated with the power of a struck gong.
Cassidy moved before she was fully aware of what she intended to do. It was as if something pushed—or pulled—her toward him, urging her to shatter whatever boundaries still remained after the intense physical contact of their practice. She stepped in close, slid her hands up his bare chest, and kissed him, light as a feather, at the corner of his mouth. A tremor ran through him before he went rigid beneath her hands. She smiled against his cheek and whispered, “Sneak attack.”
What an excellent fit they were. Dominic had only a few inches over her five-six frame, unlike Jackson who at six-four tended to tower well out of reach. This was like a puzzle piece matching up with its neighbor—separated for a lifetime, united at last.
