Bound by Tradition

by Roxy Harte

  BOUND BY TRADITION

  Roxy Harte

  www.loose-id.com

  Bound by Tradition

  Copyright © February 2012 by Roxy Harte

  All rights reserved. This copy is intended for the original purchaser of this e-book ONLY. No part of this e-book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without prior written permission from Loose Id LLC. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author's rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  eISBN 978-1-61118-777-9

  Editor: Maryam Salim

  Cover Artist: Marci Gass

  Printed in the United States of America

  Published by

  Loose Id LLC

  PO Box 809

  San Francisco CA 94104-0809

  www.loose-id.com

  This e-book is a work of fiction. While reference might be made to actual historical events or existing locations, the names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Warning

  This e-book contains sexually explicit scenes and adult language and may be considered offensive to some readers. Loose Id LLC’s e-books are for sale to adults ONLY, as defined by the laws of the country in which you made your purchase. Please store your files wisely, where they cannot be accessed by under-aged readers.

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  Chapter One

  Hidden under my hoodie, sunglasses on, I prepared to step from the SUV driven by my father. I checked the route between parked cars to strategize the fastest means into the gymnasium. My main goal: avoiding fans at all cost. You’d think I was a celebrity for all the attention I got at martial arts events, but I wasn’t. I was a nothing, a nobody. My only skill was winning.

  I’d been competing in martial arts events since I was four. Kata, kumite, and kobudo—Japanese words that mean choreographed karate moves, fighting, and traditional weapons. Karate was as natural to me as breathing. Compete was just what my family did. Our family name had become iconic at some point. My name was known. You would think after a while I would have gotten used to the attention, the adoration…the jealousy, the animosity…

  But how could anyone ever get used to living under a microscope? That was how I saw my life. I couldn’t even say this part of my life because there was no life for me outside of the dojo. Martial arts and competition had ruled every waking moment from the time I’d pulled on my first starched gi and competed in my first tournament. I was four and won regional recognition. We—my father and I—ate, drank, and lived every moment in preparation for events.

  Competition created news coverage, and as a professional instructor, my father used the free publicity to drive sales…and I was the dojo’s poster child. I tried to understand my father’s point of view. I was his legacy, and every parent wanted his child to walk in his footsteps, right? But more and more I was becoming resentful. I wanted something else for my life other than what I had. I had no idea what—just something.

  My father parked farther from the doors than I would have liked, but as I stepped from the backseat, I forgot my irritation when I glanced up to see the most gorgeous male I’d ever seen in my life. He wore his dark hair knotted at the base of his neck, so I couldn’t be certain how much length there was to it, but it seemed long. He pulled off his three-quarter-sleeve jersey, the kind where the sleeves are one color and the body of the shirt another color, in this case blue sleeves and yellow for the main shirt. I really didn’t give a damn about the shirt and only noticed because the flash of color drew my eyes to his perfectly, deeply tanned six-pack abs. Wow. I was having a hard enough time remembering to breathe when his groin muscles flexed, leading my gaze along the shadowed ridge to the edge of his low-rider jeans.

  I tilted my head, licking my lips, thinking no guy could be that hot in real life. In an airbrushed AF ad maybe, but not in real life. I checked him out from head to toe and smiled when I saw he was wearing cheap bright yellow flip-flops. Side note: sexy toes. Really sexy toes. A glint of gold turned out to be a toe ring. That explained it. He’s gay.

  Straight guys are never that hot. Gay guys on the other hand, unavailable to the likes of me, were almost always that hot. I sighed with a heavy heart.

  It was a nice dream.

  He chose that moment to look my way, and I ducked my head, but not fast enough. He winked, smirking. Yeah, ha-ha, joke’s on the straight girl.

  I smiled, laughing at myself. I stared a moment longer—might as well enjoy the view—and noted that he was Asian to boot. Cruel, cruel joke, Universe. Cruel, cruel joke. Some girls loved blonds, some girls loved redheads, but me…anyone of Far Eastern descent really made my blood boil. Oh well, best to look away, I decided, before Father realized I was being distracted and made my life ten times worse with a public lecture. The last thing I needed was a parking lot scene, and Stephano Ricci wasn’t known for his irrational tirades for nothing. Unfortunately I was just as well-known for being the cause of most of them.

  I caught the hot gay guy watching me as I grabbed my backpack and garment bag from the backseat. I smiled sweetly, wondering which rumor he’d heard about me, because why else would he be looking, right? He turned his back to me. Whatever.

  Just for the hell of it, because he really was that amazing to look at, I watched him pull on a fresh shirt. My jaw dropped at the sight of his flexing back muscles. He looked over his shoulder and, seeing that I was still looking, laughed.

  Arrogant jerk.

  I hurried toward the stadium, irritated for being such an idiot and allowing myself to get distracted. I had to get my head back in the game.

  The women’s locker room stank of old sweat, dirty socks, and fruit-scented perfume. The room was filled with the nation’s top female martial arts competitors in varying stages of dress and nervousness, most of them young, too young. I saw a mother pulling a girl’s hair into a ponytail. She looked to be about six or seven and had tears glinting in her eyes. She watched me enter. Then her mother’s head turned, and she looked at me too.

  Walking past them, I heard the mother whisper, “See, you don’t see Stephanie crying because she has to have her hair pulled back. You want to grow up and be tough like her? Knock off the baby face.”

  It was all I could do to keep walking.

  As I stripped, I was well aware every eye watched, and was doubly aware of the whispers that followed my every move. I heard my name, said with awe, repeated so many times. Stephanie, Stephanie, Stephanie. It was said as many times in sneer. I’d come to hate my name. So much so that at college I went by my middle name, Ellyse.

  This wasn’t my first competition; it wouldn’t be my last, but I was getting too old for the childish games that seemed to always be part of it.

  As I was measured up by the older girls—stared down, crowded—I accepted it for what it was. Competitors trying to psych me out. My strategy was always the same. I was the portrait of bored indifference. They didn’t need to know that my heart was pounding or that my palms were sweating.

  As I pulled on my sports bra, I was aware of every eye taking in my skin, my flat abs, small breasts, muscled thighs. There were fans in the room, but there were also enemies who wished I wasn’t there at all. Some hoped this compe
tition would be my fifteenth straight regional sweep. That I would take home three gold medals. Again. The others wanted to knock me off my pedestal. I tried not to think about it. I especially tried not to think about the newcomer to the scene—a twenty-two-year-old from San Diego rumored to be as good as me.

  Maybe I would meet my match. Maybe I wouldn’t. I was thinking about the hot guy in the parking lot and how unfair life was.

  I wished I knew his name, wished I knew what divisions he would be competing in, so that after I finished, I could watch him. Sure, I still thought he was gay and a jerk, but he was the hottest guy in the place, the first new face in ages, and besides, looking never hurt anyone.

  I was too horny for my own good. Too lonely.

  Last official date? God, high school prom, a long time ago…with one of the guys from the dojo. So not a good time.

  Last sex? A seminar in Ontario, four months ago…with a hot stranger, who wouldn’t kiss and tell.

  Thank God for my vibrator. I thought about it tucked into the bottom of my backpack and was once again thankful that the hotel had messed up our reservation, putting my room on the thirteenth floor and my father on the fifteenth. There was nothing worse than trying to get off with a vibrator while worried the sound could be heard through the walls. The hotel was better than home though and made me wonder if I would ever be able to afford my own place. Never, if I didn’t start working more hours, but it was hard to fit the few hours I was working in between school and my training schedule.

  What I really wanted though, even more than my own place, was for time to date. Then maybe sex could be more often than the occasional one-night stand in a hotel room with a stranger. That was pure fantasy. My schedule didn’t have room for a guy. I worked out six hours a day, two in the morning, four in the evening. I attended college full-time, worked twenty hours a week. With an hour or two for study, food, and showers, I was lucky if I slept four hours a night.

  My white gi was blinding white and as stiff as a board when I pulled it on. It smelled of extra bleach, because appearance counts, and extra starch, for crisper moves. I loved the way the stiff fabric pulled across my skin. Sadly that was as sensual as my life got most days. I wondered if the guys watching from the stands were turned on by stiff gis. I imagined them sporting boners and shifting uncomfortably. I laughed at the thought, and when I drew a stern look from another girl who was obviously younger, I blushed, turning my back to her.

  I grabbed my obi and wrapped it around my waist. The black belt was faded to almost gray, not from washing, because it had never been washed, but from wear. The gray was only an illusion and was in fact the shredded remnants of the black threads they once were. I pulled it extra tight, liking the confinement. The minute I put on my belt, I felt safer. It was a shield between me and the world. Sounded crazy, but getting ready for competition involved ritual and mindfulness. Tying my obi was the first part.

  Everyone had their silly little idiosyncrasies to put their mind at ease and help them relax. I brushed my waist-length brown hair a hundred times, feeling its sensual slide through my fingers before pulling it into a tight ponytail. I pulled on my zip-front black hoodie over my gi top, then lifted the hood over my head. I shoved earbuds into my ears and cranked the volume on my player as loud as it would go to drown out my name.

  A quick glance in the mirror assured me that I had my game face on—a terrifying mix of puppy-dog cuteness, angst, and determined warrior. I gave my reflection the finger as I walked out to face staging, the worst part of the entire competition circus. Divided by age, gender, and division, I would be corralled with the other competitors for minutes or hours, usually the latter, until finally my number was called.

  I always hid inside the music blaring in my head.

  The other competitors milled and paced, chattering incessantly, passing off their bundled nerves as friendliness. I’m not friendly. I’m distant and indifferent.

  Competition was my job; just another day at the office…more or less. I was there to win, gain publicity, drive business—not make friends.

  “Eighteen to thirty-five, female advanced” was announced over a speaker loud enough to hear over the music in my head. As a group we marshaled out to the gym floor, following a woman wearing a red T-shirt with the word volunteer emblazoned across her shoulders. The first event was kata—a series of moves meant to simulate both defensive and attacking moves but without any opponent. Done properly it was balanced and as gracefully mesmerizing as a dance.

  I didn’t watch the others. I zoned out. I would be the last competitor called.

  Once up, my moves were flawless, my attention to detail perfect. The crowd went insane as I bowed, ending my kata. They chanted my name, but I didn’t acknowledge them. I sat with the others, waiting as the referees deliberated and scored. I was bored, ready for the next event, ready to be done with the day. Just give me my gold medal so—

  Silver was hung around my neck.

  That’s when I came out of my competition fog.

  Around me the stadium erupted in anger. Fans booed the referees.

  I bowed and stepped back from the referee, my world falling apart at the seams. I’d never earned less than gold.

  The newcomer stepped forward and smiled widely when the gold medal was looped over her head. She looked toward me, and even though I should have been mad, resentful, angry, I smiled at her. I couldn’t help smiling because she was so happy. It seemed that once upon a time winning had made me that happy. After the bowing and formalities with the judges, she walked over to me and offered her hand. As I shook her hand and congratulated her, it dawned on me that I really was happy for her. My smile wasn’t fake. I was glad she won.

  She must have deserved the win. I knew my father would labor over the review tapes for hours. It would be horrible once we got home. Then out of the corner of my eye, I saw him, red-faced and ranting at the referees. Okay, it would be horrible beginning immediately.

  Embarrassed, I pulled on my hoodie and shoved my earbuds back into my ears. I followed the red-shirted volunteer back to the staging area, hoping to escape his public display of wrath.

  Of course, I didn’t get very far. My father was suddenly in my face and creating a scene, demanding to know what happened during my kata. I didn’t know what to say, so I didn’t say anything at all. I think he wanted me to be as outraged as he was, but I was only embarrassed by him. If nothing else, martial artists are composed and in control of their emotions. Right? I felt like I was in a bad dream.

  “You were robbed! I’m filing a protest,” he said. “They saw an Asian and scored her higher.”

  “That’s pretty racist,” I whispered under my breath, knowing he would have a cow if he even thought I was flirting with the guy in the parking lot. It wouldn’t matter that the guy hadn’t flirted back.

  I didn’t understand how my father could be so racist exclusively against Asians. His best friend through grade school and college was Japanese. From what I knew about it, they were inseparable, at least until the fight that made them ex-friends.

  I turned away from him, turned up the volume, and prayed my group would be called back down onto the floor. I’m not sure when he walked away. I’d already zoned.

  When it was finally time to go to the ring, I followed the volunteer.

  I rarely watched my competitors. At this event, I watched. They performed their second kata, this time traditional weapons. I followed their moves, noting their weaknesses. I waited for the newcomer, expectant, and grew excited when they called her number.

  She performed a bo kata. Her polished wooden staff whizzed through the air with an audible whistle; her moves were perfect, and I only came up with one possible deduction in points for an ankle wobble the judges may or may not have seen. She was tough, an amazing opponent, and when she came off the deck, we shared a look and a smile. She knew she’d done well, but there was no sneer in her expression, only happiness. I would have to perform a perfect kata to beat her.
A day before, I wouldn’t have doubted my chances. Standing there, I wasn’t so certain.

  At the last second I changed my mind on which kata I would perform. It wasn’t the kata I’d perfected for competition. It was a kata I’d perfected for fun. I wanted to feel as good and as happy as my competitor felt when I finished, and although my practiced kata was as perfect as I could make it in all technical aspects and guaranteed a high score, it was boring as hell.

  I bowed on deck and stepped forward with a sai in each hand. The sai had always been my favorite weapon—a pointed dagger-looking weapon with two curved prongs that isn’t a knife at all. I usually only carried it in my bag for demonstration purposes. I always competed with my bo staff, because a bo-staff kata executed very well would guarantee a win. Sai katas tend to be for show, not competition.

  I stood at the ready and bowed again, this time to acknowledge the judges. There was no audible signal to start. The center judge just dropped his head in a short jerk.

  I lunged forward two steps, screaming, “Aiiiy!” and the metal truncheons pushed forward as if striking an opponent.

  I performed the kata I usually reserved for state fairs and exhibitions. It was flashy and difficult. It would be easy to lose points for minor mistakes, landing wrong after a jump, or worse. I risked falling on my ass after a backflip. I was being irresponsible in my lack of caution. I didn’t pay attention to who was watching; I only knew that everyone was.

  I lunged, blocked…and hit my zone. The silence around me was touchable. It seemed everyone was holding their breath for me. The true silence was inside my head. A bomb strike could be going off overhead, and I wouldn’t hear it. This was Zen, this was—

  What I used to love about karate.

  It was once my escape.

  I started training after my mother died, and it gave me a focus other than grief. I loved karate for no other reason than that.

  I’m not sure when karate stopped being my escape and started being my prison, but in a significant moment of clarity I realized that is exactly what it had become.