“Why not?”
She just shakes her head.
Then I get it.
After everyone gears up with sparring equipment, each candidate faces another Black Belt who’s not testing. At first it seems easy enough. They bow, spar, bow again. Jace takes a couple of hits that look painful but jumps back in without hesitating. It’s an interesting experience watching two people try to beat the crap out of each other while shouting encouragements. Whenever they fall, get hit, drag from exhaustion, the person responsible for their misery is right there, ordering them to get up, keep going, and push through because they can, they will, do this. The room is exploding with shouts as the remaining spectators suddenly toe the line between observer and participant. I see more than one parent being escorted out for a discussion after a particularly colorful string of profanity.
After about a minute with each opponent, the next round begins with a fresh challenger, and I start to understand what’s happening. The candidates have just been through a rigorous morning of drills and tests, and now they’re facing an opponent who’s eager and rested. Another minute. A new opponent. Another minute. After five of these, most of the students look ready to drop. One does and needs the puke bucket I was sure was for me. An assistant who’s clearly a medic sends the student off.
“Concussion, probably,” Elle explains. Her nerves finally match mine as she glues her gaze on her son’s pairing. My attention turns back to Jace, and I’m surprised to see his challenge has changed from the others. While the lower ranks continue on as before, Jace appears to have adopted a different style of fighting. He and his opponent are right up against each other, attacking and defending as if they’re in a small closet.
“What’s he doing? Why are they so close?”
The woman pulls her focus from her son. “Ah, connected sparring. They have to make contact at all times.”
“Damn. How many rounds of this one?”
“Five.”
I let her return to her son’s matches, tempted to watch the boy instead as well; my stomach is a tangle of knots.
Jace must have finished his first round, because he leans with his hands on his hips, breathing hard for the five seconds it takes his fresh opponent to bow in. By this point, he’s barely bowing, basically just nodding to the person who’s about to beat him up. I hate this connected sparring, or whatever, even more when he takes a hard hit to the face. I gasp, my hand flying to my mouth as blood pools from a cut above his brow and starts draining into his eye. He shakes his head, probably trying to clear his vision, which gives his opponent an opening to take him down. Before he can react, the man has his forearm on his neck, turning Jace’s face a deep red, then purple. Oh my god, he’s going to kill him! Jace continues trying to roll him off but can’t, and his hand slams to the mat. Knowing him, it’s probably out of frustration as much as to signal his opponent not to murder him. And you know what that bastard says?
“C’mon, man. Get up! You got this.”
My idiot boyfriend coughs and jumps back up. An assistant cleans the mat of the blood, while another does a quick patch-up of his face. Then they’re back at it for another minute and a few more blows from both that leave me cringing. When they finish, Jace bows as if thanking the guy for giving him a bloody face and choking him out. Does he rest now? No. Another opponent. Another, and another.
Dear lord.
When all’s said and done, I have no idea how he’s even breathing let alone still standing and fighting.
“Please tell me it’s over,” I say to my friend.
“Not yet, but he’s doing great.”
“Really? That’s great?” Jace can barely walk. He’s the most fit person I know and he looks like he’s been hit by an entire depot of buses.
The other students are finished, and mostly collapse with fatigue as we all lock our focus on Jace. Wait, now he’s on his knees on the mat?
“Ground-grappling,” Elle whispers.
“Seriously? How many rounds of this?” I sound angry, and I’m not surprised she hesitates before responding.
“Also five.”
Fuck. I pull in a long breath and lean my elbows on my knees. How many hits can one person take? He’s not going to be able to move for a week after this. And still, fresh, rested challengers line up to beat the shit out of him. He fights on, sometimes defending, even landing a few hits of his own, but to me it mostly looks like he’s getting hammered. An elbow connects with his side, and my own lungs seize at the clear agony on his face. He can’t breathe, but does the girl who hit him stop? No. Another punch he barely blocks before a follow-up connects with his face. They’re going to kill him!
My concern has officially warped into fury. At him for doing something so stupid. At myself for not listening when he warned me not to come. At the universe for connecting this man with this discipline in a perfect matchup that would result in a showdown like this. It’s like Jace is telling every trial in the world to go fuck itself. He keeps going. Keeps pushing back up. Keeps nodding and thanking his opponents for their abuse. He. Keeps. Going.
The audience, wild a second ago, sits almost hushed now. It’s unmistakable the way we all stare in reverence at what we’re witnessing. To sit here and watch a person surpass what I’d thought to be the limits of human endurance again and again and again.
Every time I’m sure he can’t take anymore, he fights through. The volume climbs again, echoes from the rafters in synchronized support. In this moment, I feel dwarfed by his perseverance and think back to his speech about what martial arts means to him, what this moment means to him and there’s no longer any doubt. Jace Beckett has found the color through the gray—even if that color is black.
There he is, smiling through a bloody lip and swollen everything else. My 3rd Degree Black Belt, celebrating not because he won but because he survived. Because he didn’t quit when he had every right to.
“Shihan,” who I’ve learned is the master instructor of the entire program, calls each of them up to promote them to their new rank. When he gets to Jace, he whispers something that makes him grin and nod. Then the older man ties a new belt around his waist and beams out at his group of graduates.
“Jace Becket, 3rd Degree Sempai,” he announces.
The room explodes, but Jace? Calmly, and quickly, he returns to his spot in the line.
Back at home, I have a mess of a human to clean up. He says he’s fine, an opinion I have no reason to trust.
“Is there any part of your body that’s not damaged?” I mutter, sifting through the first aid supplies.
His gaze flickers down to his boxer briefs with a mischievous smirk. “I wore my cup.”
“Yeah?”
He flinches when I grab him, half-laughing, half-groaning at the impact. “You’re such a liar.”
“Okay, fine, but the cup definitely helped.”
“Uh-huh.” I shake my head, adjusting the icepack on his ribs. “Hold that there.” He does, so I can address the cuts on his face. “Do you know how stupid this was?”
He grins. “Maybe.”
I stare into his eyes, my heart swelling. “And amazing. What I saw today?” I shake my head. “You did things I didn’t even know were possible.” I’d kiss him if his lips weren’t so messed up.
“Everything’s possible.”
“And you’d do it again, wouldn’t you? You’d jump right back in.” This time I can’t block the wonder from my voice.
“Not would. I will do it again.”
Chapter 0 – 12 = -12
It’s a small club, but the intimate atmosphere is well-suited for live music. I’m instantly infected with Jace’s excitement for this venue. Great lighting, industrial-style stage décor—yeah, this place feels cool even before a single instrument casts a shadow on the brick wall backdrop. Edison bulbs hang in strategic locations from the ceiling, and it takes only seconds to find myself on stage, staring up into the forest of dangling stars while Jace meets the guys out back to un
load.
A crash pulls me from my fantasy, followed by a chorus of laughter and cursing.
“Dude, drop your own shit!” Jace calls out, shaking his head.
His bandmate responds with a very specific finger before making another attempt at lifting the case by his feet.
“Need help?” I direct to Jace.
He nods and waves me over. “Yeah. I need you to meet the guys.”
I try for confidence on my strut across the stage. What’s a lead singer girlfriend walk? By Jace’s lopsided grin, I’m not confident I’m pulling it off. He tucks me against him in a quick embrace when I arrive.
“Sienna, this is Karl, Ryan, and Ben. Guys, this is Sienna.”
We exchange handshakes, and I don’t miss the looks they give each other. Wait, was that a hand signal?
“What?” I ask, hoping the lighting is perfect for disguising blushes as well.
More shared grins, and I shoot a quick glance to Jace. If anything, he seems amused not defensive.
“Nothing,” Karl says, lips dramatically pulled tight.
“What?” I repeat with more urgency.
They shrug. Heart pounding, I turn back to Jace.
“You got a ‘Y,’” he mutters with a clear eye roll.
“A what?”
“A ‘Y.’ Means you’re hot.”
Yep. Gonna need that dim lighting, thanks.
I force a smile which only seems to amuse them more. “You have hand signals to discuss this?”
“It’s not like we can call dibs from the stage,” Ben says. Impeccable logic, his look tells me.
Ryan sighs. “Don’t take it the wrong way, it’s just”—he sends a look to Jace—“he said you were smart and sweet and funny and all this romantic shit. We agreed there was no way you could be hot too.”
I feel my brow crinkle in response. “Thanks?”
Jace throws his arm around my shoulders. “Don’t listen to them. They’re assholes.”
Don’t listen? This is just getting interesting. “So he talks about me?” I ask.
“Oh man, all the time.”
“It’s annoying.”
“Dude’s hung up.”
“Really?” I draw out, sending a mischievous grin to my boyfriend. Is the suave Casanova Jace Beckett actually embarrassed right now?
“Are we setting up or what?” he asks, irresistibly cute when a smile slips out.
Whipped, Ben mouths with a corresponding hand motion as he follows their leading man to the pile of equipment.
I laugh and find a seat nearby to perform my most important role of the evening: staying out of their way. Have to admit I don’t mind sipping wine and watching my painfully hot boyfriend carry around amps and heavy band equipment. A quick scan of the room makes it clear I’m not the only one staring at his ass. One table in particular seems glued to his every move, and I make a mental note to give them extra attention tonight and make sure it’s only looks they offer.
Jace sends me a smile from across the stage, and I return it with a violent thump in my veins. Sparks are already working their way through my body and he hasn’t begun to perform. He has flaws, I know he does. One day I’ll find one.
Once they’re set up, he removes his guitar from the stand, adjusts the mic, and directs his band to prepare for sound check. It occurs to me that other than his guitar lessons, I’ve never seen him play. I wonder if he’ll bleed music like he does martial arts. He’s beautiful when he lets go.
The crowd has tripled since we arrived, and I realize my perfect vantage point from a high-top table twenty-five feet away is now a bleacher seat. Young people gather around the stage, eager and charged with energy. This place is set to explode.
Ben counts in from the drum kit and four laidback young men transform into gods. Guitars, bass, and a wicked beat from the drums, all combine into an eruption that sends this club into a different realm. But it’s Jace’s strong, gravelly voice rushing over the crowd that draws an unmistakable fervor I feel in my chest.
Ready or not
I’ll take my chances with fate
It’s no race, just a chase of something greater
Don’t hold back
You’ll lose the reason for the show
Don’t hold back
You’ll never know what’s missing
Just listen…
Ready or not not not
Don’t get lost lost with reasons
Ready or not not not
Don’t stop with just believin’
We’ll fight through hell, until the sun breaks through
Just don’t hold back
He steps back from the mic and launches into a guitar solo, working the strings in direct opposition to our silly little “jam sessions.” From his command of the music to the infectious connection with his bandmates, the stage becomes as natural an environment for him as the mat or the beach.
Don’t hold back.
Art. That’s what I’m witnessing, and a deep longing swells in my soul.
Somewhere a beach recalls my spontaneous laugh. Somewhere a set of colored pencils remembers my fingers and that place where dreams pour out in technicolor. Where limits only come in the form of time and resources. Somewhere a girl still wonders and sees the unseen.
But passion won’t pay bills.
No. And numbers are easier, more practical. Numbers make sense. Art is the absence of objectivity which made it easy to shove sketchpads and pencils in a box under the bed.
Easy or safer?
Just like it’s safer to perch on a stool and watch someone else be bold. Jace is one of the most responsible people I know, and nothing about his life is safe. Nothing is easy. And nothing awakens that part of me that used to believe like watching him break free.
By the time Jace closes their set and jumps off the stage, he has an entire room of fangirls. Even the bouncers look ready to get body parts signed. Okay, maybe that’s the possessive girlfriend talking, but seriously. A smirk plays on his lips throughout his groupie-impeded journey to my table.
Fifteen minutes later, he drops to the stool beside me.
“Whew,” he says, wiping his face with the hem of his t-shirt. “You’re still here. Guess that’s a good sign.”
I push a glass of ice water toward him. Well, former ice water. It’s now water with a tiny floating glacier. He inhales it and reaches for mine.
“Hot up there, huh?”
He nods. “Definitely a workout.”
“Good thing you’re in shape.” I allow some extra flirting into my tone. His smile reinforces my need to drag him to a closet or bathroom stall.
“So what’d you think?” Aqua eyes are almost navy in this lighting as they anticipate my answer.
“Honestly?”
“Of course.”
I shrug, mischievous. “It was absolutely incredible.” I smile. “Jace, you were amazing. Why the hell aren’t you doing this full-time?”
He looks away, and I swallow. “I mean, I know why.” Throat-clearing—not so effective for undoing words. “Well, anyway, you’re fantastic and one day we’ll figure out how to share that with the world.”
“I am sharing it with the world.”
His comment smacks me in the face.
“I shared it with you, and Enzo,”—he points to the bartender—“and all the people here.”
I study the room still glowing with the magic he gave it.
“You know what I meant.”
He shakes his head, almost annoyed. “Yeah, and you need to get over this idea that passion and money are synonymous. It’s holding you back.”
“Holding me back from what?”
He shrugs. “You tell me.”
“Yo, Jace!”
The drummer Ben approaches with a couple of women.
“’Sup, man,” Jace says, scooting closer to me to make room.
“Meet Belle and Lisa. They wanted to say hi. I’m gonna go grab us some drinks.”
Jace shakes their
hands with a smile I don’t like him sharing with gorgeous models. I swear, that generation struck some kind of gene pool lottery.
“You were amazing. How long have you been playing?”
“Thanks,” he says, so casual. “Since I was five and could hold a guitar.”
The girls properly ooh and ah, and my stomach contracts at the thought that with one question these strangers learned something I didn’t know. How many other secrets haven’t I bothered to uncover?
“Is it true you have a black belt? We saw it on your band’s site.”
They have a website? Wow. My girlfriend skills are seriously lacking.
“Yep.”
“Oh my god! That’s so cool!”
Jace’s smile is more guarded this time. For someone who has so many reasons to boast, I find it hilarious how quickly he shuts it down.
“Hey, can you give me a hand?” Ben calls out from a few feet way.
Jace jumps up, clearly ready for an end to the interview. As he reaches for some of the glasses, a bulldozer of a man backs into them, exploding a geyser of beer.
“What the fuck, dude?” the guy roars.
“You bumped into us, dude,” Ben hisses back, slamming the remainder of the drinks on a table. He fans out his shirt, and I note that Jace and truck-guy are soaked as well.
“Well, maybe you need to watch where your puny ass is going. Also, your band fucking sucks.”
With his chest puffed and fists clenched, Ben charges forward.
“Shit,” Jace mutters and lunges in to stop him. He reaches his friend just in time to prevent an ill-advised collision with the drunk brick wall. I’m guessing broken fingers aren’t a good look for drummers.
“Chill, man,” he says to Ben.
“But he’s a fucking asshole!”
“Jace!” I scream too late.
Or not.
I didn’t know limbs could move as fast as Jace’s arm flies up to block drunk dude’s punch. He slams his forearm into the guy’s bicep, then hooks it around to the outside and drops Butch Bulldozer like he’s a Matchbox car. Dazed, the man stares up at him with a mixture of every negative emotion except the desire to try again. Jace gives him a long look back, daring him to be stupid.
Young Love Page 15
