by Ashley Maker
His grip is tight and he holds my hand a little too long. I’m almost positive I’ve heard his name before, but I can’t place where. I pull away first. “Likewise.”
Piper blushes and says to Aaron, “Dude, I was so going to introduce you. You didn’t give me a chance.”
“Did you expect him to?” Tarry asks with a smirk.
She looks like she wants to smack him. “You’re such a know it all, Tare.”
He grins at me. “She’s right, you know. A ridiculously high IQ just happens to be one of my virtues. Yeah, I know what you’re thinking. Smart and handsome? To which I say—”
A small amount of lettuce almost smacks him in the face.
“Nobody cares, Tarry,” Aaron says as he pinches more lettuce between his forefinger and thumb.
The next thing I know, lettuce is zinging back and forth across the table between them until someone blows a whistle on the other side of the cafeteria and tells them to knock it off. They curse and glare at each other as they start picking up the mess.
Piper and I exchange a glance, and she gives a not-so-subtle roll of her eyes. “Boys, right?”
All I can do is laugh, because I’m starting to understand exactly what she means. And for a second, I feel like I used to before Mom disappeared. I’m a girl, and I’m with people my age, and we’re laughing together. I’m normal again. Perfectly, happily normal.
But it’s only for a second.
14
Instead of the gym, the Defensive Fighting class is held in a designated demo room that’s set up to look like an office with a fully-furnished desk and bookshelves. Like Offensive Fighting, the class started out innocently enough. I even got to participate with the rest of the students during the stretching and exercise portion, without making a complete idiot out of myself. But that was before Instructor Morris, a scary-looking older man with a full-on beard, stood in front of the class and declared he could kill each and every one of us with a ballpoint pen.
Kill us. With a pen.
He called on Aaron, who is easily the strongest-looking guy in the class, to come up there and spar with him. In two seconds flat, he had the pointy end of a pen jammed against Aaron’s jugular vein.
“The point of that little exercise,” Morris tells the class after Aaron rejoins us, “is that almost anything within your reach can be used as a weapon. Even an ordinary pen. It’s important you remember that once you’re out in reality. There’s no telling what kinds of circumstances you’ll find yourself in, but if you can think defensively and know your surroundings, you’ll have a much better chance at getting out alive. Laila, would you help me with the demonstration?”
Laila steps forward and Morris gestures for all of us to move back, not stopping until we’re side by side against the far wall. “Your assistant instructor and I cleared the room of any identifiable weapons. As far as this demonstration is concerned, we’re standing in a perfectly ordinary classroom or office. Before we start, I want you to look around and see what you think could be used as a makeshift weapon.” He holds up the pen and chuckles before tossing it on the desk. “To keep it fair for little Laila, I won’t use the pen.”
The class laughs with him, and Laila smiles, but there’s a glint in her eye and a curl to her lip that looks nothing short of predatory. After another few seconds of letting the class identify nontraditional weapons—I would go for the heavy-duty metal stapler on the desk—they exchange a look, then morph into blurred movement.
With a sweep of her arms, Laila clears the desk of everything on top. A heavy glass paperweight shatters against the concrete floor. Morris goes for the desk chair, hurling it through the air at Laila. Barely dodging in time, she drops down in front of the desk, her body flush with the floor, as the chair skids harmlessly across the concrete.
Spinning toward the bookshelf behind him, Morris arms himself with a book in each hand. He chucks one at Laila’s face the second she starts to get up. This time, she doesn’t duck fast enough. I gasp when the book smacks against her left cheek. She groans and falls to her knees, both hands clutching her face. I expect the demonstration to be over, since Laila is clearly hurt, only to discover Morris stalking around the side of the desk with one arm pulled back, ready to throw the second book. He lets go at the same time Laila vaults forward, somersaulting directly into the scattered glass.
I cringe at the sight of blood dripping down Laila’s right hand, but she doesn’t even seem fazed by it. Before Morris can get close, she reaches into the glass and flings a handful of shards at him. He raises both arms over his face and staggers back. With wickedly shining eyes, Laila reaches for the metal stapler and throws it at him, but Morris twists out of the way and dives behind the desk.
Laila glares at the spot where he disappeared.
A strange ripping sound comes from Morris’ direction. While he’s doing who knows what, Laila clenches her jaw and glances frantically at the pile of desktop debris scattered all over the concrete. Then she freezes, eyes fixated on an object a few feet in front of her.
She scrambles toward it, and I lean forward, watching in horrified awe as her hand closes around the same pen Morris discarded. Her face screws up in a grimace; more blood trickles through her clenched fist. And then she’s moving, and Morris is moving too, and what on earth—are those printer cords in his hands?
Lunging forward, Laila thrusts the pen at his neck. But Morris is too fast, and within a few movement-filled seconds of attacks and counterattacks, the printer cords are wrapped around her throat.
“I concede,” Laila snarls. Her fist relaxes and the blood-covered pen clatters to the floor.
Morris releases her and grins like they weren’t just trying to kill each other. “I’d shake on a battle well done, but I think your hand is out of commission.” He turns to the class. “I hope you paid attention to your assistant instructor, because she displayed a fantastic use of improvisation. She knew I was going to go for that paperweight, and she eliminated the threat before I could use it.”
Laila starts to smirk, until he reproachfully adds, “However, it’s also important to keep your emotions out of a fight. In this case, the pen was the wrong choice. If she’d chosen the scissors, she could have cut the cords and won the fight. Do you have anything to add, Laila?”
Her eyes are glued to the scissors on the floor. They’re a little further away than the pen had been, but Morris is right that she could have gone for them instead. Like an offhand remark, she looks up and says, “I lost the fight when I threw the stapler. What I should have done is bashed his head in with it.”
Never going to look at office supplies the same way again.
The bell starts ringing.
“Now remember” —Morris shakes the printer cords as we file toward the door— “anything can be turned into a weapon. Class dismissed.”
Laila ushers me out of the classroom and down the hall. As soon as we exit the building, she looks down at her hand and grimaces. The blood stands out against her fair skin. “I can’t believe I did that. That was so stupid.”
“Is your hand okay?”
She shakes her head. “I’m pretty sure there’s glass stuck in it. We need to find Kade. As soon as we do, I can go to the infirmary.”
I’m not sure what to say. I can’t believe she finished the demonstration with glass stuck in her hand. That’s not even mentioning the giant red splotch covering from her left cheek all the way down to her chin. Why are these people so violent? What could they possibly need specialized fighting skills for when they’re holed away in their little mountain compound anyway?
Using her uninjured hand, Laila pulls her cell phone from a pocket of her bodysuit and punches in a number. She presses the phone against her face—winces and readjusts when it touches her bruised cheek—and says, “Hey, I need you to take Clare. Will you meet us at the girl’s dorm?”
A few minutes later, we’re there, and concern flashes across Kade’s features when he sees Laila’s battered
face and bleeding hand. “What happened to you?”
“I lost my head and got stomped by Morris,” Laila says. “I’d be mad at the old maniac if he hadn’t done it so expertly.”
Kade raises an eyebrow. “He got you again?”
Laila glares. “Please. You know what he’s like. That man’s as elusive as a Rogue.” She cradles the bleeding hand against her chest. “I need to get this looked at. It’s your turn to babysit.”
I’d laugh at her continual child references if they didn’t make me want to smack her. She’s not even that much older than I am.
Kade must suspect I’m ticked, because he looks over warily, gaze latching onto mine. “I’ve got it from here. Go take care of your hand.” Once she’s disappeared down the sidewalk, he says, “You ready to start training?”
“Does it matter if I’m ready?”
He rubs a hand across his face, but it doesn’t hide his grin. “No, I guess not. Why don’t you go change into something you can run in? I’ll wait here.”
I can’t help but perk up at the words. Honestly, it’s all I can do not to squeal. A good run is exactly what I need after the day I’ve had. “You’re really taking me running?”
His grin widens. “I thought it’d be a good start. Work on endurance for a while.”
My own smile breaks free like a caged animal finally given freedom, stretching my cheeks, pulling a half-laugh from my chest. I skip backward a few steps, toward the door. “I’ll be right back.”
I practically fly up the stairs to Laila’s room, only to stand in front of the door for a good five minutes trying to remember the stupid code. Finally, after countless combinations, the green light flashes. My new running gear is still in bags on my bed, exactly where I left it.
Kade is standing inside the entryway, leaning against the wall when I return downstairs, ready to go.
“Sorry that took so long. I couldn’t remember the door code.”
He shrugs and holds the front door open. “You could have asked me.”
Oh yeah. My brow tightens as I glance over at him. It’s kind of weird that he knows her door code. We duck off the main path toward the tree line, where the snow is clean and unmarred. I tread carefully so I don’t sink into the fresh powder. “So, you and Laila. What’s the story there?”
“There is no story.”
I snort. “You are so right.”
A breath of a laugh. He shakes his head and presses his lips together, as if he’s trying not to smile. “All right. You want the story? I took her on one date.”
“And?”
“And it was last March. Over a year ago. She practically stalked me that summer while we were training for our internships. It didn’t matter how many times I told her it wasn’t happening—she just kept on and on….”
I raise an eyebrow. “Wow. That must have been some date.”
His lips spread into a slow grin, and he shrugs. “I do what I can.”
A laugh bubbles up my throat, and I don’t try to stop it. “Seriously? Where did you really take her—the bowling alley?” I laugh again. “Ooh, or maybe it was McDonalds?”
“Cute,” he says, still smiling. “And it wasn’t McDonalds.”
“The bowling alley!”
“Nope.”
Biting my lip, I try to think of something epically lame. Got it! Leaning closer, I say, “You took Laila to a square dance, and your dosey doe-ing skills captivated her heart.”
He laughs. “Of course not. Are you done?”
With a disappointed sigh, I say, “For now.”
“Good. There’s no way for you to know this, but she was still underage at the time. I couldn’t take her off compound.” He glances back at the compound shrinking into the distance with every step. “You’ve seen some of the buildings. This place isn’t exactly filled with options. Dates have to be creative.”
I should stop talking. He’s a jerk, and I’m only here for the running. Well, and because they’re making me. But still, I hear myself say, “Go on.”
Kade smiles. “That’s all I’m saying.”
“I can always ask Laila the next time I see her.”
He inclines his head to me. “Well played, but I’m still not telling you.”
“Fine.” It’s like my voice doesn’t belong to me and I can’t shut up. “I’ll be sure to let you know when she tells me.”
Kade laughs again, deep and masculine, and it surprises me how much I like the sound. But I don’t want to like the sound. I clamp my mouth shut and refuse to say anything else. Navigating snowdrifts prevents any further conversation anyway until we’re under the trees where the accumulation isn’t so deep. The tall pines crowd close to the snowy path, their evergreen boughs reaching for the clear blue sky. The smell of powdery snow, of tree sap and pine needles, permeates the crisp mountain air.
My lungs sting a little as the path’s incline increases, but oh, it feels amazing to be outdoors like this again. I stretch both arms above my head and breathe in deep. The feeling of someone watching makes me glance at Kade. I blush and drop my arms when our gazes meet.
He cocks his head to the side and half smiles. “You’ve gone out running before, haven’t you?”
“I used to run cross country.”
“Good. Maybe I won’t have to take it easy on you.”
I can’t tell if he’s teasing or not, but honestly that’s the last thing I want. Running is too important to me. So I steel my gaze and say, “Bring it on, Mirror Boy.”
Kade grins in return. His voice sounds challenging and gravely, sending tremors through my heart when he says, “You can count on it, Clare.”
15
About thirty minutes later, as I’m bent over my knees heaving in great gasps of air after running back and forth across the steep mountain trails, I realize he wasn’t kidding. I also discover how out of shape I’ve become over the last few months, and it’s way more than I originally thought. The sweat sliding down between my shoulder blades prickles like scurrying spider legs. I roll my shoulders to get rid of the feeling and swipe loose, wispy curls off my forehead with one hand. With the other, I fumble with the zipper of my windbreaker and pull it halfway down, allowing in the little breeze that’s been whispering through the trees all afternoon.
Kade produces a tiny bottle of water from the cargo pocket of his pants. He hands it to me before getting one out for himself. Like he needs it. The guy isn’t even winded, and I don’t see a single drop of sweat anywhere on his face. My pride stings from knowing he’s hardly exerted himself while I’m huffing and puffing like I just got done running an Olympic triathlon. It takes every ounce of willpower I have not to chug the water. I made that mistake once after my first cross country practice, and I ended up puking all over everybody’s shoes. Not so pretty. And definitely not something I want to repeat while I’m with Kade.
I take small sips of the water until my throat no longer feels like a desert wasteland. The bottle is still half-full when I hand it back to him. He returns it to his pocket and looks at me questioningly, probably wondering why I didn’t drink the whole thing. But I’d rather risk dehydration than end up having to pee while we’re out on the trails. No way do I want to cross that bridge of utter mortification; I’m pretty sure that one would be nearly impossible to recover from. I take a moment to tighten the hairband holding my hair in check and do some quick stretches.
Right when I’m in the middle of a tri-stretch, Kade says, “You ready to head back?”
A thousand times yes. I want a hot shower, and I want it now. But I shrug and do another stretch like it’s no big deal. “I could go some more.”
He lifts an eyebrow and smiles. If he calls my bluff, I’ll probably end up collapsing out on the trail or having a repeat of the puke-on-the-shoes-fiasco.
“Oh yeah?”
“Yeah,” I say, because apparently I hate myself.
Something in his eyes sparks, but he ends up shaking his head. “Naw, come on, Bambi. Let’s head back.
If we stay out much longer, it’ll get dark on us.”
Bambi? Did he really just compare me to a cartoon deer?
“My name is Clare.”
His lips stretch lazily. “I know.”
Curse him and his infuriating smile. He sets off down the trail before I can think of a good comeback—I’m not even sure there is a good comeback for that—and I take off after him. We glance at each other a few times on the way back to the compound, but I avert my eyes anytime I think he’s about to start a conversation. I’m still too flustered, and he’s way too frustrating, for me to deal with anything else from him. Bambi. Who calls someone that? Is that his way of calling me a newb?
“Do you need any help with the code?” he asks after we arrive at the girl’s dorm and are standing around outside the door all awkward-like.
“No, I’ve got it.” I grab hold of the doorknob. My cheeks are hot despite the falling temperature. “Laila should be there by now anyway.” I open the door and start to slip inside.
“I’ll see you tomorrow then.”
I freeze mid-step but don’t look back when I say, “Yeah, sure. See ya.”
The warmth inside immediately makes me feel too hot in my windbreaker. I shut the door before he can say anything else and lean against it for a second.
What is wrong with me? Yeah, sure. See ya. I think I liked it better when I was ticked off. Now it’s like I lose brain-to-mouth functioning when I’m around him.
Oh, no. I smack my head against the door when it hits me.
He affects me. Even after what he did. Even after what was said between us.
That’s the only answer for the ridiculous way my brain and body respond to him. I like him. I mean, I really like him. Only one other guy has ever given me these kinds of feelings—the breath-stopping, squeeze my heart, make-my-skin tingle, sweet agonizing kind. And that guy moved at the beginning of tenth grade, leaving me to wonder where those types of feelings lead.
