Below the Belt

by Skye Warren

  Inside, Blake sat with his back to the wall, knees up, eyes closed. “What’s his deal?”

  “I don’t know. Why don’t you go find out?” Rafael asked.

  Abe ignored him as he put on his sparring gear. “Not like he’d tell me. We haven’t exactly been pals lately.” That was an understatement, Abe thought, thinking back to their confrontation in the locker room. It wasn’t the first time Blake had gone off on Abe, but the animosity surprised him every time. He thought he’d been a good friend. Maybe he’d been too wrapped up in his own shit, like any dumb teenager, but he’d always done right by Blake. But slowly Blake had started pulling away, growing distant, and finally lashing out. Abe had no fucking clue why.

  “Yeah,” Rafael said, but he wouldn’t look him in the eye.

  “What? Do you know something you’re not telling me?”

  Rafael shook his head. “It’s between you and him, amigo.”

  Sometimes Rafael could be annoying as hell with his cryptic shit.

  Just then Sa Bum Nim came out onto the mats. Everyone stood at attention. Blake stood, too, standing and bowing from the corner. Predictably, Sa Bum Nim zoned in on him like a chess master spots an opening in the defenses.

  “You,” Sa Bum Nim said. “What is wrong with you?”

  “I’m not feeling well, sir.”

  “Where did you get that?” Sa Bum Nim gestured to Blake’s head.

  “I did it, sir,” Abe interjected. It was the first lie he had ever told Sa Bum Nim. “We were sparring yesterday and my toe cut him. The gear wasn’t on right.”

  “That’s a violation,” Sa Bum Nim said, referring to the match tomorrow.

  “I know, sir. It won’t happen again.”

  Sa Bum Nim turned back to Blake. “You are well enough to compete?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “All right. You and Abe are up first.”

  Blake looked at Abe, almost nervously. Abe felt the same nervousness running through him. Whatever animosity was between them was coming to a head, all tangled up in their old friendship and current predicaments. Sparring with Blake was not the safest thing to do right now. It was too personal.

  But they were too well-trained to object. They pulled on their gear and met in the center of the court. At least all the other guys except Rafael had started their own match, not interested in watching Abe and Blake circle each other.

  Sa Bum Nim refereed the match, running them through their bows and handshake. Before he gave them the go signal, he paused and said, “You will not hurt each other.”

  “Yes, sir,” they said together, their voices muffled through their mouth guards.

  “Not because those are the rules, but because you are friends, right?”

  “Yes, sir,” they said again. It didn’t really matter if it were true. When Sa Bum Nim asked a question like that, the answer was always “Yes, sir.” And in Sa Bum Nim’s world, friends and schoolmates were synonymous. That was mostly true. Except for Blake.

  When they started, Blake let out a half-hearted body punch, which Abe handily blocked, and a follow up punch to the forehead, which Abe blocked upward. Blake quickly finished with a roundhouse kick aimed at Abe’s head which he managed to duck, but just barely. Damn, Blake may be injured but he had spirit left in him.

  Abe looked him in the eye. Blake watched back with smugness and something else boiling in his eyes. Abe wanted to ask him, right now, what his damn problem was. He didn’t even give a shit that Sa Bum Nim or Rafael would hear him, he just couldn’t talk with his mouth guard. And he couldn’t take his mouth guard out until after the match. So he and Blake were left flinging angry, accusing glares at each other along with physical blows during their match. God, this was stupid. The only way this could get more clichéd is if they were fighting over a girl. Except Abe knew they hadn’t done that, not now, not ever. He didn’t know what the hell Blake’s problem was but he vowed to find out.

  With a side kick aimed at Blake’s stomach that he faked out into a hook kick to the head, Abe turned the tables. Abe was the better fighter, but Blake always made him work for it. In fact, he’d seen Blake spar all their schoolmates, and Blake’s skill seemed to increase when he sparred with Abe. He’d always figured that was because Blake didn’t like Abe, although maybe it was something more. Abe and Blake used to fistfight, not each other, but other guys, when they’d just become friends. Actually it was more like Abe would get into trouble and Blake would come cover his ass. Then they’d joined the dojang together, and Abe had learned how to back up his cocky attitude with real skill and confidence.

  Finally, Abe was two points up, and the next point would win him the match.

  He lifted his knee for a kick, but Blake feinted out of range. Abe almost sighed, right there in the middle of the match. Christ, he was tired of this. He threw a hook to the side, a stupid move, but he just wanted this to be over. This stupid fight that was too intense to be a regular sparring match. It would only end in one of them, Blake most likely, being more pissed off. It didn’t matter that Blake didn’t like him, because he still liked Blake. He’d keep being his friend regardless.

  Blake moved in quickly for a jab to Abe’s temple, much too obvious, and Abe blocked. Abe had to play along although he had no real intention of striking Blake again. Then Blake kicked him in the side, catching him for a point. After Sa Bum Nim had reset them, Blake quickly scored another point with an inspired combo ending in a tap to Abe’s headgear. They were tied.

  “Fight,” Blake said, his brows drawn in angry lines. His voice was muffled, but Abe knew what he meant. Abe was all but throwing this match, but his heart wasn’t in it. What had Sa Bum Nim said? That if it were a choice between pride and winning, which would he pick? Well, he was ready to give up both now, if only he didn’t have to hurt his friend.

  Blake charged at him. Abe’s leg lifted in a reflexive blocking motion. Blake’s fist impacted with Abe’s knee and he gasped in pain. Spots danced in his eyes as he fell to the ground. He heard Sa Bum Nim from far away calling a stop to the match, and then Blake’s voice. “Oh shit, what happened? Abe! Are you alright? Somebody get the goddamn medic over here. Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

  Abe reached up and pulled the mouth guard wetly from his mouth. “Would you shut up already?” he managed to gasp. “I’m fine.”

  “Why the fuck didn’t you tell me you were injured?”

  “Oh, you’re one to talk.”

  But they both shut up as Sa Bum Nim and the medic came to look at his knee. A sprain was the diagnosis, especially after Abe refused to go in for x-rays. He knew nothing was broken and so did they. Sprains were the bane of a professional athlete’s life, easy as hell to incur but they could cause pain and weakness forever. Abe had already sprained his wrist and both ankles before, but his knee—that was a new one.

  The medic set him up with ice and left an elastic bandage for him to wear. He was off of training for the rest of the day, but everyone in the room knew he’d be up for competition tomorrow morning.

  Once Sa Bum Nim made sure Abe was good, he’d gone out to kick everyone else’s ass into gear. This freak accident had probably made everyone nervous, though only Abe knew it had been inevitable. His knee had been paining him for days, but his stupid pride had him keeping up appearances. Well, some appearance he made now, lying on the floor in the corner with his leg elevated on the bench. All he needed was a margarita and an umbrella. Gold medal hopeful, his ass. Still being able to walk by the end of this whole thing, that’s all he could be hopeful about.

  Blake walked over and sat next to him.

  “Fuck,” he said.

  Abe couldn’t help but laugh. “Tell me about it.”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  “Shut up. You know you didn’t do anything.”

  Blake watched the other couples sparring.

  “I’m serious,” Abe said. “It’s been giving me trouble. You weren’t too hard on it. It was already weak.”

  “Even if that�
�s true, I still feel like shit.”

  “Well, don’t. How about we call it even for whatever I did to piss you off all those years ago?”

  “Ah, you did nothing, man.”

  “Bullshit, but whatever.” Abe looked down, still uncomfortable with Blake knowing how much it had bothered him all this time.

  Blake laughed, a dry, almost painful sound. “You didn’t do anything. I was already weak.”

  Abe looked up at hearing his own words. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. You know you’re not weak. You were the one always saving my ass, remember?”

  “Yeah, I remember. I thought you didn’t.”

  “I never forgot. But I couldn’t stay that scrawny kid forever.”

  “I didn’t want you to. That’s not what this is about.”

  “Then tell me what it’s about, because I have no idea.”

  Blake shook his head. Resigned to wait, Abe studied at the practice floor. Finally, Blake said, “It just…it wasn’t the same when we grew up. It couldn’t be.”

  They weren’t the most eloquent of words, but they were guys. Abe thought he understood. They grew apart, that’s what he meant. It happened.

  Abe didn’t know what else to say about it, though. “Are we cool, B?”

  “Yeah. We’re cool.”

  Sa Bum Nim called Blake up to join another match, leaving Abe alone with his battered knee. He’d backed Blake up when he’d needed him and Blake had come around. They’d patched things up, finally. That should make Abe happy, but all he felt was a lingering sadness, as if he’d lost something instead of found it again.

  He sighed, then checked his phone. No missed calls. He dialed Paris’ phone number, no answer.

  Don’t worry, they’re fine. Don’t worry, don’t worry.

  Ah, fuck it.

  When Rafael caught his eye, Abe signaled him over. “I don’t suppose you’ve heard anything?”

  “I don’t even have her number.”

  “Yeah, just checking.”

  “I’m guessing she didn’t call you after all?”

  “Nope.”

  Rafael whistled. “That woman doesn’t take orders well, does she?”

  “Apparently not.”

  “But you’re crazy about her.”

  Abe sighed. “Apparently so.”

  Rafael had the nerve to chuckle. “I think she’s good for you. And you can be good for her. You know, you run around telling her what to do. Then she tells you to go to hell with a smile.”

  “Ha ha, you’re hilarious.”

  “You’re not really worried about them, are you? She was right, it’s daytime and she’s out with her sister. They’ll be fine.”

  “They’re out in a strange city. By themselves. Do you remember the number of times you had to repeat your directions to the bar?”

  “Mierda.”

  “Yes, mierda,” Abe said. “For all we know, they could be on their way to Vancouver. I can’t train with this stupid knee, and it’s your belt, so let’s go.”

  Six

  “Yeah, a black belt,” Addie said, her smile both embarrassed and proud.

  “That’s fucking cool,” said the one with the crazy eyebrows. Dean something.

  Guys were usually thrown for a loop when they learned a girl had a black belt. But Paris had to give these guys credit, at least they hadn’t backed away. Yet.

  “So if I mess with your sister, you can kick my ass, huh?” said the sweater-wearer. Paris had no idea what his name was, but he was awfully close to her. So close that his nose was practically down her shirt. She squirmed away, but she was trapped against the wall.

  “Pretty much,” Addie said. “But she can kick your ass herself.”

  Paris gave her a scowl. She didn’t like her throwing around that information, even to these strangers.

  “Aw, shit,” said Dean.

  “Don’t worry,” Addie said. “She’ll go easy on you.”

  “No, I mean—shit.” Paris followed Dean’s line of sight to a scowling Abe and Rafael who had just walked into the bar. Her eyes widened as Abe marched up to their table and stood toe-to-toe with sweater-boy.

  “Leave,” Abe said.

  “Hey, man. We didn’t know they were with you. We didn’t mean anything by it.” The guy had more guts than Paris had given him credit for. Or maybe just even less brains.

  Abe seemed to grow where he stood. “Now.”

  “Right, then. Nice meeting you.” Sweater-boy dashed around Abe and out the door, his friend Dean close behind.

  Okay, so Abe had just been domineering as hell. Borderline asshole, really. It was like the almost the human equivalent of lifting his leg—he’d practically marked her.

  Why was that such a turn on?

  With his scowl firmly in place, he pulled out his wallet and threw down a twenty. “Why are you here letting guys buy you drinks?”

  “I’m not. We paid for our own drinks, so you can stop flashing your money around.”

  If anything, his scowl deepened. “I may not be rich, but if I’m trying to impress you, I can come up with something better than paying for your drinks.”

  Damn it, she’d offended him. Paris hated to admit that her mother was right about anything, but she was right enough when she’d said that male pride was a fragile thing. “I just meant that we already paid when we ordered. Okay?”

  He glared at her, but slipped the bills back into his wallet. “Come on. We’re getting out of here.”

  Another order. Paris considered arguing on principle, but really she wanted to get back. Best to let him think he’d won this round. She’d catch the next one.

  “Paris,” Addie said, with a smile playing on her face, “Aren’t you going to introduce me?”

  Rafael sauntered up to the table with a smirk on his face.

  Paris scowled, but southern hospitality ran deep. “Addie, this is Abe and Rafael. Guys, this is my sister, Addie.”

  “Hi, guys.” Addie’s smile faded as Rafael looked her up and down. “What?”

  “Nothing,” said Rafael, his veiled eyes belying that. “Meeting some nice local boys?”

  Addie’s huffed. “Yes, as a matter of fact. James and Claxton were very nice.”

  Paris couldn’t help but snort with the guys. “His name was Claxton?”

  “Yes,” Addie looked annoyed that Paris wasn’t backing her up. “He told you that. Weren’t you listening?”

  “Not really. But I think I would’ve remembered ‘Claxton’.”

  “Well, whatever. He was kind of a moron. But James was nice.’

  Rafael rolled his eyes. “All guys are nice when they’re trying to get into your pants.”

  “You’re one to talk.” Addie held up a faded black belt and waved it. “What were you doing with this in the bathroom?”

  “Taking a piss,” Rafael said flatly.

  Now it was Addie’s turn to snort. “Yeah, right. Do you usually require tall blondes to help you piss?”

  Rafael’s eyes narrowed.

  Addie nodded toward the bartender. “He told us.”

  The bartender looked over and waved at Addie. He’d been possessive of the belt when Paris had first asked about it. The speculative gleam in his eye said that he understood that the lost black belt of a Taekwondo champion might be worth something to the press. If by press he meant an enterprising teenage blogger. But it had only taken Addie fifteen minutes of chatting and sunny smiles to win him over.

  Then he saw Rafael. “You. You are not allowed in here.”

  Rafael put his hands up. “I’m already gone. Come on,” he said to Abe. “Let’s go.”

  But Rafael sneaked a dark look at Addie as he strode toward the door. Addie shook her hair out and followed.

  Paris looked at Abe, whose face wore confusion matching her own. “What was that about?”

  “No idea. Rafael is usually the nice one.”

  “So is Addie. Weird.”

  “Weird,” Abe agreed. “Come on.”


  Outside, the air had turned cool and there was a light drizzle. What a surprise. Paris wrapped her arms around herself.

  “Rafael,” Abe called. “Let’s catch a cab back.”

  Rafael nodded and stepped closer to the curb to hail one. Addie leaned against a lamp pole near Rafael, saying something to him as she pointed toward the street. There wasn’t a cab in sight.

  Abe took Paris’ hand and led her to an alcove between the buildings. His face looked stormy, but he wrapped his arms around her. “Why didn’t you answer your phone?”

  “Oh, crap. I’m sorry. It was just so loud in there and I’m bad about remembering to check it.”

  “You have to be more careful. It’s important.”

  “Okay, I understand.”

  “I’m serious. I don’t know what you two were thinking, gallivanting around Seattle.”

  “I do not gallivant,” she said indignantly. “We were right where we said we’d be, which is how you even found us. I said sorry, now let it go.”

  Abe frowned. Paris expected him to argue, but instead he leaned down and kissed her. Or maybe this was his argument, because his tongue entered her mouth, tender but firm. An exploration. No. A claiming.

  Mine, his tongue said.

  Yours, her traitorous mouth responded.

  The light mist from the rain sprinkled her face, blessedly cool. Only then did Paris realize how heated she was from the kiss. And from his body pressing against hers.

  He pulled back, licking his lips. Paris wasn’t ready to return to reality and the talking. Not yet. She reached up and tangled her hands in his hair, pulling him back. She touched his lips with her tongue, gratified by the groan that vibrated them. As her arms pulled him down, her body pressed forward. Feel me.

  The click-clack of a woman’s heels on the pavement pulled Paris out of her haze. She blinked up at Abe, who was looking down at her with heavy-lidded eyes. His lips looked perfectly kissed. “Damn,” he said. “I can’t believe I had you just this morning.”

  His words sent a long stroke of pleasure through her, and her eyes almost closed. How wonderful to be wanted like this and by him.

  His desire was unmistakable. If she couldn’t see it blatantly in his eyes and the tautness of his face, she could feel his hardness pressing into her stomach. She slid her body against it and felt his body shudder.