by Adore Ian
24
Damian
After a thorough shower and breakfast with Marrin, we’re out the door and off to my work.
I’m kind of nervous bringing her, which is weird because I doubt she’ll care. The thing is, she knows why I got into martial arts and it’s going to be pretty damn obvious why I volunteer teaching self-defense every semester.
I’m also nervous because it’s the first day of class and you never know who will show up or what their story will be. I don’t want to retraumatize anyone—especially Mar.
She opens the gym door for me, and I pretend to tip an invisible hat as I walk past.
“You still haven’t told me what you do,” she says, following me inside.
“You’ll see.”
I lead us into a small gymnasium where my coworkers Holly and Vinny are already setting up the mats. A few new students sit on the bleachers across the room.
Holly walks over when she sees us. “Hey-hey, what’s up. You’re Marrin, right?”
Marrin smiles. “Yeah. You’re Holly.”
“That’s me. You here for class?”
I say, “She’s not registered, but I brought her along to see if it’s something she’d like to do. Vicky and Tiana are also coming.” I invited them this morning, it worked out they were both free.
“The more the merrier. No worries about registering today,” Holly says. “It’s a free course, we really only need a headcount so we can get approved for the space each semester. You trying to learn how to take down dudes like that guy at the bar last weekend?”
Marrin looks confused. “Wait. What do you both teach?”
“The art of self-defense. Or Ball Kicking 101 as I like to call it.” She leaves to help set up the room.
Marrin turns to me. “You teach self-defense?”
“Figured it was a nice way to spend my Saturday mornings.”
“This is where you work? You volunteer?”
I mock a bow. “Damian Wane: panty-reading fortune teller, gifted sex god and devastatingly handsome man who enjoys giving back to the community, at your service.”
She tilts her palm back and forth. “Sex god is a bit overblown.”
“That’s not what you said in the shower this morning when my face was between your—”
“Hey peeps,” Vicky says, slapping me hard on the back. “Let’s kick some balls, shall we?”
“Why did we invite her again?” I ask Marrin.
“I’m also trying to learn how to kick some pussies because you never know,” Tiana interjects. “By pussies, I don’t mean cats or a sexist slang term for cowards. Although,” she muses, “anyone who’d attack another person is kind of a coward.”
“Ooh. Sorry Damian.” Marrin taps my chest with the back of her hand.
“Ha. Ha. Very funny. The thing with Jake was a bit different.”
I show them where to sit, then I help my coworkers set up the room.
Once everyone arrives, class begins. Holly addresses the group and goes over introductions. Because it’s the first day, we hand out pamphlets and fliers, and spend the first hour of class going over self-defense principles.
“A big part of self-defense is reducing the risk of attack,” Holly says. “In the old days, someone teaching this class might’ve told you ladies that reducing risk meant”—she air quotes the following phrases—“dressing modestly, abstaining from alcohol, watching what you say—and all that blame-the-victim nonsense. This is the twenty-first century and the third wave of feminism. Assailants are the problem. Not the length of your mini skirt, the amount of cleavage you’re sporting, or the fact that you’re blackout drunk. Nope. That kind of blame-the-victim B.S. will not be tolerated or taught in this class.”
That earns a “whoop-whoop” from Vicky.
“Let me also say that it is not lost on me that we teach women to protect themselves, while we do not teach men how to act appropriately. If I had my way, and I hope I will soon, this school would offer a mandatory class on consent and appropriate behavior to all students enrolled. Sadly, as of yet, it does not. Now, I’m going to get into some non-victim-blaming ways we can all do our best to stay safe.
“First rule of self-defense: always listen to your gut instinct. If you take one thing away from this course let it be that. Your gut will never let you down. Your brain will. The human brain is too rational for its own good. How many of you have ever met someone who immediately made you uncomfortable? Someone who didn’t have to say or do anything for your gut instinct to warn you something was off about them?”
Almost everyone raises a hand, including me.
“And how many of you have ignored that feeling simply because you had no proof to support the claim?”
Again, almost everyone raises a hand. Myself included.
“That’s because your brain convinced you that you needed proof. That you were overreacting. Gender norms perpetuate these ideas, too. Society tells women we should give people the benefit of the doubt, that it’s not okay for us to be rude, assertive, set boundaries, or say no. Society makes us feel as if we owe men something for paying attention to us. People, I’m here to tell you that those are the voices you need to ignore—not your gut. Your gut instinct is your bottom bitch. She’s been with you the longest and she’s always reliable. She doesn’t need proof to know someone’s a creeper or that something’s wrong. She calls it like it is. Number one takeaway here: listen to your gut.”
A little over an hour in, we get to the ass kicking. Vinny and I let Holly use us as human dummies. We go through most of the moves the participants will learn in the course, then break into groups to practice escaping wrist and arm holds.
When class ends, Marrin and I get back into my Jeep.
“Did you like it?” I ask.
“I did. It was actually really fun.”
“Good.”
She taps the armrest. “Why did you bring me?”
“Why do you think I brought you?”
“Answering my question with a question, how deflective.”
“Fine. I wanted you to see where I work and…” I shrug. “I think you should know how to defend yourself.”
“Because of Frank?”
I lace our fingers together. “Does that make you uncomfortable?”
She thinks for a moment, relaxing back into the passenger seat. “No. It’s kind of sweet. In a patronizing kind of way.”
“Whoa. I am in no way trying to be pa—”
“Relax,” she chuckles. “I was joking.”
“You’d tell me if you thought I was being patronizing, right? Or if I wasn’t validating your feelings or something?”
She smiles. “Of course. And I’d want you to tell me, too. Now, back to what you were saying.”
“Learning self-defense helped me take back my power. Knowing I wasn’t helpless made me feel safer, too. It might work for you.”
We stop at an intersection behind a red truck. I look over to see Marrin’s brows pinched with apprehension.
I squeeze her hand. “What’s up?”
She blinks. Blinks again. “He drives a red truck. Frank.” She jerks her chin at the one in front of us. “Same make as that one but older.”
The vehicle in front of us looks like it was made in the 1990s.
“I don’t have a picture of him. Alice probably does. I can ask her to send you one, but I don’t want to see it. Or be near it.”
The light turns green and I accelerate, my thumb sweeping along the back of her hand.
She’s staring out the passenger window the next time I look over. “I can ask her. I kind of saved her number in my phone when she called me over break.”
That gets her attention. “Oh my God. Thanks for not being totally freaked by the whole key thing.”
I smile. “You’re welcome. I’ll admit that finding—”
Darth Vader’s theme song blasts from my phone. I reach down to where it sits in the cup holder and silence the ringer.
“
Answer it, I don’t mind,” Marrin says.
“I do.”
“Why?” She glances at the phone’s screen. “Oh.”
I turn into our complex. “Out of the blue, Nadia’s decided she wants to subject me to her presence. Something called getting coffee or meeting up. Not sure what it means, all very new age, you know?”
Marrin squeezes my hand. “Do you want to talk about it?”
“Not really.”
“Okay.”
Later when I’m alone, I check my voicemail. My mother left the dates she’ll be in town and the times she’ll be free. I write them down and don’t know why. I have no idea if I want to see her. I’m not even sure it’s smart for me to be alone with her.
Marrin
Work is insane. The bar is slammed and two of the games are malfunctioning. Elle is trying to fix one, which leaves only Priya and I working the bar. I’ve had no time to eat or pee, I’m sweaty and cranky, and if I did the math right, my stomach is cramping because I’m about to get my period. Control freak that I am, I stuck in a preemptive tampon in hopes of avoiding a potentially disastrous situation.
I’m on autopilot. Asking for orders, making drinks, running cards. I’m barely registering faces or small talk, but when I look up to ask for the next drink order, I’m shoved back into the present moment by a pair of soulful eyes and sinful lips.
“Hello, Red.”
“Hello, Sir.”
Damian gives me a panty-shredding smile and my lady parts burst into song. I’m still exquisitely, thoroughly satisfied from everything we did this morning, but, call me crazy, whenever I get my period I turn into one horny bitch.
I rest a hand on my hip. “How may I serve you?”
His eyes make a lazy perusal of my body. My breasts go tight, heavy. “What’s on the menu?”
“Everything.”
“Hmm.” He rubs his chin. “I need some time to think over the entrées.” Another lazy perusal. “While I do, I’ll take that IPA you have on tap.”
I get his beer and slink back over. “Don’t forget about the dessert menu.” I wink.
He pays for the rest of our friends’ orders. I’m placing Tiana’s on the bar for Damian to hand back when the phone rings. I grab it, not bothering to look at the caller ID. It’s a new cordless phone Kiley installed when he redid the security system and I’m still not used to it.
“Braxton Arcade,” I shout over the bar noise. “How can I help you?”
“Hello, Marrin. Nice of you to answer.”
Indignation seeps into me at this asshole’s entitled tone. I check it, plugging my other ear so I can hear more clearly. “Sorry, buddy. Loud bar. Can you repeat that?”
Priya shoots me a, Who’s that? look. I shoot back, No fucking clue.
“Been a while since we talked,” the man says.
With my other ear plugged, I can hear more clearly.
Blood ices in my veins. I know this voice.
“I heard you—”
I hang up. Echoes of Frank’s voice slither through my head. I feel violated, my peace of mind desecrated. I can’t keep it off my face.
Priya pauses. “Marrin, what’s wro—”
The phone rings again, and I can’t get it out of my hand fast enough. I fling it at the bar and back up.
Comprehension sours Priya’s face. “Motherfucker.” She charges over and answers. “Call here again, you sick fuck, and I will personally end you.” She hangs up and slams the phone on the charger.
A hush falls over the nearest patrons and I realize they’re all watching. Priya pushes me out from behind the bar and into the break room. A warm, sturdy hand finds my lower back and Priya backs off.
“Mar?” Damian’s deep voice vibrates through me, breaking me from the stupor I didn’t realize I was in.
Priya closes the door. “Why don’t you take a break? Or the rest of the night off?”
I plop into a chair and rub my face. “No way. We’re too busy.” Damian sits next to me, hand still on my back.
“Don’t worry about it, we’ll manage.”
The door opens and Conor walks in looking mean as hell. Like one of those guard dogs with the sharply pointed ears and chain collars. “What happened?” His calm, even voice seems at odds with his expression.
“Asshole called,” Priya snarls.
Conor’s face is unreadable as he pulls out his phone.
“Frank?” Damian blurts.
I nod, waiting for him to leave so he can go outside and look for a red truck. But he doesn’t. He looks as though he’s considering options that include flying into a caveman rage, but when his eyes find mine, all I see is a weird longing I can’t place.
“Asshole called,” Conor says into his phone.
“Twice,” Priya interjects.
“Twice,” Conor repeats. “About a minute ago… yeah… hold on.” He hands me the phone.
“Hello?”
“Hey, kiddo,” Kiley’s bright voice answers. “You remember what Asshole said?”
My throat tightens, “He said ‘Hello, Marrin. Nice of you to answer,’ and then something about it being a while since we talked. ‘I heard you’ was the last thing he said before I hung up.”
“I’m sorry he called,” Kiley says.
“Me too. What are you gonna do?”
“See if we can tie the phone number to him and use it to have him arrested. Can you put Conor back on?”
“Sure.” But then I add, “No, Ki. I won’t tell you what Priya’s wearing,” before passing the phone to Conor.
A faint, but distinct, “Priya, I did not say that,” comes through the phone.
“Perv,” Priya calls, cupping her mouth.
After a bit more convincing and a phone call from Alice, I take the rest of the night off. Damian and I say goodbye to our friends before heading out. My stomach is full on cramping now, and it’s reminding me too much of when I was stabbed.
Ugh. Thinking and saying that never gets less weird. Stabbed. I was stabbed.
Damian rode with Jayce, so I ask him to drive my car back to our complex. He does and decides to take the long way home, discreetly checking in the rearview for any sign we’re being followed. Pretty sure my clit grows three sizes at that—but the hussy will have to wait because I can’t have sex with cramps this bad or with Frank’s voice in my head.
I feel like I need a shower to wash off the gross.
When we get inside my apartment, Damian speaks in his sexy voice. “I’ve decided what I’d like to order off the menu.”
I ready myself to give him a not tonight answer, but he surprises me.
“I want you to change into your most comfortable pair of sweatpants and the dumpiest T-shirt you can find, then I want you on the couch with your feet in my lap.”
I can’t hide the smile that breaks over my face.
Three minutes later, I’m on the couch and Damian is massaging my feet. He set a bottle of ibuprofen and a glass of water on the table, and plugged in the heating pad I’ve officially stolen from him. It warms my lower abdomen.
“What gave me away?” I ask.
“Your boobs were wonderfully engorged this morning, I found a tampon wrapper in my bathroom trash, and the entire drive home you sat with your knees to your chest.”
I close my eyes, relaxing beneath his touch. “I don’t deserve you.”
“Yes, you do. You’re perfect for me.”
I open my eyes and find him watching me. The look on his face is identical to the emotions flooding my body at his words. We are perfect for one another. I knew it the moment we met. It’s why I couldn’t stay away from him, and why I tried to push him away.
I nod in agreement.
He says, “Do me one favor?”
“Okay.”
“Let me show you how to defend yourself.”
“I’d like that.” Another rush of emotions and hormones and all those wishy-washy chemicals flood my brain and body and… and I don’t care. Loving someone and le
tting them take care of you isn’t a weakness, it’s a strength. Shouldering a burden alone—that’s the real weakness. Accepting help is hard. Allowing someone to help you is hard. But it doesn’t mean you’re putting your problems on someone else or giving up control.
It’s the opposite.
Accepting Damian’s help is me owning my problems. Owning that I’ve tried and can no longer carry them alone. Owning that I need help and I trust him to help me. To be there when I need him and to be my strength when I have none of my own.
He makes us falafel for dinner and I turn on a movie. I eat way too much and fall asleep way too early. I wake up when I feel myself being lifted off the couch. My eyes flutter open as Damian carries me into my room.
“What time is it?” I mumble.
“Late. Go back to sleep.”
I close my eyes as he lays me on my bed and tucks me in. He returns with the heating pad and ibuprofen. I smile through my grogginess. He moves toward the door.
“You’re not leaving, right?” I mumble.
“Not a chance.”
A minute later, the bed dips as he slides in next to me.
25
Damian
“Hook your foot, Mar.”
“I’m trying. Your damn leg is too muscular. I can’t get mine around it.”
“Try hooking your foot around my calf from between my legs.”
“I feel like I’m going to—oh I got it,” she squeals.
I’m holding her tight to my chest in a bear hug. “Now what?”
“My other leg steadies me while I pry the fingers of your top hand to get free and elbow your creep ass in the face.”
“My creep ass is waiting.”
“You’re so bossy.”
I give her a squeeze. My arms are banded around her waist. She finds my top arm, the one I’m using to grip my other arm with, and wrenches my index finger back. My hold on her breaks and she gets free, taking the opportunity to pretend to elbow me in the face.
She prances around my living room like Rocky at the top of the Philly Museum stairs. I admire her a moment before I attack again.
