I’m not naïve. I know why he chose to come here rather than try to coerce me into another date. This studio is my second home, my safe haven and my solace. I found myself within these walls and claimed the strength that had eluded me for so long. But I never would have found it without Christos. I owe him my life. Not just for taking me in when my mom left me but for the night he literally saved my life.
Squeezing my eyes shut, I can still see that man’s face. Bulbous nose, ghostly skin that accentuated the deep purple bags under his eyes. And eyes spilling over with malice as he cornered me behind this very studio as I wandered in the alley.
Before my mother disappeared, I used to sneak onto the town buses to go from whatever crummy neighborhood we were living in at the time to the main part of town, where the restaurants and grocery stores were. When it was three o’clock in the morning, most of the bus drivers didn’t give a shit. Lucky me.
When we moved to a spot just twenty minutes away, I started taking the bus or stealing a bicycle from the front yard of the house in front of us to come to Oakland Square.
I had good luck finding food here. Especially behind the small cafes that would toss out batches of stale baked goods or half-eaten breakfast sandwiches. As a frail nine-year-old with hardly any meat on my bones and a stomach always laden with hunger pains, I thought I’d hit the jackpot here.
Until I heard the croak of a man’s voice coming from behind me. A wretched rasp that had likely come from years of chain-smoking.
His voice was slow and menacing. Even thinking about it raises the hair on the back of my neck. “Hey there, little darlin’. Past your bedtime, isn’t it?”
I remember how every joint in my body locked as I tried to warn him off. “My daddy works around here and he will be out any minute.”
He cackled. Not maniacally like some psychotic horror movie villain, but low and calculated. He knew I was lying. “Did Daddy teach you how to be a good girl?”
His beefy hand took hold of my shirt collar. A light pink shirt that was at least two sizes too large, covered in dirt smudges and colorful hearts that had faded to almost nothing after years of wear.
“I’ll show you what daddies like their good girls to do.”
My scream was muffled by his hand, and he leaned in so close to my face, his putrid body odor and the stench of lingering cigarette smoke slithered up my nostrils as my ears caught the sound of a sharp zip.
Tears scalded my cheeks and I closed my eyes, calling out for my mother in my mind, even though she wouldn’t come. I’d known even at that age that my mother could never be counted on.
As he reached a hand under my T-shirt, I felt a cool whoosh of air as the man was pulled away.
The dull sounds of flesh smacking flesh filled my ears, and when I dared to crack open one eyelid, a man with ebony hair had my assailant on his knees with an arm hooked around his throat. While the man gasped and clawed at the other man’s forearm, his eyes bulged before rolling back into his head. After what felt like an eternity, he fell limp, and the ebony-haired man released him with a thud.
While I was too scared to move, he dialed the police and told the person on the other end our location and that the threat had been neutralized for the time being. As his phone snapped shut, he slowly walked toward me, holding his palm out to keep me from running as I lay slumped against the brick building.
I winced when he placed a gentle hand on my shoulder, eyes almost as dark as his hair. His voice was a mere whisper in the darkness. “It is all right, paidí mou. You’re safe now.”
Nine words that I’ll carry with me for the rest of my life. A whisper of hope I’d never before experienced, and I knew without a doubt that I would be okay as long as Christos was near me.
I’ve never been one for religion, but in that moment in time, I felt as though someone, whether it be God or something else entirely, was looking out for me.
So sure, I may take myself too seriously at times and even act like, as Lexi says, “a bug crawled up my ass and died,” but I was given a second chance at life. Not many kids who are in the position I was can say the same.
At noon on the dot, the door swings open and Zack strides in, wearing a basic white T-shirt and gym shorts, blue eyes glowing as a wide grin spreads across his face. I grin back, because how can I not when he’s looking at me like that? Goddammit, the man oozes charisma like an insurance salesman.
My brows knit together when I notice a greenish bruise shadowing his temple.
He follows my gaze, his eyes shooting up to the side as if he can see it. “Just a game on Friday. Brutal fuckin’ match.” He chuckles.
Tipping my head in a nod, I meet him in the middle of the blue mats. We remain silent for a moment, the only sounds in the room coming from the air conditioner toward the far end wall.
I’m first to break the silence. “Come at me.”
He blinks as though he didn’t hear me. “What?”
I grab his forearms and pull them up to chest level. With my hands guiding his, I mimic an open-handed jab aiming at neck height.
“Make sure you step into each strike,” I explain. “Your power comes from your core. Use your feet to pivot, and don’t lock out your knees or elbow.”
He scratches the back of his head. “Shouldn’t you be wearing protective gear?”
The urge to laugh is almost too powerful to suppress. Clearly he didn’t learn anything from our last encounter here.
I half-shrug and flash a knowing smile. “I think I can handle it.”
His eyebrows shoot up before he takes on a sloppy fighting stance. His legs are too far apart, and his guard only reaches to shoulder level.
The slightest twitch in his shoulder is my signal that he’s about to move. As his left arm extends, I block it with my forearm and he follows swiftly with his right. Upon contact, I hook the juncture of my elbow around his and pull upward, effectively turning his own body weight against him as I push on his fist with my free hand, sending him straight to the mat with a thwack.
Dropping to a knee beside him, I hinge my arm back and mimic a punch to his gut.
Pinning me with an incredulous stare, his mouth falls open as he sucks in a rapid breath. “Holy shit.”
Lowering my arm, I rise to my feet. “That’s called Ude Garami. It’s a Ju-Jitsu takedown.”
Pushing himself off the mat, he gives me a tentative smirk that incites the barest flutter in my lower belly. “Are you gonna teach me that?”
My brow arches. “Maybe.” I point at his body. “But let’s get to the basics first. Your form is horrible.”
He snorts and throws his hands to his hips. “You’re not gonna pull a Patrick Swayze and tell me I have fuckin’ spaghetti arms, are you?”
I burst into laughter, a true belly laugh that has my hand flying to my abdomen. “In your case, you could use some of Swazye’s wisdom.”
Those corn blue eyes sparkle with a playful glint. “Just you wait. One of these days I’ll get you on the ice and laugh as you wobble like a toddler.” He shakes his knees for effect, garnering a sarcastic chuckle from me.
“How do you know I’ve never ice-skated? I could be amazing at it, for all you know.”
He moves closer, so we’re only inches apart, and locks his eyes with mine. “I guess we’ll find out, won’t we?”
He’s close enough that with each inhale, the sweet spice of his cologne invades my nose, making my head feel hazy. As if I was the one who just got knocked on my ass.
Hell, I’m beginning to think being in a restaurant with him would have been easier. At least there were distractions then and more space between us. But standing in such close proximity with him, without anyone else in our vicinity, my senses are filled with nothing but Zack.
Jeez, Dahlia, get your head on straight. I clear my throat and step back from him so I can breathe easier. “So . . . proper form . . .” My voice breaks in the middle.
As I demonstrate a standard fighting stance, motioning for him
to follow along, all I can think about is how for the first time in Christos’s studio, instead of feeling strong, I feel slightly vulnerable. Weakened by him. Weakened by whatever this is between us.
And what’s more . . .
I don’t mind.
THE FEELING I GOT FROM being in the studio with Dahlia was just as amazing as the intense rush I feel after a game, when all of my energy has been totally depleted and makes me feel almost weightless.
She really has mastered what she does. And goddammit is she particular. If my guard was a quarter of an inch lower than it should’ve been, she nagged me on it. But while she was berating me for my poor posture, she’d grab my wrists and pull them up. Or she’d place her hands on my ribcage to align my torso. I’d fuck up and she’d position me.
You can bet your ass I ‘fucked up’ more than a few times, because the reward for failing was her standing so close I could smell the green apple fragrance of her shampoo and feel her hands on me. It was definitely worth seeing her get frustrated.
Frustration aside, my theory about spending time with her in the studio is proving true. She’s becoming more comfortable with me. She laughed easier, and the ‘piss off’ stamp on her forehead faded a little more.
I was even able to talk to her after class this morning without her doing her best to get away from me. Finally, I feel as though she’s inching her way out of her shell. And with each inch, I like what I see more and more. She’s pure fire hidden behind a solid wall of ice. I’ve never met anyone like her.
Sitting on the couch with my head resting against the back, the first riffs of Mastodon’s “Show Yourself” project from my phone as it buzzes against my thigh. ‘Dad’ shows on the display when I tilt my head to look.
Swiping to accept the call, I rise up from the couch. “Hey, Pop!”
“Been a while since I’ve heard from ya. Forgetting about your old man before you even make it to the NHL, huh?”
Even though he’s joking, I sense a small fraction of anxiety in his gruff tone.
Stepping into the kitchen, I position the phone between my ear and my shoulder as I grab a bowl from the cabinet. “Sorry, Pop. Between school and practice, my ass is wiped by the end of the day.”
And by a certain redhead with arctic blue eyes.
Keith ambles into the kitchen, looking hungover as per his usual. He points at the phone and mouths, “Dad?”
I nod quickly so I don’t drop the phone.
“I gotcha, Son,” Dad says. “It would just be nice to hear from you and Finn once in a while.”
“I know. I’ll call you more often,” I promise, and I mean it.
With both of his sons out of the house and my mom having been gone for nearly five years, I imagine he gets pretty lonely. He went from a bustling house with two rowdy-ass boys and a loving wife to silent emptiness.
Setting down the bowl and reaching on top of the fridge for a box of cereal, I ask, “So how is Finn anyway?”
“Ah, you know your brother. I give him a call and he’s rushing off the phone two minutes later.”
Yep, that’s Finn all right. Just after getting his degree in architectural design, he was headhunted by some bigshot construction company and has since dropped off the face of the earth. A meteor could come crashing down and he’d be so invested in a project that he’d tell it to wait a second.
Speaking of time . . . I glance at the digital clock on our stove. “Well, I hate to do this to you, Pop, but I’ve gotta be at practice in thirty. But I promise I’ll call soon.”
He chuckles. “Yeah, yeah, yeah. This is what I get for having two talented boys. Love you, Son.”
“You too, Pop.”
I toss my phone on the counter and open the fridge, grab the milk carton, and pour it over my bran flakes.
Keith’s face twists in disgust. “Why in the hell do you eat that old person shit? It tastes like cardboard too.”
Taking a seat at the kitchen island, I shrug. “Because I’m not a fucking five-year-old who still eats Trix cereal.” I shoot him a pointed glare. “Unlike some people I know.”
He gasps, jerking a finger at me. “Not one fucking word against Trix. They’re magically delicious.”
The spoon halts before reaching my mouth. “That’s Lucky Charms, you dickwad.”
He mumbles a petulant, “Whatever,” before his eyes flash with amusement. “So, uh, how are things going with Chun Li?”
That’s what he’s been calling her since that day at the studio. I can only imagine what sort of damage Dahlia would do to him if she found out about Keith’s little nickname for her.
Dropping the spoon against the bowl with a clank, my hand moves to rub my eyes. He’s such a nosey fucker. “Why do you give a shit?”
He holds up his hands in defense. “Hey, man, I just wanna know if there are any ass kickings in the near future I should know about so I can get a front row seat.”
Intent on ignoring him, I drop my bowl of soggy bran flakes in the sink. But the bastard just won’t quit.
“Haven’t seen Christie around much lately either.”
Nope. Not going to respond. I’m just going to casually walk upstairs and—
“You can’t run from it, man! Only the truth shall set you free!” he shouts.
I slam my bedroom door against his howling laughter. While I pack my gear into my gym bag, a wave of anticipation washes over me. But instead of it being over practice or the upcoming game this Friday, my mind is focused solely on six days from now at approximately noon.
SWEAT DRIPS DOWN ZACK’S FOREHEAD while he reaches for his water bottle and sips greedily in between labored breaths.
It’s the third Sunday in a row that I’ve been training him, and each time, I’ve noticed myself enjoying his company more and more. Unlike the first few times, I now feel a strange sense of calm while being around him. Everything about Zack just seems so easy. His laugh and smiles, his willingness to learn and be taught, and his frightening ability to cause my breath to catch in my throat and an assault of heat to unfurl in my belly whenever I breathe him in.
Easy for him, but not for me. Trying to hide my increasing attraction to him is an arduous task, and by the way his Adam’s apple bobs with a deep swallow when he looks at me sometimes, he’s struggling with that too.
“I think I’m finally getting the hang of this,” he says as he sets his water back down.
He actually is. Another thing I’m learning about Zack is that he’s an astute learner, catching on to moves and flows like a natural.
I nod. “Yeah, you aren’t doing too bad.”
He releases a sigh of mock frustration. “Jeez, would it kill you to give at least one compliment? I swear, Coach passes ‘em out easier than you.”
Pursing my lips and narrowing my eyes, I approach him. Reaching my arm past one of his, I push my palm against his chest and scissor my legs around his, knocking him off his balance and sending us both to the mat.
His eyes squeeze shut and he groans. “What the fuck was that for?”
Untangling our legs, I sit up. “Learn how to deflect that, and you’ll get your precious compliment.”
“Christ, is the owner this brutal to his students?” He pushes himself back up and throws an arm over his bent knee.
“Trust me, you’d rather be dealing with me than Christos,” I warn. Seriously, the man can knock someone out with a single finger to the throat.
“I’ll take your word for it.” He furrows his brow as if thinking deeply about something. “Is Christos your uncle or something?”
My spine goes rigid. A simple question to an observer, but to me, it’s the sharp clamp piercing through a can of worms I don’t want to open.
He winces when my no cuts through the air like a double-edged sword. His tongue darts out to lick his lower lip as he takes a cautious step toward me. I remain unmoving.
“How about this?” he utters in a tight voice. “I’ll tell you something about me”—he points at himself—”a
nd you tell me something about you. Deal?” Before I can answer, he gestures to himself. “I’ll start.”
My glare is flippant. What is he going to tell me? That he once fell on the ice and got a boo-boo on his knee? That some classroom bully once pulled his pants down in front of the entire student body?
“My mom died five years ago,” he blurts quickly, as if he wanted to say it and get it over with.
My gaze softens. He confided something incredibly painful, and here I was expecting his life to have been as flawless as it appears. “How?”
His mouth flattens, and his gaze darts to the window as a small group of people walk past, gesturing with enthusiasm as they chat.
“Lung cancer.” His voice is barely audible in the empty space between us.
My heart grows heavy as his eyes brim with grief without tearing up. It’s obvious in the weakness of his voice that he loved his mother and was close to her. While I loved my mother, as all kids do, I was never close to her.
“I’m so sorry.” It’s not much, but it’s the best response I can offer without getting emotional myself.
He shakes his head and forces a smile. “Your turn.”
My chest rises in a shaky breath, and I force myself to keep eye contact with him. He deserves that much. “Christos is my adoptive father.” I can only hope he won’t push that subject. I’m not ready.
His smile turns sincere, and he tips his chin in thanks. My eyes glance up at the clock—quarter after one. Our session was supposed to end fifteen minutes ago.
“So.” I sigh, hoping to relieve some of the tension. “Should I schedule another for next Sunday?”
He holds up a finger for me to wait and takes his phone out of his black duffle. Several taps and swipes later, he looks back up at me. “Yeah, but don’t expect me to be in great shape. The guys are coming over for a video game night on Saturday.”
I smirk. “You’ll already be sparring with your own hangover, I’m guessing?”
He shakes his head. “Nah, we just get really into it and usually wind up passing out on the couch.”
Sweet Insanity (Sweet Series Book 1) Page 7
