by Mia Sosa
Megan and I look at each other briefly and shake our heads. No, it’s not a good idea for us to pair up all the time; that’s the fastest way for us to be dismissed as nothing other than “the girls” in the class.
I point at Dexter. “Want me to knock you out?”
He grins, bearing the orthodontist-perfected teeth I’ll never get used to. “I thought you’d never ask.”
Frick and Frack pair off, leaving Megan and Wills together. Wills has said maybe five words since the first class. I’m starting to wonder if he’s the serial killer.
Anthony, still standing in front of us, twerkable pecs and all, says, “I’m going to demonstrate the fight sequence using one of you as the person receiving the punch. Brett? Why don’t you come up and join me?”
It’s not really a question. We all know this. So Brett activates his megawatt smile and jogs to the front, throwing fake punches in the air like Rocky.
“Okay,” Anthony says. “There are a couple of key components to throwing a good fake punch. First, the thrower should be aiming to swing across the recipient’s face just around eye level. This is important for creating a realistic camera shot. At that angle, viewers will think the fist truly connected with the target. Second, the recipient—for now, that’ll be me—should react to the punch by showing impact and recoil. Impact is reflected in your expression, recoil is the physical response to the punch. Brett, which is your dominant hand?”
“My right,” he says.
“Okay, put that one out by your hip at a forty-five-degree angle. When you punch, you’re going to pull back and throw straight across, aiming to sweep your hand along my eye level. Try it.”
Brett throws a fake punch. Anthony’s snaps his head back, a dazed expression on his face, and then he snarls, stiffening into a fighting stance. The sequence unfolds in less than two seconds. Enthralled by its authenticity, I yelp at the end. Everyone looks at me.
“What? It looked real, okay?”
Anthony tries to hide his grin, but I see it anyway.
“Again,” he tells Brett. “Keep doing the same thing until I tell you to stop.”
They run through the sequence a few more times.
“Okay, let’s switch roles,” Anthony says to Brett, “so you can get a sense of how to react.” Addressing everyone, he explains a few finer points. “As the thrower, you want your expression to reflect whatever emotion has prompted you to throw the punch. Are you jealous of this person? Angry? Scared and defending yourself? Feel disrespected? Feel like the person’s disrespected others? Get into character and be motivated by it. But don’t get so carried away that you lose sight of the camera. If you do this correctly, you’ll convince yourself you’re actually punching your opponent when all you’re doing is pretending to. It’s a great stress-reliever.”
Brett and Anthony stare each other down and . . . something’s not right. There’s an undercurrent, a tension between them I hadn’t noticed before. I have no clue when it arose, but I suspect Brett’s the first volunteer for a very specific reason. What if Anthony slips and decks him? I cover my eyes, not wanting to watch what happens next. Then I spread my fingers because, dammit, I must see what happens next.
He and Brett get into fighting stances again. “Watch the progression of movements and call out suggestions for how Brett can improve. We’ll keep doing this until you no longer have any advice for him. And take mental notes so you can execute your own sequences later.”
Anthony throws a swift punch, grunting to emphasize the force of it. Brett throws his head back, recoiling like Anthony instructed.
“Too early,” Megan says.
Anthony throws another punch, the muscles in his arms bunching and flexing as he uses his full range of motion to execute the action.
“Try to time the snap to happen when the fist lands,” Dexter says, one hand covering his mouth as he shifts from side to side.
Each time Anthony punches and Brett reacts, we make suggestions for improvement, the latter grunting and rolling his eyes because he’s unable to take criticism well.
“Do something with your face, man,” Damian offers. “You look lifeless.”
“What would you do to protect your body?” I ask. “Think back to any actual fights you’ve had. Would you leave yourself open that way?”
Brett is panting between each sequence, and his hair is getting less polished with each snap of his head. Anthony, meanwhile, glares at Brett and throws another punch. He’s zoned in on the task, no longer commenting on his or Brett’s technique.
Wills finally speaks. “Widen your stance, dude. A punch like that isn’t going to allow you to remain steady on your feet. Stumble back a bit. You’re going to be surprised by that hit. After the recoil, shake it out, look a little dazed. But get back into your fighting stance quickly. And turn your body a little more toward the spot where his fist connects. The camera will get a better view of your reaction that way.”
Everyone stares at Wills, our mouths hanging.
“What?” he asks, looking around at us.
“I didn’t think you talked,” I say.
Everyone nods, plainly thinking the same thing.
He shrugs. “I only talk when I have something to say.”
Anthony straightens and shakes out his fists. “All right, everyone. Try it yourselves. Brett, take a break and get some water. I’ll work with Damian for now.”
Well, that was something to watch. We disperse to different corners of the room to practice, but my mind is still on Anthony’s obvious need to relieve stress of some kind and to specifically use Brett to do it.
When we break for the night, I approach him near the water fountain, seconds after he takes a sip of water and wipes his face with a hand towel.
“Is everything okay?” I ask him. “Earlier, I thought maybe you were getting a little too into pretending to beat the crap out of Brett. Did something happen between you two?”
Avoiding my gaze, he waves away the suggestion. “Everything’s fine. I’m just frustrated about something, and like I said, simulated fighting is an excellent way to let off some steam.”
“I’m sorry. Is there anything I can do to help?”
He drops his chin and shakes his head, a hint of a smile trying to break free. “Eva, you’ve done enough.” Then he blows out a slow breath, as though he is in fact trying to calm himself down. “Do you need a ride home?”
“No, Megan’s going to drop me off. We’re grabbing something to eat first.”
“Great,” he says, the cloudiness in his features lifting as he wipes the sweat off his arms.
Relief. That’s what I see. He’s relieved that he won’t be taking me home—and I’m hurt that he feels that way. I thought he enjoyed my company. Thought we were managing our new friendship in a healthy and mature manner. Sure, there have been a few hiccups, such as the unfortunate appearance of the compression shirt he’s wearing today, but all in all, I thought our friendship was developing just as we’d planned. Apparently he disagrees.
“You could at least pretend not to be thrilled to get away from me,” I say, pinning him with a screw-you glare. “I’ll see you next class.”
“Eva, wait. I didn’t mean—”
“Save it, Mr. Castillo.” I turn away and toss a disinterested hand behind me, heading for the door, where Megan’s waiting. “We’re good.”
The man’s always muttering under his breath. This time, as he stomps in the opposite direction, I hear him say, “See? I knew this was a bad idea.”
Chapter Nineteen
Anthony
What am I doing here?
So what if I can’t sleep. So what if I feel terrible about the way we parted earlier. It’s not her job to soothe my butthurt.
I’m sitting here outside her apartment building trying to extinguish this overwhelming need to explain myself, to tell her how I couldn’t get her out of my mind when I was filming, to tell her how I acted like an ass in our training session because Brett’s com
ments set me off. What the fuck is she supposed to do with all that information anyway? I don’t even know what to do with it myself. I should go. She might not even be back from her dinner with Megan.
The memory of Brett and Damian laughing in the restroom convinces me not to start the truck, though. She should know about Brett’s nasty comments, at least. I’ve seen the way he looks at her. And now I know he’d happily try to get in her bed. Eva’s on a different wavelength than he is, though, choosing abstinence in order to get to know someone she could eventually fall in love with. There’s no way in hell Brett’s that guy. So I pull myself out of the truck and climb the few steps leading to the complex’s entrance.
I find her last name in the resident directory and enter her code on the panel.
“Who is it?” she asks, her voice crackling through the intercom.
“Eva, it’s Anthony. Can I come up? It’ll only take a minute.”
There’s a brief pause, not long enough to be uncomfortable, thankfully, and then she says, “Okay. I’m in B-202. Walk across the courtyard to the first building on the right and go up one flight of stairs.”
“Got it.”
I take the stairs by twos and wipe my hands down the front of my pants before ringing the bell. A sign on the door reads, No Negative Energy Allowed. I assume she takes this directive seriously because when she opens the door—in a sports bra and leggings, notably—she’s wearing a welcoming smile, no hint that she’s still annoyed with me to be found.
“Sorry to disturb you,” I say.
“It’s not a big deal,” she says, stepping back to let me in. “I was about to jump in the shower, but that can wait.” She gestures to a textured couch in a color so loud it can only be described as in-your-face blue. Everything else in the space—the overflowing bookshelf, the metal coffee table, the small dining set in the corner—fades into the background. There but not really “there.” She’s a lot like the couch; wherever she is, she’s a lot more interesting than anything or anyone else in the room.
“Sit down and tell me what’s going on.”
It’s hard to concentrate when there’s so much skin in my field of vision. Beautiful brown skin with fleshy bits that I could press my face into and smother myself in.
“Anthony?”
“Sorry. I’m just a little out of it today.” I take a seat, and she plops down next to me.
“So listen, maybe it’s not my place to say anything, but I think of us as friends, and you deserve to know what I overheard.”
She and her cleavage—it really is its own beautiful life-form—lean forward. “Oooh, you have tea to spill.”
“Not the kind you’d like, though.”
She leans back and places a hand on her chest. “Now I’m nervous.”
The easiest way to do this is just to rip off that Band-Aid. It’ll hurt, but the sooner it’s gone, the sooner she can move on from it. “Before today’s session, I overheard Brett and Damian talking. I shouldn’t have been eavesdropping, but they were in the restroom, and they didn’t seem to care that anyone in there could hear what they were talking about.”
“Okay . . .”
She’s biting her burgundy-painted lip, her white teeth pressing into the fleshy skin and—
“Anthony, wake up.”
Focus, pendejo. Focus. “Well, I’m just going to say it. Damian asked Brett what he thought of you, and Brett said he’d tap that ass in a minute. Direct quote.”
She shakes her head, seemingly unaffected by what I’ve just told her. “And?”
“And he said he’d do Megan, too. With you.” I throw up my hands. “At the same time.”
“Anything else?” she asks.
What? Like that isn’t enough? Will I ever understand this woman? Probably not, a voice whispers. “I think that about covers it.”
She drops her head to her chest, and not long after, she’s shaking—whether in defeat or disgust is unclear. Coño, this is bad.
I scoot over and take her hand. “He’s an asshole, Eva, but don’t let it get you down. Better that you know now.”
Finally, she raises her head, and my heart squeezes a little. Her eyes are brimming with tears, and her mouth is curved into . . . a smile?
“What’s so funny?” I ask, struggling to understand the humor in the situation.
“Anthony, you just shared that information like you were defending my honor. Now I understand why you were so grouchy during combat training. And that’s sweet. But there’s nothing earth-shattering about what you told me. People can be assholes, and maybe this is a bit egotistical of me, but I assume every hetero or bisexual male wants to tap my ass unless they tell me otherwise. It keeps my skin clear.”
I have no idea what to say to that, so all I manage is, “Oh.”
But wait. Wouldn’t she want to know this? I mean, the guy’s been sniffing around her, flashing her those fake-ass smiles, and she’s not having sex again until marriage. He’d be a waste of her time if she pursued him. “I just thought you’d want to know. He doesn’t sound like the kind of guy who would wait until marriage to . . .”
She snaps her brows together. “To have sex? Why would he have to?”
“Because you’re abstaining from sex until marriage. Or did I imagine that conversation at Tori and Carter’s place?”
She falls over sideways, roaring with laughter and repeatedly slapping her hand on the cushion.
I hate not understanding the punch line of a joke. “Are you done?”
She sits up and places her folded hands on her lap. “I’m done.”
I stand in a daze. “It wasn’t my place to say anything. Sorry. I’m going to head out.”
She places a hand on my wrist. “Don’t go, Anthony. Please sit so I can explain.”
I do as she asks, a billion thoughts crashing into each other in my head.
“Confession. I’m not abstaining from sex until marriage. Not on purpose, that is.”
“You’re not?”
“Noooo. I just said that because I got so annoyed with your ‘I never date’ stance. I thought I needed a way to . . .”
Her mouth remains open, but words appear to fail her. She swallows hard, her brows knitted in concentration.
I’m trying to turn this over in my brain, but I’m failing to connect the dots. “Needed a way to what?”
“Needed a way to . . . uh . . . to uh . . .” Her eyes widen, and she sits up straight, grimacing. “To stop myself from wanting you, to be perfectly honest. I figured if you thought I wasn’t down for sex, you’d lose interest, and I wouldn’t be tempted. And then we’d be exactly where we are now. Which is in a good place, right?”
I draw back, tapping a finger against my lips. “You thought I’d lose interest in you if I thought sex was off the table?”
“Exactly,” she nods, looking pleased with herself.
“Right. That makes so much sense. You’re so fucking extra, you know that?”
“I know.” She gives me a wide, cheeky grin. I’m lucky she doesn’t have dimples. If she did, I’d be done for. Jesus, now I’ve got even more information I don’t know what to do with in my head. Where the hell we go from here is anyone’s guess. One the one hand, I wish I could pretend she didn’t come clean about this celibacy bullshit. On the other hand, I wish I could bury my face between her thighs and make her regret she ever lied to me.
And until I can figure this out, she deserves to be as confused as I am. “Well, guess what, genius?”
She sits up straighter, her hands folded in her lap. The playfulness in her eyes is so fucking charming I want to nibble on her neck and tickle her until she laughs with me, not at me.
“It didn’t work.”
She frowns. “What didn’t work?”
“I’m not sure I should say . . .”
“Say what?” she asks, her eyes narrowing in impatience.
“Permission to speak plainly?”
She smiles, probably remembering that she asked a similar ques
tion a while back. “Permission granted.”
I lean forward and drop my eyelids to half-mast. “Okay, here’s the thing. Your lie didn’t make me lose interest in you. In fact, despite my attempts not to, every night, I stroke myself to sleep thinking about our one night together. The way you shattered under me. The way my body trembled over yours. I can’t get it out of my head. So if you think we’re in a good place, you haven’t really been paying attention.”
Her mouth falls open and she lets out a soft “Oh.”
I wish I had a literal mic right now. If I did, I’d drop it at her feet. But a figurative one will work just as well. As I stand, I raise my arm perpendicular to the floor and open my closed fist. “Boom.”
Then I walk out the door.
Eva
(sings to the tune of “Happy” by Pharrell)
Because I’m crabby
Clap along if you know your annoyance is nothing new
Because I’m crabby
Clap along if you feel like no one else has a clue
I clean when I’m agitated, and I sing when I clean. My neighbors are going to murder me this morning. I’m pulling books from their spaces on the bookshelf and smacking the feather duster across them while belting out my greatest rebooted hits. It’s not very effective, but I need to do something.
At least I had the good sense not to embark on this cleaning spree last night after Anthony left, although I was tempted to. Boy, was I tempted to. Instead, I spent half the night talking myself out of texting him the universal booty call Bat-Signal: “You up?”
I will not be duped by him. Anthony’s attitude toward dating and relationships is a nonstarter for me. He claims his painful honesty is a virtue. I think he’s just playing games with women’s hearts, roping them by dangling what they can never have in front of them. It’s one thing to say you’re not interested in relationships at this point in your life. It’s quite another to say you never intend on changing your mind and then wax poetic about not being able to get a woman out of your mind. See? Dangling. I’ve been blindsided by manipulative men too many times to count. I’m certainly not going to walk right into a situation that’s bound to be more of the same.
