Tyed

by L.J. Shen

  I want an ice cream sandwich.

  I should probably stop eating so much sugar.

  Is the new Arctic Monkeys album out? I need to buy it.

  Hey, whatever happened to that kid from The Shining?

  My grave contemplations are interrupted when the door flings wide again. Ty swings it with force, testosterone pouring from every cell in his body. Behind him is a large group of students wearing head and knee guards.

  My mouth turns dry just from seeing him. He’s wearing a wifebeater, black fight shorts and a baseball cap. The chatter stops, and all the women stare at him like he’s a red velvet brownie.

  His hawk eyes are scanning the faces, searching, until they land on little ol’ me.

  His gaze narrows and he shoots me a hard-edged smile.

  He found what he was looking for.

  “A word, bro?” he asks Jesse in an even voice, but his dark eyes are still trained on me.

  They huddle in the corner for less than a minute, bobbing their heads in agreement before Jesse claps his hands and announces, “Okay, class. Change of plans. Today we’ll have a special class. We’ll mash and mix up the techniques and do both traditional kickboxing and jiu jitsu. You will be paired with the other class, and you’ll work together. Both Tyler and I will be instructing this class, so this should be pretty damn good.”

  Yup, that’s definitely it for me.

  Trying kickboxing with Jesse might have been okay, but there’s no way I’m chancing public humiliation under Ty’s watchful eye. Every time I’m around him I feel like my limbs don’t belong to me. I can’t use them when he’s watching my every move. I’m leaving.

  I casually start for the door, resisting the urge to tiptoe, and I’m about to reach for the knob when a big warm hand snakes around me and grasps my wrist.

  Goddammit.

  “And where do you think you’re going?” It’s Ty, his voice filled with amusement. The asshat.

  “Me? Oh, I think I’m going to pass today. I'm not really into...jiu jitsu.” I try to sound cool.

  “You don’t know what it is,” he says matter-of-factly.

  “Hence I’m not into it,” I deadpan. He shakes his head no and moves closer to me. I notice he does it a lot, invading people’s personal space. I guess it comes with the territory of the occupation. You know, like thigh-hugging a guy’s head in your crotch to cut off his blood supply until he passes out. That kind of thing.

  “You’re staying.”

  “Thanks for the offer, but no.”

  “Was there a question mark in my voice? It wasn’t an offer.”

  Douchebag much?

  “I'm sorry, okay, but I really don't want to do this now. I thought we'd be punching bags or something. I don't think I fit in here at all. I hate violence. Please get out of my way.” My eyes are furious, and I hope they are shooting lava darts at his silky black pupils.

  “Bullshit.” He smirks, his dimples deepening. “You love violence. Every women does.”

  “Excuse me?” I huff.

  He circles closer, like a predator zeroing in on its prey. The air freezes. Everyone around us seems to disappear. I have his undivided attention, and I have no clue what to do with it.

  “Are you calling me a liar?” I try to keep my voice steady. He's pissing me off. I have a feeling he is assuming that I see whatever other girls find alluring in him. Watch him through the same veil of lusty desire. Well, he's wrong.

  “I’m calling you a liar and a bullshitter. All girls like violence. Every woman wants to mate with the victorious warrior. It’s okay, Blaire. It’s in your DNA. Don’t feel bad about it.” His mouth curves into a devastating smile as he brushes his thumb down my spine.

  What!

  Brain finally kicks Hormones in the butt, grabs the gun at its temple and throws the weapon to the far corner of the room.

  I ball up my fist and wave it at him. “I’m warning you,” I hiss, “if you don’t take three steps back from me this instant, you’ll regret it.”

  I'd never hurt a fly. But he doesn't need to know that right now.

  “Let me get this straight, you’re threatening an XWL fighter with a punch?” He laughs, but his nostrils flare. I’m pissing him off. And I realize I like it. There’s a lot of commotion in the room, people stretching and shouting, but we’re both so oblivious to our surroundings, an alien spaceship could land right between us and we wouldn’t even notice.

  “Yes. We both know you won't hit back.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I'm a girl,” I say with conviction, eyes rolling. His face is so close to mine, I’m almost able to touch his lips. Hormones want to wrestle him to the mat-covered floor, and not in a professional, jiu-jitsu way, but Brain still has the upper hand.

  Ty’s warm breath caresses my skin, giving me goose bumps. I’m convinced my heart is thudding loud enough that not just everyone in the room can hear it, but everyone in the county. The air sizzles between us.

  Jesse finally notices us and yells from across the room, “Tyler! Get your ass over here, bro. We’re about to start.”

  Ty doesn’t break his intense stare and holds my gaze for a few more seconds.

  “You wanna hit me? I’m game. Let’s see if you’re as good as your words after class. But you’re staying.” He thumbs my ribcage, and even though I want to run away, I stay put. Not because he tells me to, but because I sure as hell don’t want him to think I’m afraid of him.

  We start off with dynamic stretching and move to cardio, with lots of jump squats and walking lunges. It’s intense, but I try to keep up. I don't smoke much weed, I really don't, but I'm beginning to reassess whether to ditch my new hobby altogether. I don't remember feeling so out of breath when working out, and I used to be a sporty kid up until my senior year in high school. Practically the best runner out of all the girls in my class. I feel dizzy and exhausted as hell, but my pride won't let me stop. I wish I had the same approach to college. It might have saved me time and my parents a whole lotta money and pep talks.

  “Doing a great job there, kid.” Jesse gives me the thumbs up as I complete another round of sprinting and crawling. At this point, nausea takes over my entire body, but I’m not giving up.

  Tyler ignores my existence, but I somehow figured that he would.

  After warm-up, we get down to business, and this is much harder for me to keep up with. I don’t have the technique or the knowledge to compete with the person I’m paired with. As it happens, I’m teamed with a veteran kickboxer named Josie. Josie is a real ballbuster. She’s well into her forties but could probably skin me alive and use my body as a living room rug if she wanted. I’m no challenge for her, and she’s obviously growing frustrated with my inability to fight back. We take turns holding the pad for each other while the other person throws punches. Neither of us actually gets hit, but I get tired whenever it’s my turn to spar and exhausted from holding the pad whenever she throws punches. I know I’m slowing her down, and she is losing patience.

  “Put the pad higher toward your face. I don't want to break your pretty little nose,” she warns for the fourth time as we’re circling, shadow-boxing each other. “And trust me, Barbie, I can.”

  Whoa! Barbie?

  “I've seen your pink Mini, hon. It's real cute, just like your glittery top, but I need you to focus, I don't get many chances to work out during the week," she explains.

  "I’m trying, Jackie Chan Junior. Cut me some slack, this is my first time.” I’m panting and constantly swiping sweat off my forehead with the back of my forearm. Maybe I shouldn’t have gone all G.I. Jane and wasted all my energy in the first fifteen minutes.

  “You wanna learn or you wanna whine, Barbie? Hold the pad higher!"

  “I’m not a Barbie,” I grunt, which clearly contradicts my point. Jesse and Tyler are moving among the sparring pairs, offering tips and instructions. The last thing I need right now is Ty butting into this thing. So, unsurprisingly, fate leads him straight to our c
orner.

  Seriously? There are like forty people in this room.

  “What’s up, Josie?” Ty asks. He brought his irresistible mouthwash and Hot-Dude smell with him. Why’d he have to do that?

  “She’s getting it.” Josie wheezes, tossing another blow. “But she hates it when I call her Barbie.”

  Ty’s eyes light up like a Christmas tree when he hears my new, humiliating nickname.

  “Suits her. Have you seen her car? Perfect name.” He winks at me and then glues his mouth to my ear. "Stop firing aimless shots when you spar. Plan ahead, and don't hold the pad so tight. You're wasting your energy," he says and walks off.

  “Oh, boy, you’re in trouble now, Barbie.” Josie laughs and throws another punch at me. This time she doesn’t hold back on her strength.

  My body bounces backwards from the blow, but the pad absorbs the hit. This time I don't wince. Josie whistles her approval, circling me with an interested expression.

  “How do you mean?” I ask. I'm pretty sure it's her turn to hold the pad, but I'm not in a hurry to send more useless punches.

  “I know Ty and I know how he is around girls. He likes you. But watch out. This one will eat you alive.”

  Are these people for real? Who talks like that?

  I blush, biting my inner cheek.

  "I think it's my turn now, Josie." I hand her the pad.

  Josie looks disappointed, but she knows she milked the situation long enough. We change positions and I study her for a few seconds, debating how to go around it. I can throw aimless punches, or I can try and mimic the guy to my right. I've been watching him throughout class and he seems to know what he's doing.

  I choose the second option and send a roundhouse kick and then a jab, trying to aim straight to the middle of the pad.

  “Whoa, Barbie!” Josie's eyes widen, almost in slow mo, as she tumbles backwards slightly.

  According to Josie, I just threw a combination.

  Ty is looking at me, arms folded over his chiseled chest. The whole class stops to see how the newbie kicked ass against all odds. Confidence washes through me.

  "Good?" I pant. I will never be able to do this again. Ever.

  "Great!" Josie smirks.

  “So can you stop calling me Barbie?” I ask.

  "Sure thing." She wiggles her eyebrows and cocks her head in Ty's direction. "But he won't."

  Chapter Four

  Jesse unwraps my hands from the tight boxing gloves while I’m babbling about my so-called combination. An uninformed person would suspect I had just taken down Arnold Schwarzenegger and Muhammad Ali together. I wince when I realize my knuckles are bright red and keep fidgeting with my fingers to help the blood circulation flow.

  “You did good, Blaire,” Jesse compliments. “You should hit class more often.”

  I smile and squeeze his hand. Jesse is nice, but I think I'll stick to running and hitting yoga classes every once in a while. I'm still freaked out by MMA, and it'll never be my scene. Plus, I'm pretty sure I was running on zero oxygen throughout the majority of class. Now I'm not a doctor, but this can't be good, right?

  The room is beginning to empty out, but people are still milling around Ty, asking him questions. Especially girls. My hair is plastered on my sticky temples and my cheeks are flushed.

  My tight yoga pants and pink top are soaked, but I feel absurdly invincible.

  Finally, Tyler walks back to us, taking a sip of his protein shake. There are still a few people scattered around the room, talking about head kicks and whatnot. Tyler stares at me, his eyes unwavering.

  “Everybody out,” he orders, raising his voice. “Barbie stays.”

  The chatter stops and everybody’s curious eyes are fixed on me. I fold my arms, trying to look indifferent, but my blush betrays me.

  Jesse shakes his head, laughing to himself, and stands up from the stools we sit on. “Watch yourself, Blaire. This one takes no prisoners.” He walks away, slapping backs and herding people out of the room.

  Everyone seems to accept Ty’s order and dashes off with no argument. He wears authority incredibly well. Another thing to add to the list of things I find irritating about him.

  I watch the door closing behind the last person to walk out and close my eyes, inhaling all the oxygen I can get into my lungs. I can handle him. I can handle Ty Wilder.

  Of course I can handle Ty Wilder.

  I’m a (kind of) strong, (semi) independent woman, and I can. Handle. Ty. Wilder.

  Jesus Christ. I so can’t handle him.

  He paces around me like a tiger, checking me out head to toe, and doesn’t even attempt to hide it.

  His eyes are scanning me like he’s trying to decide whether he likes what he sees. I’m acutely aware of my body, and I instinctively suck in my stomach and straighten my posture. When I realize what I’ve done, I’m horrified. Every feminist bone in my body instructs me to get the hell out of here, but Brain is momentarily kidnapped by Hormones and has duct tape plastered to its mouth. I’m melting like candlewax from the intentness of his gaze. I’m freakin’ mute. Just as well, since I doubt I’d make much sense when he is so incredibly close.

  “Punch me, Barbie,” he murmurs, his hooded gaze boring into my clothes, making me feel oh-so-very naked.

  “Stop calling me that.” I wet my lips, my mouth dry. He keeps circling me, his wifebeater tight against his muscular body.

  “Punch. Me. Now,” he barks into my face. “What the hell are you waiting for? Come on now. Give it all you got.”

  I lift my arm and send a weak punch into his bicep, barely making contact. He throws his beautiful head back and laughs, showing off a string of pearly whites. His smile dies quickly.

  “Harder, Barbie.”

  Thump.

  “HARDER!”

  Thump.

  “H-A-R-D-E-R!”

  I stop and stare at him. He moves closer. I know he expects it to throw me off balance, and I play along. I take a step back, so he takes two steps forward. He is now predictable to me, and I have every intention of taking advantage of it. Plan ahead, he said, right? We continue this stupid tango until I have him at an angle that allows me to throw a good punch.

  “You get off on bullying me, don't you?” I build momentum and throw the hardest blow I can produce. My knuckles throb as my fist collides with his taut stomach muscles. Even though I’m the one hitting him, I’m also the one yelping like a little girl who just got wedgied. The impact is so hard, my shoulder almost dislocates. I'd like to think I managed to hurt him, but judging by the lazy smirk plastered on his face, I doubt he felt it.

  "Seriously?" I shriek. He didn't even flinch.

  He taps his lower lip looking upwards, pretending to think about something. "You do realize I'm a professional fighter, right?"

  "Nah, I thought you were an astrophysicist." I bite my inner cheek and fold my arms.

  His smirk breaks into a grin, and he pins me against the wall and boxes me between his massive arms. I gasp my surprise and feel the heat humming between us like electricity. There’s crazy laughter in his eyes and I can feel his ribs and abs crushing against my chest. His forefinger presses on my lips as his weight shifts onto my much smaller body with force.

  “Do. Not. Yell,” he whispers.

  Every hair on my body stands at attention. I battle for air, my gaze shifting from his eyes to his lips. I’m under a deep spell, and I’m beginning to forget the reason I don’t want him in the first place. He is so sinfully sexy that it actually makes me angry. Angry at him, angry at myself, and especially angry at his mother, who raised a son who is so freaking sure he can have every girl he’s ever laid eyes on.

  Ty is staring down at me, calculating his next move under those thick, dark eyelashes. His jaw is clenched, and he looks like million things are running through his head at the same time.

  “Tyler…” I clear my throat. My voice sounds foreign to me. “Don’t kiss me.”

  I don’t want to get hurt. And kissin
g him is hurling me in the fast lane toward a collision with this walking calamity. Cocky, over-confident, explosive.

  And I have absolutely no control over my feelings around him.

  “You’re scared,” he states evenly, his gaze steady on mine.

  I nod, closing my eyes before I’m the one who kisses him.

  “Good. You should be.” He untangles me from his grasp and takes a step back. Air leaves my lungs once I’m no longer clasped between his arms, leaving me deflated and cold. He starts walking toward the door as I hold one arm against the wall, regaining my balance.

  “That was a good punch,” he mutters almost to himself, but the next thing he says is loud and clear and definitely meant for me to hear. “And you’re right, to be scared. I would never hit you, Barbie, but I’ll hurt you, alright.”

  He shuts the door behind him with a thud, leaving me to stand alone in the big, empty room.

  I slide down the wall to the floor and clasp my head, shaking it as I try to figure out what just happened.

  I’m in trouble. Deep, deep trouble.

  ***

  “I’m not sure eating an egg salad sandwich before watching The Walking Dead is a good combo.” I moan, my head resting beside Shane’s shoulder. We’re both fighting our gag reflex, our eyes glued to the TV as a zombie’s head explodes.

  “I’m not sure eating and watching The Walking Dead is a good combo, period,” he says.

  On the TV screen, Rick is doing some father-son bonding with Carl as they both kill a bunch of zombies. I sigh and burrow into Shane’s “I Like Kids, They’re Delicious With Ketchup” tee.

  “How was the practice today, dopey?” He runs his fingers through my hair, and I let him. So what if he squeezed my leg the other day? He's also a close friend, and I'm sure he got the hint.

  “Ten shades of super-weird. I did well during cardio and managed one good kick, but got really weird vibes from Ty.”

  Shane rolls his eyes. “That asshole almost crushed my hand. Don’t let him hold any babies.”

  I giggle uncomfortably, wondering if I should tell him how Ty kicked everyone else out of the room so I could punch his arm for five minutes. Probably not. After Shane’s recent I-Want-To-Get-In-Your-Pants vibes, I’m not sure spiking this disastrous recipe with Ty’s action is the right thing to do.