by Zee Monodee
“I’m giving you access to our Virtual Private Network. You’ll be able to work with exactly the same material as here. Enter your login and password on the secure server page, and you’re set.” He paused again and lowered his gaze. “You can work the morning bulletins from home. No need to be at the office so early.”
He took a few steps and brushed past her, to stop on the threshold of the newsroom. His voice reached her as a soft whisper.
“Look after your kids before they go to school.”
Whoa, there. What had that been about? Concern in his tone? Could it be Logan Warrington was not etched in stone and ice?
“Thanks.”
It was the only word she could mutter as she grappled with the sudden, unexpected insight.
He turned and gave a small nod. “See you Monday.”
He exited the newsroom, she standing rooted to her spot. She couldn’t move. On one hand, happiness coursed through her, making her so giddy, she needed to keep to her spot for fear of appearing like a drunk were she to walk. She’d made it, all on her own. She’d proven her worth.
Yet, on the other hand, bafflement threaded its path, too, the realization it brought on anchoring her solidly to where she stood.
Logan Warrington had a heart. Who’d have thought?
***
In the car park, Logan stopped by his X6 to glance at the bright yellow Citroën a few spaces away.
Neha’s car.
A chuckle escaped him as he contemplated the lines of the vehicle. All in curves. They echoed their owner perfectly.
Don’t go there, mate.
He climbed into his SUV and started the engine. After pulling out of the space, he steered the massive vehicle—one in which he didn’t feel cramped as in a sarnie box— along the twists and turns out of the cyber village towards the motorway connecting most of the island along its strip. Even after a few weeks here, he still had to pay attention to the road signs, the extensive road infrastructure one where a foreigner could easily get lost. Whoever had said Mauritius was as backward a place as Eketahuna, NZ’s version of Timbuktu, hadn’t known what he’d been talking about. This little island could pit itself head to head with the biggest nations in Africa and the developing world.
As he covered the miles inland with his car, the image of his newly appointed news editor refused to leave his mind. It hadn’t ever since the moment he’d seen her standing in the reception room of the station a fateful three weeks earlier.
“Bugger,” he muttered.
Out of sight, out of mind. He’d hung on to that line for the past thirteen days. His strategy seemed to have failed all the way. Still, why had he had to go out of his way to go talk to her today? He could have asked Griffin to inform her of his decision.
He’d craved to see her reaction, that’s why. Neha wore her feelings on her face like an open book, her pale skin flushing so easily, her large dark eyes sparkling with every nuance of her emotions in their soft depths.
Soft. The word suited her so well. Everything about Neha seemed soft. From the long, flowing skirts and blouses she wore, to her lush figure and demure gaze, her full, sensual mouth ...
Logan cursed under his breath. He was no impulsive teenager, for Heaven’s sake. Why would he think of her in this light? True, she was different. He hadn’t wanted to admit it, but she’d proven herself an honest and straightforward person, very far from the image he’d pinned on her. In the short time she’d been at the station, she’d endeared herself to all and sundry. He’d watched her at work. She treated everyone with courtesy and respect, addressed every employee by name, asked about little details pertinent to their personal life.
Griffin worshipped the ground she walked on, but then again, he mused, not a strange occurrence with Griff involved.
Only Logan hadn’t allowed her too close so far, and something told him he wouldn’t be able to hang on for much longer. Something about Neha worked its way irrevocably under one’s skin until she practically thrummed in the person’s veins.
And if he dared face the truth, he’d admit how she already thrived in his blood. He simply had to glance at her for fire to start consuming him from the inside out. Never had he burned for a woman so much.
To think she’d now be a permanent feature of his professional life. Work occupied the three-quarters of his time, which would imply she’d be present in this huge chunk of his existence, too.
But what of the remaining quarter? How could he make her a recurring figure in the other part of his life? In the personal part?
Bloody hell. What the fuck was happening to him? He’d sworn he’d never go down such a path again. A woman meant too much deceit and manipulation. Once burnt, twice careful.
Except, he hadn’t been careful here, and it looked like he would be blazed to a roast in a hangi because of this particular curvy and soft woman.
Get rid of her!
He chuckled aloud. Easier said than done. He might not be a hard case in matters of the heart, but he wasn’t a fool professionally. Neha represented a more than worthy addition to the station. He couldn’t wait for the following week when they would start broadcasting to a live audience. Many of his worries regarding where they stood in regards to the competition had been wiped out through viewing her competence.
So there he stood, stuck between a rock and a hard place.
“Bloody hell.” The curse escaped his lips at the same time he brought a hand up to run over his face.
The SUV started a steady climb up the road as he eased on towards the higher plateaus and the town he headed to. Logan brought his attention fully back to the motorway when rain pelleted the windshield the farther up he got.
A light drizzle and a shroud of fog welcomed him as he reached the outskirts of the inland town of Curepipe. He’d been told it always rained in Curepipe, in summer or winter, for the town had British-type weather.
He forced his mind to concentrate on the smaller roads as he eased off the motorway. After pulling over to search for the drawing of the directions located in the glove compartment, he steered the vehicle back onto the main street. A few turns later, he had reached a quiet residential area.
Upon quick glance to scan the surroundings, he spotted a grey, nondescript building on a street corner. He pulled into the parking space in front and stepped out after cutting the engine. With quickened steps, under the rain, he made it to the front door, pushing it open.
His eyes had trouble adjusting to the dark interior. He stopped in his tracks to get new bearings.
His ears picked up sounds of metal grinding on metal, the creak of cables as they groaned when stretched. He also distinguished the soft shuffles of feet squeaking over a polished surface, as well as muffled thumps of padded plastic hitting against one another. On an inhale, his nose registered the flat, stale smell of sweat permeating the place.
As his vision adjusted to the dim, he made out an elevated area a few yards into the room. He took in the matte, dull colour of the stage, and travelled his gaze up to the dark ropes running around the twenty-four-feet-square ring.
Even today, over twenty years later, Logan still remembered the first time he’d been into a boxing gym. The sights, sounds, and smell greeting him today had been no different then. That day, he’d been a teenager running away from the police yet again. He preferred to think it a case of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. How was he supposed to know a major gang fight would break out on the day he’d gone to find Tyler, his younger brother? He hadn’t wanted the kid involved in those gang rivalries.
He’d found himself sandwiched between the two fiercest gangs of Newtown, and he’d run at the first occasion. He didn’t recall where he’d headed to; anywhere away from the police had seemed a good option. Panting for breath and with a huge stitch in his side, he’d stopped by a run-down building downtown. Hearing sirens close to him, he’d pulled the metal door open and sought refuge inside.
What he’d seen had amazed him. Men boxed on
a ring while others lifted weights in a corner. Some seemed to beat the heck out of punching bags while a few did push-ups on the bare concrete floor.
Logan had been awed by the sheer strength and size of those men. He’d been transfixed by the fighting, absorbing every cross and blow, every punch with his eyes.
An older man, still bulky despite his grey hair and beard, had ambled up to him and asked if he wanted to try one of the punching bags. The youngster he’d been had thrown everything he’d had in his blows.
Ten punches had bloodied his hands and ripped all his knuckles open, but the older man had said he had a good shot.
From that moment onward, Logan had never looked back. He’d been to the gym every single day, building his body up, learning the skills of a boxer, fighting his way out of his condition and downtrodden life. His passport out of the gutter, his way to bring his mother and Tyler out of their miserable existence.
Until Jessica had come along. He’d soared to great heights with her, but the fall had been as big. He’d held on to his career, all right, but the man in him had been reduced to a shadow of himself, finding solace only in a measure of beer or Scotch or whatever held a potent dose of alcohol—
“Logan!”
He snapped out of the memory spell to search for the man who’d called his name. The colossal black fulla stood near the far side of the ring. A smile forming on his face, Logan walked towards him. They bumped fists in greeting, the other bloke then slapping his shoulder hard in welcome.
“Hey, Marc,” he said.
Marc Peri gave him a wide smile. “Yo, man. I didn’t think you’d make it.”
“I always keep my word, you should know it. I’ve been completely taken by the station.”
Marc waved his words away. “So, what made you come around today?”
What had made him come to his friend’s gym? He and Marc had met a few times on the competition circuits. A few years earlier, Marc had injured his wrist again, spelling an end to his boxing career. He’d told Logan he’d go back to Mauritius and open his own gym, to help emerging talents break through.
It would also be a way to help get youngsters off the streets and give them a sense of belonging combined with discipline and self-worth. Boxing had done that for both him and Marc, as well as countless others.
He stared at his friend. “Guess it’s my turn to give back.”
Or to try and forget a beautiful woman who occupies three-quarters of my life right now, and whom I want so much, it could drive me insane.
Not the time and place to think of her.
“You wanna coach?”
“At least help.”
Marc threw his head back and roared with laughter.
“What’s so funny?” Logan asked.
“Man, you been learning Creole in an advanced course or what?” He gestured at the area with a wide sweep of his hands. “Unless you have, I don’t see your weird accent and English getting across to these kids. Half of them don’t even speak French, and that’s saying something when you know how much Creole and French are alike.”
Almost against himself, Logan smiled. Marc was right. Street kids wouldn’t be fluent in English, right? He knew nothing of Creole. The local dialect sounded very much like jumbled French to him, and French was another language he knew nothing about.
Marc grew serious again, his face pensive. “You really wanna help?”
Logan nodded.
Marc scratched his shaved head for a few seconds. “Come with me, I’ll show you something.”
Logan followed him to a partitioned area behind the ring. Both men stopped in the doorway. A few teenagers exercised their fists on punching bags. Marc pointed towards one of them in the far corner.
Logan trained his gaze on him. In only a loose pair of trousers, with handwraps over his knuckles to secure his bones, the sheen of sweat glistened over the young man’s lean, muscled body. He appeared to be over six feet in height, his build not one of bulk, but of sinewy muscles. He’d tied his long black hair at the nape of his neck.
Logan shivered at his facial expression. He was a handsome youth, but the most captivating about his face was the utmost concentration tensing his features and blazing in his eyes.
The boy took a few deep breaths while moving a few feet from the hanging punching bag, turning his back to it. He then whirled around and hit the thick sack with his shin, alternating in rapid succession between his right and left leg.
Kickboxing. And the lad seemed bloody good at it.
“Who’s that?” he asked with a nod in the kid’s direction.
“Kunal Kiran. Mauritius’ next hope for kickboxing world champion.”
Logan kept his eyes on the boy’s rigorous workout. “You got that right. How many competitions has he won so far?”
The other man chuckled. “None.”
“But he’s bloody good. It’s such a waste.”
“Chill, man. All in due time. He’s only started about a year or so ago. Lots of potential to grow into, though he’s come very far.” Marc shook his head. “And no governing body will let him compete for the time being.”
“Why?”
“He’s still too young. Only fourteen.”
“Blow me down!”
Marc burst out laughing. “I get this reaction from everyone. Yeah, he’s turning fifteen this year, but he’s still very far from the age requirement to enter the professional circuit. Mark my words, this guy will go very far.”
Logan couldn’t believe it. He’d easily have written the lad off as twenty or around.
He suddenly noticed Marc shuffling next to him. “What?”
“He’s destined for a great future, Logan. Just like you.”
He’d entered the world of professional boxing at seventeen, destined for great heights, too. And he’d reached them. He’d also nearly lost himself and everything he’d held dear along the way. He clenched his jaw; he pretty much had an idea what Marc was getting at.
“What would you like me to do? I’m a boxer, mate. I know nothing about kickboxing.”
“It’s nothing to do with technique, but all to do with handling everything. The kid’s gonna go far, but if he ain’t got the right mindset, he won’t reach half of the way.”
“You want to build him up in such a light?”
“Yeah. You’ve been through it all. Steer him to become the strongest mind out there. His technique will take him far, but his spirit is what will have him hang on when the going gets tough.”
Logan gazed for long seconds at the practicing boy. His determination and contained strength reminded him of the kid he’d been when he’d first discovered the ring.
Logan had been fighting for a better future for his family. The drive had taken him through the tough and rough. If the lad didn’t have that, he’d crumble under the pressure far too soon.
Making up his mind, he nodded. “I guess we better get acquainted, then.”
Marc gave him a pat on his shoulder and left.
Logan took a few steps towards the boy. What had Marc said his name was? Kunal? He’d been too mesmerized by the sheer display of talent to pay proper attention to his friend’s words. Stopping a few feet away, he stared at the fighter in front of him.
The lad must’ve sensed his presence, for he stopped his workout and moved a few steps to see who stood behind his punching bag. His deep-set, almost green eyes grew wide, and a smile etched on his features. He unwrapped the handband on his right knuckles and extended his hand out.
“Blimey, you’re Logan Warrington. It’s an honour to meet you, sir.”
Logan shook the outstretched hand. Brute force lay in the kid’s grip.
“Pleasure’s mine,” he said. “Marc says you’re the next hope for Mauritian kickboxing.”
Kunal laughed. “I hope it will be the case. I’m seriously working towards it.”
“That, you are.” Stepping closer to the punching bag, he braced it against the front of his body, his arms around the uppe
r part of the bag. “Come on, show me what you got in those fists.”
Kunal appeared stunned, a shadow of disbelief passing over his features, before he pulled himself together, wrapping the handband over his knuckles again. He then hit the sack.
Powerful shots, Logan thought as the bag took in Kunal’s lunges.
“So, Marc tells me you’ve yet to turn fifteen. How does a young fulla like you get interested in kickboxing?”
Kunal paused in his punches.
“Don’t stop,” Logan said. “Talk to me at the same time. It’ll help you build your stamina.”
Between breaths, the teenager replied him. “It started with an interest in capoeira after I’d gotten my black belt in karate. My mum tried to discourage me and sent me to a regular gym. She didn’t realize a clandestine martial art academy met a floor up, and I learned about Muay Thai there. I started to give it a go, but Mum put her foot down. I finally got her to agree to kickboxing, though.”
Muay Thai? What was the boy thinking? It had to be one of the deadliest martial arts out there. He had to be a handful for his mother.
And Kunal spoke only of his mother. The child of a single parent? Not surprising, even in a traditional and conservative land as Mauritius anymore. Exactly like the rest of the world. What sort of family did the lad come from? If he were to help the kid, he had to know what he put up with.
“What does your father think?”
Kunal hesitated in between two punches. “Dad’s gone, a flood in India. He went there on a business trip.”
Bugger. What would he say now? No wonder the boy had so much power in his punch. Nothing but repressed aggressiveness, a teenager fighting to come to terms with a terrible reality. “So, your mum is pulling you through, then.”
Kunal relaxed, his blows coming onto the punching bag at a steadier pace.
“You got any brothers and sisters?” Logan asked, shifting the topic away from his previous enquiry.
“One of each. Suzanne and Rishi. She’s older, he’s younger.”
“That’s cool. I have a younger brother, too. His name’s Tyler. An absolute PITA. Bet yours is, as well.”
The boy gave a short laugh. “Between us, Rishi’s a nice sort. It’s Suzanne, the smart-mouth diva, who’s the real pain. God only knows how Mum puts up with her.”