Mr. Real

by Carolyn Crane

  Veecha had actually tossed the still-lit match down at Paul’s face on that occasion.

  “Shit!” Paul had slapped it out of the air.

  “You hate him,” Master Veecha said.

  “You could say that.”

  “You want only to be rid of him.”

  “Pretty much.”

  The master used to take long thoughtful drags of his cigarette and then blow the smoke out his nose. “You will never vanquish him.”

  Paul had stared up at his teacher, shocked. Veecha had always believed in him. “And that’s it?” He remembered the silence. The exhaustion in his muscles. The old master sucking away.

  Then, “What is your strategy, when you fight a slugger like Barton?”

  “To get him on the ground as fast as possible,” Paul said.

  “Why?”

  “Because I’m the better grappler. My advantage is on the ground.”

  “How do you take him down?”

  “I already know this!”

  “Answer!” Veecha had yelled.

  Paul rambled about countering punches, working angles, using explosive footwork to get inside.

  “Yet you could not get inside for a take-down this time. Why?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You could not get inside because you fear getting hit, and that fear made you hesitate coming into the pocket.”

  Paul remembered the shame rushing through him. He’d played it safe with Barton. To avoid the knockout blow.

  Master Veecha strode to the mat’s edge, and took another drag on his cigarette. “You fear and hate him. Why?”

  “I just do.”

  Bang! Master Veecha stomped the mat, startling Paul. “Your emotions close you to him. Who is he?”

  “A fighter. A jerk.”

  “Your greatest opponent, and you know nothing of him. That’s why you fear and hate him. Now tell me, why do you fear and hate him?”

  “Because I know nothing of him.”

  “Why do you nothing of him?”

  “Because I fear and hate him, and my hatred closes me to him.”

  “How will you get inside?”

  “By not fearing the blows. When you fear getting hit, you get hit.” It seemed circular, but Veecha’s lessons could be like that. And they were speaking metaphorically now. Talking the mental game.

  “How will you vanquish him?”

  “Okay, okay.”

  “Say it!”

  “By knowing him, by getting inside.”

  “It is through knowledge that you move to the other side of hatred. Don’t squander this chance again!”

  This was not the first time Paul had tried to draw something out of Veecha’s wisdom about Barton to help with Sir Kendall. The idea of knowing Sir Kendall, of getting on the inside with him, repulsed Paul more than ever. And it probably wouldn’t even work. There had to be another way.

  Paul watched the headlights illuminate brambly swaths of bushes, enjoying the feel of Alix on his lap, so soft and sweet and pink and hot.

  His lips hovered worshipfully near her skin.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Alix grabbed the seat back, balancing precariously on Paul’s lap as Sir Kendall swung his car into the long gravel driveway.

  “Quite a night,” Sir Kendall said, in his mellow, slightly humorous way. Paul and Sir Kendall shared the same tenor of voice, but Paul’s utterances seemed ragged with untidy emotion. He was all right there for you.

  And their faces were technically identical, but Paul’s jaw was set harder, and his eyes weren’t twinkly like Sir Kendall’s; they were bright. Sometimes that hard, bright look of his made her feel sad, and she had the impulse to comfort him, like he was somehow lost or wounded. But right now, she wanted to snuggle into him, to sink deeper into his lap. His breath was like a soft, warm kiss on her bare arm. It was so sexy to have him close like that. So exciting.

  She shouldn’t have drunk those beers.

  One thing was for sure: she needed to have a talk with Sir Kendall and let him know that they were just friends from now on, that sex with him was no longer just the thing. She would help Sir Kendall make a place in the world, yes, but as a friend.

  She hated the look on Paul’s face whenever Sir Kendall touched her. A kiss on the cheek, a hand on the shoulder—barely a grandparent-level of PDA, but the anger and intensity had spiked in Paul’s eyes like a wild force of nature. It was how he’d been during that fight, too, and a bit at her parents’ house, when Sir Kendall had called him old chap. It scared her a little—it was as if she didn’t know Paul at those moments. Couldn’t trust him.

  And it also made her ache for him, made her want to send Sir Kendall packing.

  And she would, eventually. As soon as she fulfilled her responsibility to him.

  But here she was on Paul’s warm, solid thighs, enjoying the feel of him. It was as if she and Paul were tuned into a frequency where they ‘got’ each other with total clarity, whereas Sir Kendall was a distant signal.

  Sir Kendall pulled around front and parked the car, and the three of them got out. Alix crunched across the gravel, heading for the front door with Paul close behind.

  “Hold up, old man.”

  Alix and Paul turned. Sir Kendall had opened the trunk. “I’ve got something you might be able to use.” He pulled out a first aid kit, set it on the edge, and took something out of it. “Absolutely first rate healing ointment, this. Works wonders on cuts and bruises.”

  “No thanks,” Paul said.

  “Maybe it’s supernaturally superior,” Alix teased under her breath. “Don’t you want to know?”

  A gleam appeared in Paul’s deep blue eyes; she could see the gears turning. Paul thought things that came from the computer were magically, monstrously powerful. This could be a test. Much as she downplayed the idea that Sir Kendall was a dangerous superbeing, she wouldn’t mind knowing herself.

  Sir Kendall shut the trunk and strolled toward them, holding the kit in one hand and a small blue jar in the other. “It’s a salve. Herbs and leaves and lavender and so forth. Quite the stuff.” He handed the little, blue, glass pot to Paul.

  Paul held it warily. It had no label.

  “My dear sir, if I’d wanted to kill or poison you, I would’ve done it.” Sir Kendall snatched the pot back, unscrewed the lid, swiped up a fingerful of salve, and rubbed it upon his own arm. “You see?” he twisted the lid back on. “You should have Alix help you apply it. I find a lady’s assistance to be a key part of the process. You must rub it in uniformly, Alix, upon each bruise and scrape. I always find myself quite healed soon after.”

  “I need to feed Lindy and take her out. I don’t like her roaming outside by herself at night.” Alix said. “I’m sure Paul can handle putting on his own ointment.”

  “Nonsense, I’ll feed Lindy and take a stroll with her.”

  Paul smiled. “That’s very thoughtful of you, Sir Kendall. I appreciate it.” He turned to Alix. “You’ll help me then? If it’s a key part of the process…”

  She sighed. “Fine.”

  No, she really shouldn’t have had those beers. She unlocked the door and they went in. Sir Kendall called to Lindy and led her right to the kitchen. Of course he’d feed her and walk her while he was still in his tuxedo; that was how Sir Kendall rolled.

  Alix led Paul up to her bedroom and through to the bathroom off her room. She lowered the fluffy toilet seat lid. “Sit.”

  “Alix—” Paul settled onto the seat, gazing up at her. The stark light made his injuries look angrier, his beard stubble darker. “I owe you an apology for how I was at dinner. I wasn’t the best guest.”

  “No, you weren’t.” She frowned. “I was simply appalled at how you shook out your napkin before placing it in your lap.”

  “Seriously. I owe you an apology. I want to earn your trust, Alix.”

  The words broke her heart—that anybody would say that to her, least of all Hardass Paul. She put a hand on his shoulder.
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  “Don’t go to him tonight,” he bit out.

  Her heart leaped. “Paul.”

  “I mean it.” He squeezed his eyes shut. “I know I don’t have a right to ask that.”

  “You don’t.”

  “I’m trying to respect that.”

  “Yet not doing a very good job of it.” She grabbed a washcloth, rinsed it in cool water, and handed it to him. “Blot.”

  He took it and looked up at her. Waiting.

  She studied his eyes. Couldn’t Paul tell how he drew her? How he consumed her? It was all she could do to focus on her duty. She wanted to kiss him even now. “Paul. I wasn’t going to go to him. That part of us is over.”

  Paul’s face softened. He blotted.

  “But I’m still helping him. He’s still my responsibility. No matter how this ointment experiment comes out.”

  “You’re over? Why?” He slung the washcloth over his shoulder, watching her face, trying to look serious, it seemed, but soon a wolfish grin took over. He knew. She’d wanted him all night, and here he was. Everything was between them now. Everything.

  Go for it! Yay! Fuck him! A little voice inside her yelled. But that voice was old Alix, all about thrill fucks, comfort fucks, tearing through men like pints of ice cream. Ordering them like take-out.

  “Alix.” He settled his hands on her hips, looking up at her. Even the way he said her name, it was like a call for truth, for her to admit how she wanted him. “Come here.”

  Her heart sped. She could take a step. He would press his lips to her belly, her chest, her neck. Oh, how she wanted that.

  But he thought she was stupid. He’d said as much in the barn. And tonight at dinner, too. Once upon a time it wouldn’t have mattered—she would’ve fucked him anyway. But she wanted to be good enough for Paul. What was this? Self-respect? “We can’t.” She put his hands off.

  “Why? Because of your responsibility to him?”

  “I’m trying to be different now.”

  “I don’t want you to be different.”

  But he did. She remembered the pain of him seeing through her. Of him pointing at the door. Out. “I seem to remember a certain martial arts teacher telling me that martial arts are for serious people, not for somebody who treats everything like a game.”

  “It was one of the stupidest things I ever said.”

  She shrugged. “I was being disruptive.”

  “That’s not why I kicked you out,” he said.

  In a flash, she knew what was coming. Her heart raced.

  “You were being disruptive to me,” he said. “How much I cared about you was disruptive to me. I hated that I did it. I looked for you afterward.”

  She shook her head, unsure what to do with this affection she’d craved for so long. Unsure if it was even real. “I had to leave town anyway.”

  “Come here, Alix.”

  Her heart fluttered against her ribs, a frightened bird banging around in a cage. She wasn’t ready for him—she needed to be the new Alix.

  “Why do you hate him so much?” she asked.

  He let out a breath and slowly lowered his hands to his lap.

  “Why?”

  “I don’t talk about it. Not to anybody. I can’t.” The statement sounded like it came from somewhere deep and dark. She touched his hair. The pain in his voice made her chest feel funny.

  He shook his head. “We should just do this ointment thing.”

  An end. Full stop.

  “Okay.” She headed back into her bedroom to grab a sweater off her bed to cover her nice dress, then came back to her bathroom to find Paul had taken off his shirt.

  She bit her lip. She’d seen him shirtless earlier, but he’d been all dirty and grimy. Now you could really see the bruises and swelling from the fight. Paul held himself as she imagined an elite fighter would—the muscles in his arms and chest and shoulders looked soft and relaxed, but he seemed poised for action at the same time, and you wanted to touch his chest and put your face to his cheek. He had the same body as Sir Kendall, but even here, Paul’s was worlds different. More exciting and touchable, somehow.

  She raised an eyebrow. “Looks like somebody’s got big ideas.” She unclasped her ruby necklace and dropped it into her sweater pocket—she didn’t want her ransom in rubies getting all greasy.

  “Don’t worry, I get it. My main focus right now is this.” He lifted his arm over his head, revealing an ugly green-black-yellow-red bruise along the side of his ribcage, the size of a misshapen grapefruit.

  “Paul!”

  “If the stuff’s magic, you know. This is where I need it.”

  Does it hurt?”

  He shrugged. “Got me with a knee.”

  She put her hand on the silky underside of his upper arm. Skin so soft. He moved a bit in response to her pressure, let his forearm drape over his head.

  “You think it’s a broken rib in there or something?” she asked.

  “Yeah.”

  “Yeah? And you did all that work today? Heavy lifting?”

  “I pay my dues,” he said.

  “Oh, Paul.” It was because he felt bad about going back on his word. “You didn’t have to.”

  “Yes, I did.”

  She grabbed the little blue ointment pot off the counter and unscrewed the lid, dipped two fingers into the pot, and set it down. She placed her hand on his arm again and began to rub the small dollop of pale green ointment into the side of his chest, starting at the center of the bruise, pale reds and purples.

  “Is this okay? Too much pressure?”

  “Perfect,” he whispered. “Thank you.”

  She rubbed, hoping this would soothe and knowing that it wouldn’t—not really. She wasn’t the brightest bulb ever, not like Karen, or her sisters, but she had a sense that this would never be enough. He needed to let somebody touch him where it truly hurt. This secret, this Sir Kendall thing.

  But she’d felt him close off to her. And really, why should he tell her of all people?

  It was as if he’d shown her a map of an exotic, far-away place, and she didn’t know the first thing about getting there—if you reached it by boat or train or plane or what, or if it even was reachable. Or what the language was. She didn’t have what it took. What he needed.

  She stroked the ointment over the bruise and he closed his eyes, reminding her of a cat, soaking up the feel of a hand. She covered the whole bruise and beyond.

  “Shouldn’t this be bandaged or something?”

  “Nothing could be more perfect than what you’re doing right now. And he said it’s part of the mojo that a girl applies this stuff…” Paul opened his eyes. “I’m glad it’s part of the mojo.”

  She’d heard somewhere that people actually looked more at your nose than your eyes when they spoke to you because it would be too weird to have them bore right into your eyes. But Paul watched her straight and he wouldn’t look away. She met his eyes right back. Then she reached out and smoothed ointment over the plump pillow of his lower lip.

  It was official. They may as well be fucking.

  She stopped. “Can you pull off your eyebrow bandage or do you want me to?”

  He yanked it off like it was nothing.

  “Okay, then.” She swiped up some more ointment and set the jar back down on the counter, then brushed the dark hair from Paul’s forehead. “Close your eyes.” She rubbed the salve into the cut over his eyebrow. She worshipped him as a sculptor might, enjoying every contour, smooth and strong. She stroked more salve onto his cheekbone and a bit onto his jaw, even though he wasn’t injured there. She just wanted to touch him there.

  “You can’t help him, Alix. He’s dangerous.”

  “So you say.”

  “So I know.”

  “Look, I’m not going to jettison my responsibility to Sir Kendall because you have this thing about him. I mean, he’s the Denali man. An advertising company created him. And I ripped him from his world.”

  “An advertising company didn�
�t create him.”

  “Then who did?”

  “Sadistic people. Sadistic people created him, Alix.”

  “But then how…with the commercial…”

  She saw when he decided to tell her—saw the decision in his eyes.

  “His name isn’t really Sir Kendall Nicholas the Third, either.”

  She could barely breathe. Was he really going to tell her?

  “It’s Sir Ken doll. Sir Ken Doll Dickless the Third.”

  “As in Ken and Barbie?” She felt confused. Was he joking? It didn’t seem funny

  “Mixed with James Bond,” he added. “Just ridiculous. A ridiculous nightmare from my childhood.”

  “Tell me, Paul.”

  He stared bleakly up at the wall beyond her ear. “I had two childhoods, in a way. One childhood that was awesome. A big house. A mom and dad who loved me. Friends. But then my dad died when I was eight, and my mom, she fell apart. Became a total drunk and married this asshole. Gary Senior. The non-awesome childhood.”

  “I’m so, so sorry Paul.” She continued to rub in the salve, feeling sick for him. The hard, bright look in his eyes—this was where it came from. “And that’s who made him up? Your step dad?”

  “No, it was my stepbrothers—twins—Gene and Gary. They were maybe thirteen when I moved in. The whole family was really poor, with rats in the house. And suddenly they had us to support. And mom and Gary Senior boozing it up all day. Gene and Gary made up Sir Ken-doll and his accent and everything, and they would talk like Sir Ken-doll as a way of mocking me when they were beating the crap out of me, which was most of the time.” Paul looked at his right hand. Cuts on his knuckles.

  She couldn’t believe he was trusting her with this. Did he understand what he was doing? She wondered if she should stop him from telling.

  “I was this scrawny, sickly kid. I had asthma. Came from a nice house. I was pretty pathetic and pretty much everything they hated. Sir Ken-doll was based on me in their twisted minds. They’d pretend I was Sir Ken-doll and punch me, or they’d tie me to a tree and shit and hit me with sticks.” He paused, but she sensed there was more. He seemed to like her touch, so she kept gently stroking the salve over his skin, filled with horror and rage and grief on his behalf. “Or they’d shock me with their science kit stuff,” he added “Always something new. Something worse.” He looked exhausted. Like the weight of telling her exhausted him. “It was awesome.”