I stand by the door and watch as he jogs toward my father and has a quiet conversation with him. All I can see are a few glances in my direction as my father listens to Damien, his hands folded over his chest.
The conversation ends with a nod from my father who then looks at me and beckons me with a tilt of his head.
As I approach, I look at Damien, hoping to see some sort of explanation on his face, but his features are completely impassive. So I’m left wondering what was said.
“You can go next Thursday,” my father informs me.
“Really?” I squeal, feeling like a little girl, who is finally allowed to go on a sleepover.
“On one condition. You continue to train. Damien will be your Sensei. He’s obviously more capable of teaching you than I am.”
“What?!” I spit out. “No! That’s not ok Dad!”
“Take it or leave Henrietta. It’s all I have to offer.” With that he turns and strides off, but pauses, turning back to me and saying, “Oh, and Henrietta. I want you training indefinitely. If you want your mother and me to help support you until you finish uni, I suggest you fulfil this one wish for me.”
“But…” I start, but he’s moved off, leaving me with my mouth open and Damien looking impressed with himself.
“Don’t look so happy with yourself.” I tell him.
“What?” he asks looking innocent.
“I’m really not sure…” I say, shaking my head as I wonder exactly what his role is in all this.
“Hey, at least you get to go out next week. In the meantime, I’ll be picking you up tomorrow morning at six. Be ready.”
“I’ll just meet you here,” I respond, trying to think of jobs I can apply for so I can support myself and get out of this.
“I’ll pick you up,” he insists, ensuring he has the last word by abruptly turning and walking off.
Mumbling under my breath, I pick up my bag and head outside to walk home. Even though it’s almost six o’clock, the sun is still shining brightly, the weather still warm.
Removing my water bottle from my bag, I take a cooling drink as I trudge along in the gravel along the side of the road. There’s no actual footpath here as it’s mainly an industrial area, but once I make it to the end of the road, it will all become residential again.
Kicking up a cloud of dirt, a brand new, dark grey metallic, Subaru XV stops in front of me.
“Why are you walking on the side of a busy road?” Damien asks through the passenger window as I approach.
“Going home,” I state obviously.
“Don’t you drive?”
“Well no, but I live two blocks away. It’s not far.”
“Get in.” I’d like to say he offered me a lift, but it was more of a command than anything which instantly gets my hackles up.
“I’ll be fine,” I state, continuing to walk ahead. He drives at a crawl alongside me.
“What does it hurt to get in? It’s hot, you just worked out, and now you’re breathing in car fumes while you walk through gravel that’s full of broken glass and probably a few used syringes.”
“Why would I get in your car? I hardly even know you.”
“You know me just fine. You even visited my house. We had lunch together – remember?” he grins, creeping the car forward just enough so that when he flings the door open, it’s blocking my path. “Come on, get in,” he says gently, his eyes pleading.
“This is pointless,” I huff as I get into the car, doing my best to seem unaffected by him, and whatever it is about him that makes me want to do anything he says, but at the same time, run like hell.
“Seatbelt,” he points out, indicating the silver buckle, still sitting against the side of the car.
Reaching for it, I stretch it across my body but slip as I try to click it in. I’m obviously more nervous around him than I thought.
“Here,” he almost murmurs, taking the buckle from my hands and deftly clicking it into place. All the while, my heart is hammering again, and I’m doing my best to make my breathing sound normal as my blood temperature starts to rise.
Reminding myself of his ability to embarrass me, I focus on that as he pulls into the stream of traffic.
“Why did you do it?” I ask.
“Do what?”
“Let me into your apartment yesterday.”
“I wish I knew.” He pauses at the red light and looks over at me. Our eyes lock for a moment and that feeling I’ve been fighting starts to win over again, invading my mind like a gaseous cloud, making me dizzy.
We drive the rest of the way to my parent’s house in silence. I don’t question how he knows where it is. I just assume he’s been here before for something to do with my dad – any other possibility seems a little farfetched and stalker-ish.
“I’ll see you in the morning,” he confirms as he pulls up outside.
Nodding, I get out of the car and walk up to my front door, not looking back until I’m safely inside and can spy on him through the peephole for long enough to see him drive away.
“Who was that?” my mother asks from behind me.
“One of dad’s students,” I reply, leaning into the window next to the door as I watch his car disappear down the road.
“How was training? Did your dad agree to release you?” she jokes.
Turning away from the window, I lean against the door jamb to face her. “Yes, but with conditions,” I sigh.
“Oh no. What’s he going to do? Make you wear a GPS tracker?”
“No. Worse. He’s making me train again. He said that if I don’t, you guys won’t help me when I move out.”
“That man,” my mother grumbles. “Don’t worry, I’ll talk to him. You don’t have to train if you don’t want to. I know it’s hard for you without Craig around.”
“It wasn’t horrible going there today. But it just reminds me that he’s gone. I’d prefer not to go there.”
“I know,” she coos, giving me a hug. “I know. I’ll sort him out.”
“Thanks mum,” I say, before heading into the bathroom for a shower, glad that my mum is going to talk to my dad.
I’ll admit, that once I got going today, I didn’t mind training. But the thought of constantly doing it, is a little hard to handle. All of my memories of training revolve around my brother. I quit for a reason, and I’m not keen on returning – regardless of who my teacher is.
Chapter 3
Where are you?
It’s six-fifteen the next morning. I was trying to sleep. Instead, I’m staring at my phone, wondering exactly how Damien got my number. Deducing that he must have gotten it off my father at some point.
Why? I type out in reply.
When I don’t get an answer after a few minutes, I return my phone to my bedside table and roll over, trying to return to my sleep.
Five minutes later, just as I start to drift off, my phone starts vibrating and dancing atop its wooden perch, startling me awake again.
“What?” I say, knowing it’s Damien. “How the hell did you get my number?”
“Come outside,” he instructs.
“I’m trying to sleep.”
“I don’t think your father would be happy if I start beating on his door. Come outside,” he insists, hanging up.
For a moment, I stare at the phone, debating whether or not to do what he’s asking. Not really wanting him to wake my parents, I swing my legs out of the bed and go to the window, pulling aside the curtains to see him standing against his car waiting for me.
Holding my hand up, I signal that I need five minutes. He nods, tapping his watch to let me know he’s timing me.
Rolling my eyes, I step away from the window and open my wardrobe, pulling out a pair of tracksuit pants and an old band t-shirt. Pulling my thick hair into a high pony tail and pinning my fringe back, I move to the bathroom where I put on some deodorant and quickly brush my teeth before splashing some water on my face.
As I make my way toward the front door, I quickl
y scrawl a note to let my parents know I’ve gone out, grab my bag and shoes, and attempt to quietly exit the house.
Leaning against the entry way of our avocado green, weatherboard house, I slide my feet into my runners, then trot down the concrete steps, pausing in the centre of the path to adjust the heel of my shoe where it’s digging painfully into my ankle.
“Glad you could make it,” Damien smiles as he opens the passenger door for me.
“Why are you even here? My mother spoke to my dad, and I don’t have to train anymore,” I respond.
“Is that a fact?” he asks, looking highly amused.
“Yes it is. But since you obviously weren’t informed, I’ll train with you – once.”
He grins and nods his head. “Just hop in,” he tells me.
I get into the car, grabbing a hold of the seatbelt and clicking it in place before he can do it for me again.
Closing my door, he walks around to his side and starts the engine, u-turning in front of my house to drive us toward the gym and dojo that my father owns.
While my father is primarily an Aikido Sensei, he has branched his business out to be an actual gym that opens from midday to midnight, offering fitness classes and personal training. It was an ingenious decision really, as the dojo wasn’t making a huge amount of money on its own. But adding a gym that was more affordable than the big chain gyms, has been what’s kept him afloat and able to keep the dojo going.
“Why don’t you have a Gi?” he asks.
“I got rid of it,” I explain. “I haven’t had one since I was about twelve. Plus I hate those black skirty things.”
“Hakama,” he corrects.
“I know what they’re called. I’m not an idiot,” I state.
“Then call them what they are. Don’t dumb it down. You’re a smart woman Henrietta.”
“Would you please stop calling me ‘Henrietta’? I prefer ‘Etta’.”
He just looks at me briefly, not giving me an answer as he pulls into the car park at my dad’s gym.
“So you’re trusted enough to be given keys huh?” I ask as he unlocks the front door.
“Looks like it,” he responds, keying in the alarm’s code.
Standing back, I look him over, head to toe. He’s dressed in a pair of black gym pants with a double white stripe going down the side, a tight black ribbed singlet that shows off his well-defined arms and broad shoulders. On his feet are a pair of black runners.
“Where’s your gi?” I ask.
“In my bag,” he replies, raising his gym bag a little as he walks ahead of me, flicking lights on. When he pulls the sliding door open leading into the dojo, he stops and sweeps his arm in front of him to indicate that I should enter.
“Why were you willing to do this?” I ask as I walk in and watch him slide the door shut. “You know – train me. What’s in it for you? Is my dad paying you?”
“I enjoy teaching and you obviously need more practise. Your technique is sloppy and your reaction time is poor. If something really did happen to you, I can’t see you overcoming your opponent.”
“What are you talking about? You said yourself that I would be fine against a regular person.”
“And you probably would be. But what happens if your attacker is someone like me? What if they know more than you do? What if you react around them the way you do around me?” he practically whispers, moving closer to me, so our bodies are almost touching.
I tilt my head back slightly, holding his gaze and fighting my urge to rock on my toes to connect our lips.
“And how is it that I react around you?” I ask, my voice unintentionally quiet and breathy.
“Exactly like this,” he breathes, reaching up to move the stray hair that has escaped from my clip. I hold my breath, unwilling to even blink while he refastens it, as I refuse to even let my mind acknowledge how much my body is crying out for him. “Now let’s get started. I want you to strike me.”
He takes two steps away from me, and I literally have to shake my head slightly to remove the fog that seems to have settled on my mind. “Aren’t you going to get changed?”
“Just strike me.”
See, this is what I hate about Aikido – the part where you’re the attacker. You always end up on the floor, and you very rarely get to connect any of your hits. When you’re training with someone who knows what they’re doing, it feels like you’re fighting against air because they are never where your strike lands. The whole point of it is to anticipate your opponent and use their own movement against them. Essentially, they make you feel like a marionette puppet as they take control of your limbs.
“Come on,” he insists, his brows raised as he beckons me forward.
“Do you think you can just walk me through it, instead of making me attack you so you can throw me on the ground?” I ask, hands on hips as my nerves set in. I’m not equipped for this kind of training anymore. It’s been too long and I really dislike falling.
“You can either attack me and train, or I can just throw you on the ground anyway. Your choice.”
“Fine,” I grumble, reaching up and tightening my hair as I ready myself to get this over with.
Rushing forward, I attempt to punch him in the face. I choose the face because at this point in time, I wouldn’t mind it if my fist actually connects and leaves some sort of a mark on that smug face of his. But of course, it doesn’t. Instead, he deflects the blow by pushing my arm to the side, and pulling me past him so I’m off balance, before landing a blow on my chest that causes me to fall on my arse.
As he did yesterday, he holds his hand out to help me up, but I’m annoyed. I didn’t really want to be here, and now I’m going to have a bruised tailbone – I really need to remember to roll with the fall instead of fighting it. It’s something I’d do, had I continued with my own training, but now, my natural response is to always fight to remain standing.
“I can get up on my own,” I remind him, although he doesn’t listen and reaches further to grip me by my upper arms and haul me to standing.
“Roll next time,” he says, a seriousness in his expression before he instructs me to work through the move on him.
We continue on with the training session, taking turns as to who attacks and who defends. I’m still not landing properly, so I’m really feeling it by the time I get flipped on my back for the tenth time.
“Enough! Enough!” I say, placing my hands on my face in frustration. He’s just too good, and I’m too tired. I’ve only pulled off two successful moves. The rest of the time he’s out manoeuvred me. I’ve simply had enough.
He holds his hand out to me, pulling my arm to help me up.
“We’ll do this again tomorrow,” he informs me, breathing steadily, despite our vigorous workout.
“What if I don’t want to do this again tomorrow?”
“Then I’ll stand outside your house, honking my horn until you come out.”
“You wouldn’t do that. My dad would kill you.”
“Honestly, I think he’d thank me.”
“For what?”
“Getting you training again.”
“Is that what you’re doing this for? My father’s approval?”
“Not at all. I’m doing this because you’re young,” he says tapping his head, indicating that it’s my mind he feels is young. “You’re inexperienced in the world. You can fight, but you’re too trusting.”
“I am not,” I argue.
“Henrietta. Think about how we met… you’re too trusting.”
“Maybe I’m just good at knowing who to trust. Have you thought about it that way?” I argue, hands on my hips. “Unless of course it’s you I shouldn’t be trusting. In which case, why would I want you to train me? This makes no sense. I don’t want to train. I want to make it one last week at home. Move out and have a life of my own. This is my last year at uni. I just want to have some fun and feel like a regular eighteen year old. I know how to defend myself Damien. I know how to fight. Mos
t girls don’t know anywhere near as much as I do and they go through life just fine.”
“I don’t think you’re like most girls.”
“What does that even mean?” I ask, feeling confused and frustrated by his inability to answer a specific question.
“It means that I will pick you up at six tomorrow, and every day after that.”
“Until when?”
“Until you can beat me.”
“What if that never happens?”
“Then you’re stuck with me. Come on,” he says, picking up his bag and heading toward the door. “I’ll take you home.”
“Jesus Damien. I can walk you know.”
He just looks at me with his eyebrows raised, holding his bag by his side until I concede and follow him.
Once again, he opens the door for me, only this time he is faster than I am, and does my seatbelt again for me.
“Stop it!” I yell, slapping at his arm as he reaches it around me. “I’m not a baby.”
He pauses as the seatbelt clicks in place, keeping his arm around me as he turns to look in my eyes. He’s so close that I can feel his breath and smell the workout mixed with his soap and deodorant on his skin.
Snapping my eyes away, I look down as I speak. “I’m not going to keep training with you,” I tell him defiantly. “Beep your horn all you want. I’m not doing it.”
He breathes in, as if his patience with me is wearing thin and withdraws his arm from around me, walking around the car and entering on his side.
“What’s so bad about training with me?” he asks as he starts the car.
“Why does it matter? Can’t I just say ‘no, I’m not training’ and be done with it?”
“Not if you want me to leave you alone,” he states calmly.
“I quit training because it reminds me of my brother. It’s something we always did together. We would train with dad in the dojo outside our regular classes. Then we’d train together at home. We drove my mum insane with the amount of broken vases we amassed, but we loved it. When all the other siblings hated each other – we still got along; even though he was three years older than me. I don’t want to train with you because I don’t want to be reminded that he’s gone,” I explain as we pull up outside my house.
Drawn Page 4