by J. Saman
I grab a white towel off the small table where several towels are folded into small squares. I wipe my face and arms of the excess rain water and sweat before tossing it in the bin next to the table.
“You ready to work, girl?” the familiar male voice questions from behind me. I spin around to see all six-foot-six of Maddox Sinclair, standing there with his hands on his narrow hips, watching me expectantly. His standard no-bullshit expression firmly affixed.
I like that about him.
He doesn’t waste time with pleasantries.
He calls me girl. It’s not even in a derogatory way. He actually believed calling me woman was more derogatory, and since he refuses to call me Mia, knowing it’s not my real name, he settled on girl.
To say he’s an imposing figure is a mild understatement. His dark brown hair is buzzed close to his head, military style. Deep set, powder-blue eyes say, ‘don’t fuck with me or you may not live to regret it’. The smattering of sweat on his brow suggests he’s already had a busy morning on the mats. He’s wearing a light gray sports tee that hugs his enormous chest and arm muscles, and light blue track shorts.
He doesn’t smile.
He rarely does during these sessions, though he’s pretty much a wiseass otherwise.
He sees my pain with some of his own. And even though I don’t know his wounds, I do know they’re deep and so embedded in him that they’ve become part of his skin. Exactly like mine.
“Most definitely.” I grin, tilting my head at him. “Aren’t I always?” I raise an eyebrow in challenge. My hands fist on my hips, mocking his pose in feigned annoyance.
“Good.” He points over to the other side of the room. “Now get your ass over to these mats and we’ll get started.”
I do as I’m told, because, well, he’s huge and a special forces guy, if I had to guess, though he doesn’t talk about it. You don’t mess with these dudes. You’d think knowing he can beat me into oblivion with his pinky finger would scare me after everything I’ve been through with Niklas, but it doesn’t. I know Maddox would never ever hurt me. Sure, we spar, and he throws me down to the mat, but it’s never hard and it always has a purpose behind it. Something I need to learn or work on. He’s never raised a hand to me in anger.
And it makes me respect him all the more for not treating me with kid gloves.
That trust didn’t come overnight.
I freaked out within the first five minutes of our first session.
It was my fault, I hadn’t been fully upfront with him about my past. That led to an hour-long conversation about what I was looking to get out of our time. Why I was doing it. It meant opening up to him about some things I’d just assumed I’d never speak of again. But I never once saw judgment in his eyes, or pity for that matter.
And it worked. I now trust Maddox and let him direct me in whatever way he sees fit. Simply put, I need him. I need to be fit. I need to be ready. I need to expect the unexpected. Because Niklas does not come with a warning label. He does not typically give me a heads up before he strikes, and he never ever relented because I asked him to.
“I started working the other day,” I tell him, a little embarrassed for some reason. “The two jobs at the hotel,” I add, like he doesn’t know. He got me the freaking jobs. I’m positioned straight in front of him, about six feet away, on one side of the circle that’s constructed out of thick masking tape stuck on the blue mat. It gives me boundaries to work within. A way to keep myself focused.
Fighting is an intimate playground. At least, that’s what Maddox says. I admit, I sort of treat him like my therapist as well as my trainer and friend. And maybe that’s wrong of me. That’s not his role after all. But he lets me talk and hears me out so I’m not about to stop while I’m ahead.
“How’d that go?” he asks in a tone that’s much softer than before, but the hard glint in his eyes remains unchanged. He knows my history, well, as much of it as he needs to know anyway. He knows I was abused and that I fled. Everything else is above his pay grade.
“Um.” I blush and look down, feeling ridiculous and adolescent that my thoughts automatically return to Jake. He’s not someone I should be thinking about. I hate the way his eyes make me feel. Or the way my body reacts to him. “It’s good. Scary. I’m pretty sure I suck at bartending.”
He doesn’t laugh like I expect him to, which make me desperate to read his expression better. There’s no pity or sympathy there, he doesn’t do much of that. Instead, he looks like he’s thinking hard about what I just said, relaxing his hands and his knees a little to a less strained position while he does.
“It’s a learning curve, right? Like with any new job, you need to learn the ropes. Give it a chance and try to stay positive. The Bistro you’ll pick up, because Julien runs that place like a military drill sergeant. Valeria’s is different. Diamond, am I right?”
I laugh and shrug. “She was rough. I guess some Kippa girl didn’t show and she couldn’t train me so…” I turn and look away, unsure why I’m hesitant to tell him about Jake. Maybe because I’m afraid I’ll blush if I talk about him. I certainly haven’t told Maddox how Jake found me broken down on the side of the road in the middle of nowhere.
“So, someone else did? Who?”
I shrug. “Jake,” I say, my eyes still fixed on the rain beyond the south-facing window. “I don’t know his last name.”
He’s silent at this, which of course prompts me to look back over at him. He’s rubbing his smooth jaw absently like he’s thinking seriously about this, a small smirk on his face. “Jake’s a good guy,” is all he says. “Just stick it out. Especially at Valeria’s. Learning curve, right? Like any new job,” he repeats, widening his eyes at me like I should acknowledge this as a truth. But his words resonate in my soul, filling me with gut-twisting humiliation. I’ve never had a job before. All I can do is nod, my heart in my throat. Maddox moves his hands out in front of him, waist high. He’s getting into position again.
One foot crosses over the other as he starts to stalk me within the perimeter of the circle, crystalline eyes never leaving mine.
I mimic his position, keeping my eyes trained on his, as I’ve been taught. Never look at the attacker’s feet or hands. They can fool you. Always go with the eyes or upper chest and you’ll anticipate their movements and intentions better. My body poises for attack, leaning forward only slightly as I maintain my center of gravity over my hips. My feet always spaced shoulder-width apart and my hands in front of me in both an offensive and defensive position.
“Try meeting some new people. Make some friends.”
I pause, caught off guard by his words before he snaps his fingers at me, drawing me back to the task at hand.
“I’m not ready for that. And besides,” I snort out derisively. “What would I tell them about myself?”
“Trust has to be earned,” his thick voice says calmly, but full of concentration as we continue our slow dance around the circle. “It’s never a gimme. Look at us. You start slow and build from there.”
Except trust is a fallacy, a word people throw around when it’s convenience and purpose suit them.
I shake off the conversation. It’s counterproductive. I’m doing my best to focus on his movements now, so I shut up and so does he. Friends are not part of my objective. We continue to circle in silence after that, and then, without warning, he launches at me. One punch thrown, which I block by ducking down to the right. I sidestep him, throwing a punch of my own, which he doesn’t block, hitting him squarely in the flank. It’s not a hard punch and I’m sure it doesn’t hurt him, but it still feels good. We’re not using pads or gloves at the moment, so our hits are meant to show contact and movement rather than force.
That comes later in the session.
Much of what we do is building my confidence. You can never really be prepared if someone attacks you. Especially if they’re much larger than you are, which Niklas is. He’s a bruiser of a guy. The man lives in our personal gym. None of
that matters, though, the confidence in being able to defend yourself is a powerful weapon. I may not be able to win the fight, but I may be able to do enough to distract him or partially disable him, which would allow me to get away.
And in the deepest, darkest, recesses of my mind, the thought of hitting Niklas back, of actually inflicting pain, gets me going. If he comes after me again, I will destroy his world the way he destroyed mine.
Maddox doesn’t wait, he comes at me again. A one-two punch combo that does hit me, pushing me back down onto the mat, right on my ass with a loud slap.
“Crap,” I mutter, slamming my hand onto the hard material before jumping back up to go again.
“Don’t get frustrated, girl. This is only your fourth lesson. You’re doing remarkably well,” he encourages as we circle again, this time only a few feet apart.
“I can’t help it.” My eyes narrow, disappointment, and maybe some anger, lurking beneath the surface. “I want to be able to kick your ass.”
I’m not even joking. I really do. Never in my wildest dreams do I ever expect to, though. It’s like a kitten going after a Pitbull. Pathetic and unrealistic. But still, the dream is there, and kittens are notoriously feisty and relentless.
He gives a half grin, which is the most I’ve ever seen cross his lips while we train. Probably because I said ass and I don’t cuss. Except in my head. “A lady never cusses,” my mother always said. It’s a difficult lesson to unlearn.
“Believe me, soon enough, you’ll be able to. Now, bring it before I knock your ass down again.”
And I do. I go after him with everything I have. I throw punches and kicks and elbow shots. I spin and twist and block and duck. I land a few, he lands more.
We spar like this, on and off, for more than twenty minutes. By the time we stop, I’m dripping sweat all over and panting for my life. The adrenaline coursing through my veins is a heady rush. A fucking high I’m quickly becoming addicted to. So gloriously different than the adrenaline that comes from fear.
I guzzle down water from the reusable bottle I leave here. I’m so thirsty I finish half of it before he’s even had a few sips of his. Water runs down my chin, dripping onto my sweat-soaked sports tank.
“I’m loving the contact you’re making with your strikes,” he says, standing in front of me, once again making me feel like that kitten. Mostly because I don’t agree with him. He went easy on me. I know this. He knows this. “They’re strong and have good power behind them. Your kicks are another story.” I peer over at him in dismay, wiping the excess water from my mouth with the back of my hand. “Those are much harder to become comfortable with. Much more so than punching. Kicks can set you off balance and make you feel vulnerable if done incorrectly, so I get it.” He holds up a hand to stop me before I can argue. “We’ll work on it and make you into a fucking machine. Don’t you worry about that.”
A reluctant smile tries to break out, before it falls just as fast. I turn to face him head on, staring him directly in the eyes. “I need to be formidable as soon as possible, Maddox. I need you to work me hard. I’m not messing around with this.”
He takes three large steps in my direction. Each of his steps probably equaling two of mine, at least. His index finger reaches out, pressing into the underside of my chin and instinctively, I jolt back from him. He doesn’t shy away, tilting my face up to his, before it pulls away just as fast. He knows I don’t like being touched. Yet he pushes my boundaries with it. Like riding a horse without any reins, I have no way to steer. No direction I can maneuver. I’m at his mercy and he knows it.
“Do you really believe he’s coming to find you?” His voice is cautious, but his eyes are telling me he needs a real answer here. Not for himself. I don’t get the impression that Maddox Sinclair is afraid of much. Even Niklas isn’t stupid enough to take on this man.
I draw in a deep breath and release it slowly, before nodding. “If he figures out where I am, I know for a fact he’ll come after me.” I don’t shrink away from him, I stand here and let him make of that what he will. He needs to know this, but more importantly, I need to face it. Two weeks of nothing in the desert oasis that serves as the perfect playpen for escapism will not make me complacent.
Niklas won’t send someone. It will be him and it will be me and it will be blunt force trauma.
His eyebrows knit together, making his forehead crinkle. Blue eyes dance around my face, then over towards the glass door for a beat before returning to mine. “I will do everything in my power to get you comfortable and ready to attack. I can promise you that…” He trails off like he’s not sure if he should continue. I can feel the but lingering on his lips, so I nod my head and widen my eyes, encouraging him to continue. When he finally does speak, his voice is bothered, like he doesn’t relish the words he’s about to utter. “Has he ever come after you with a gun before?”
I shake my head immediately. “No. Never. He’s more of a fists and kicks guy. Plus,” I pause here, glancing back down at my feet, feeling the color rise up my cheeks. My fingers knot and I don’t know how to say this to someone I hardly know. Sucking in a deep breath, I release it and say, “He doesn’t want me dead. He wants me very much alive.” Because I’m worth more alive than dead, I don’t add.
“Despite that, you need more than this if you believe him coming after you is a real possibility.”
I raise my eyebrows surprised by his candor. “What does that mean?”
Another step to me. All six-six of him staring down at me, but it’s not fear or intimidation he’s imposing on me, it’s a possessive protection instead. Like a brother protecting a sister. “It means if I were you, I’d buy a gun and join the gun club. I’d learn how to shoot that thing like a motherfucker. I’d also carry pepper spray on me at all times.” I open my mouth to speak, but he holds up his hand stopping me. “Physical fighting is one thing, and you may be tall, but you don’t weigh much. You’re what…” His eyes trail down my body, but not in a creepy way. He’s sizing me up. “a hundred-and-twenty pounds?”
“About that, yes.” I’ve lost weight since moving to Las Vegas. Not intentionally, but irregular meals are what they are.
“You can punch and kick him, and it will help. Believe me, it will help. I’ll teach you how to incapacitate an assailant, but, Mia...” He pauses, stressing my fake name, directing my attention entirely to him, ensuring I’m absorbing his words. “Sometimes you need more in order to save your life. He might not be out to kill you, and I would never tell you to kill another human being, but you might have to, if you get what I’m saying.”
My head snaps away from his penetrating gaze. Unable to hold it, I seek refuge in the large windows. My arms wrap around my chest protectively. The dark, gloomy sky mirrors my insides. I think about this for a moment, and Maddox remains quiet as I mull over his words. “I’ve never even held a gun before,” I admit quietly, unable to draw my eyes away from the window.
“If you’re not comfortable with that, I get it.” He pauses again. I know he won’t offer to teach me to shoot, though I wonder if that’s what was lingering there before he stopped speaking. “But I think the pepper spray is a must.”
“Okay,” I whisper. Any confidence I had feels like it’s now in the bottom of my feet.
“I didn’t tell you this so you’d get discouraged. I will make you into a fighter, I promise.” I finally turn back to him and the intensity in his expression makes my breath catch. “I will make it so you’ll know how to hurt him or any asshole who tries to fuck with you. But hurt is not dead, and sometimes the latter is the only way you come out alive. I just want you to be fully protected.”
I swallow hard, before clearing my throat of the lump that’s sitting in it. “Thanks, Maddox. I can’t express what that means to me.”
“Good.” He smirks. “Then don’t. I fucking hate praise.” I smile so big I’m sure all my teeth are showing. “Now, let’s get some pads on and see what we can do. You hit me like a fart in the wind.”
Nice. Very nice. Men, right?
He marches off, no doubt in the direction of the equipment he has lined up against the far wall, but I take an extra second to collect myself. I was just given way too much information that requires some processing and a lot more thought.
Maddox is right.
And even though I was not raised as a gun-toting girl, it might be time for that to change.
Chapter Eight
The restaurant, lounge, and bar areas are all packed to the brim, stocked full of weekend travelers, business people extending their stay and even some locals. It’s midnight, but all that means is things are just getting started. The club downstairs has a new DJ tonight and I’ve already heard from four people here that they’re planning on checking it out after dinner.
I gave them a one-free-admission card. That means that they have to pay the entrance fee for anyone else, but it also ensures they’re more likely to go than they might have been before. In addition to getting more bodies in the door, it builds goodwill with customers. Freebies make people happy. People are more inclined to buy other things if they get something for free.
Economics 101.
I’m not waiting tables tonight, so I have no idea how people are enjoying the food. I could ask the wait staff what people are saying, but in truth, very few people know my deal. The upper managers, sure, they know. The general staff? No. Because that leads to a whole other world I’d rather not explore. Especially with the catfishers.
Mia came in tonight looking as beautiful as ever. Red lips. Skintight black mini dress. Long, dark hair flowing. She gave me a cursory glance and that was it. She went right to work and she’s a fast learner. The customers love her. The men want to fuck her.
She’s quick on the register and if I had to guess, I’d say she knows about seventy percent of our signature cocktails already.