Ninja At First Sight

by Penny Reid

  “There’s a bunch of those vampire role players at the south end, but as long as we keep to this side we should be fine.” He rubbed his hands together.

  “Vampire role players?” I wrinkled my nose, confused by his words. “What are you talking about?”

  “You know, those kids who dress up like vampires, they elect a king, they have court—very serious business.”

  “How many are there?”

  “Fifty or so.”

  “Fifty? Do they bite each other?” Now I was curious.

  “How should I know? Do I look like a vampire?”

  I stretched my arm behind my head, narrowing my eyes on him. “Are you pulling my leg?”

  “No. After you do your backflip we’ll go take a look. Learn all their vampy secrets.” He wagged his eyebrows. “Like, how do they shave with no mirrors, and how do they get blood stains out of bedclothes.”

  I turned away from him, shaking my head. “Okay, how many flips do you want to see?”

  He took a step forward and stood at my shoulder. “How many can you do?”

  “I don’t know,” I answered honestly, “I’ve never tried to see how many I can do in a row.”

  “Okay, three?”

  “Sure.”

  I turned, pushed off with my legs, and did three backflips in quick succession, bouncing on my feet twice at the end of my short demonstration.

  “Bloody hell!” he said, his mouth open, staring at me like I had super powers. “What else can you do?”

  I smiled at his astonishment, proceeded to do a handstand, held it for a beat, and then walked on my hands, my body a stiff, straight line, my bare feet pointed.

  “You’re like a ninja! My girlfriend is a ninja!”

  I tried not to laugh as it would interfere with my balance, or think too much about his use of the word girlfriend, but then succumbed to it, ending my walking handstand with a cartwheel.

  Greg peeled off his sweatshirt, leaving him in a black Run DMC band t-shirt, and tried to do a handstand. It wasn’t bad, but his height worked against him. His shirt fell to his chest and he wobbled, his long legs wavering in the air. I walked over to him and unthinkingly placed my hands on his bare stomach and back, helping him find his center of gravity.

  “Point your toes, and imagine that you’re a pole, perfectly straight.” I was impressed I was able to keep my touch disinterested, though I longed to trace and explore his skin.

  “I’m a pole, I’m a pole,” he chanted. “I’m a pole… I wish someone would dance on me.”

  I snorted again, stifling my giggles by clamping my mouth shut. After a few more seconds, he fell inelegantly to the side, grinning at me from his spot on the floor.

  “You make it look easy,” he said, making no attempt to disguise the wonder in his eyes or voice.

  I liked the way he was looking at me, like I was special. I’d never been one for showing off. Competition was about skill and art, merit and talent, not about ego or unnecessary grandiose displays. But, strangely, I wanted to show off for Greg. I wanted to strut.

  “You want to see something neat?” I asked, already crossing the lobby. The ceiling of the room was slanted, giving the room a breezy, open feel. At its shortest side, the walls were twelve feet; at its tallest they were at least twenty.

  “Something else? You mean there’s more?” He made no move to stand up, just watched me with wide eyes as I stood in the corner where the wall was tallest.

  “I can touch the ceiling.” I grinned at him.

  His squinty eyes told me he didn’t believe me. “With what?”

  “What will you give me if I can touch the ceiling, with my hand?”

  “I’ll give you a big, fat diamond ring.”

  I rolled my eyes, doubting this promise for obvious reasons, and said, “Deal.”

  I turned, braced my hands on either side of the corner, and jumped. I then proceeded to climb the smooth surface, bracing my hands, knees, and bare feet against the walls.

  When I was halfway to the top, Greg called, “Okay, point made. Come down.”

  “I’m almost there, I can do it.”

  “I believe you. Come down.” I could tell from the direction of his voice he was directly beneath me. I could also hear a new edge in his tone, a mixture of anxiety and irritation.

  I ignored him, because I could do it, and instead methodically climbed the last five feet, touched the ceiling, then carefully began my descent. When I was eight or so feet from the ground, I felt large hands close around my waist and pull me from the corner. My arms—which weren’t all that tired—automatically wrapped around Greg’s neck as I turned my smiling face towards his.

  He was not smiling.

  I caught a glimpse of his austere frown as he set my feet on the ground, right before he wrapped his fingers around my jaw and neck and brought his mouth to mine. Unlike our previous kisses, this kiss wasn’t patient; no prelude, or gentle nipping, or teasing. He was rough and unrelenting, using his teeth in ways I wouldn’t have expected, but which caused an increase in both my body temperature and blood pressure.

  Basically, he backed me into the corner, kissed the hell out of me, and made me hot and agitated.

  And when he lifted his head, sucking and biting my bottom lip, I was left gasping for air. I could climb a wall without breaking a sweat, but after being kissed by Greg Archer I felt like I’d sprinted a mile.

  “I want to say and do dirty things to you.” His voice was heavenly sinful, growly and demanding. Greg’s hands were still at my neck, his thumbs now pressing against my collar bone. “But I also want-”

  “What kinds of dirty things?” I asked breathlessly, realizing I’d gripped his t-shirt in tight fists. My heart skipped a beat, urgency in my veins, and my under-used imagination took this idea of dirty things and ran with it. “Be specific.”

  Greg huffed a small laugh, staring at me with heavy-lidded eyes. “You didn’t let me finish. I was going to say, but I also want to bind you in bubble wrap, lock you away, and keep you safe.”

  That sounded immeasurably less fun than the dirty things.

  I swallowed, about to voice this thought, but he interrupted me with another kiss.

  This was the kind of kiss I’d grown to expect. A lingering, sweet kiss; one with extreme consideration, every movement and shift precious, as though he were committing them and me to memory. He breathed me in, his chest pressing against mine, and I melted.

  It was lovely. He was lovely. But I still wanted to ask him about the dirty things. I wanted him to elaborate, in great detail, perhaps with some hands-on demonstrations. The farthest my imagination had got was us naked, standing like this… and then it didn’t know what to think next. I had no experience with the kinds of dirty things he was referring to, but I was pretty sure they would be fun.

  And yet… the idea of these unknown dirty things were also kind of scary, too.

  Maybe he sensed my restlessness, because he retreated an inch and whispered against my mouth, “Fiona.”

  “Yes?” I didn’t open my eyes, but I did hold my breath.

  His fingers moved to my shoulders, down my arms, and gathered my hands in his. I opened my eyes as he brought my knuckles to his lips and turned my hand.

  Greg placed a soft kiss on the inside of my palm, saying, “We have forever, Darling. No need to climb the walls.”

  ***

  Maddie, the very sweet redhead on my floor, was one of the vampire role players. We spied her among the group after I finished my acrobatics and I’d recovered from Greg’s kisses.

  Well… recovered enough to walk in a straight line. I didn’t think I’d ever truly recover.

  We didn’t lurk for an extended period of time, just long enough for me to assuage my curiosity and spot her sitting with a tall, blond guy. He was dressed in all black, and wore a cape. She was dressed in all black, and wore a mask.

  But I was 99% sure it was Maddie because of her distinctive hair.

  Vampire role-
playing, or any real-life role playing, was a new concept for me and I found I was voraciously curious about it. So much so that when I spotted Maddie in the kitchen a week later, washing her dishes, I marched up to her and said, “I need to talk to you,” in a way that sounded entirely too demanding.

  Her eyes widened, her expression the perfect caricature of a deer caught in headlights.

  When I saw I’d startled her, and maybe also worried her, I softened my tone and gave her a sheepish smile. “Sorry, I mean, if you have a minute, I’d like to ask you about something.”

  She visibly relaxed, releasing a nervous sounding chuckle. “You startled me for a minute, Fiona. I was like, Oh shit! What did I do? You’re kind of scary.”

  I laughed and winced. I hadn’t been called scary in years. When I was a competitor, my teammates said I could be scary, something about my game-face and demeanor must’ve screamed don’t fuck with me. It wasn’t purposeful, just a side effect of intense concentration.

  “Do you have a minute?” I ensured my tone was gentle.

  “Yes. Certainly. Go ahead.”

  I grabbed a towel and picked up her saucepan, drying it as I studied her. “So, last week, I was in the lobby in the early morning and think I saw you at the south end.”

  Maddie dropped the serving spoon she was washing; it hit the metal sink with a clatter and her eyes cut to mine. “Umm…”

  “Or I saw someone who looked like you. Maybe it was someone else.” It wasn’t someone else, but I wanted to give her an out if this conversation made her uncomfortable.

  Neither of us said anything for a long moment. She picked up her spoon, continued washing it, giving me side eye every few seconds.

  When it was the cleanest spoon in the history of spoons, she asked haltingly, “What did you see?”

  “You were—or the girl I thought was you was—sitting next to a guy in a black cape, talking. A bunch of other people, all dressed in black, were clustered in either pairs or small groups. Then there was this guy in a red cape who was sitting on a chair that looked like a throne.”

  I watched her chest rise and fall, her eyes stared forward like she was remembering something, or deep in thought. “What do you want to know?”

  “Nothing specifically, I guess. I’m just curious.”

  Her gaze connected with mine and she searched my face. “Just curious?”

  “That’s right.”

  “No one put you up to this?”

  “Put me up to this? What do you mean?”

  “You’re not making fun of me?”

  “Why would I make fun of you?”

  “Because dressing up like a vampire and pretending to be one is weird.”

  I stared at her for a beat, then said, “And hiding in your dorm room for the entire first semester of your freshman year is weird. And never seeing live TV or eating macaroni and cheese before the age of eighteen is also weird. So what? Everyone is weird.”

  The lines around her mouth and eyes softened. “You never had macaroni and cheese before going to college?”

  “Never. Or hotdogs. Or fried chicken.”

  “Okay, that is weird,” she laughed.

  I laughed, too, glad the tension had been broken. “I’m curious. Truly, that’s it. Greg said you all were doing vampire role-playing, and I-”

  She cut me off with a strained sounding whisper. “What? Greg? Greg Archer? Greg knows?”

  I placed my hand on her arm and squeezed; Fern did this to people when they became irrational. She said touching people was a good way to anchor them to the present and pull them out of their own head.

  “Calm down. He and I were in the center lobby. We weren’t spying, just checking to see if anyone else was around.”

  “He probably thinks I’m a freak.” Maddie covered her face with her hands, then seemed to remember they were wet. She pulled the towel from my grip and dried her face off.

  I decided to say, “I doubt he thinks you’re a freak.” Rather than, I doubt he noticed you or I doubt he knows who you are. Based on her dreamy expression a few weeks ago, when she’d discovered Greg and Vanessa had split, and her reaction now, I figured neither of those statements would ease her discomfort.

  Maddie eyeballed me, her lips pinched together. Meanwhile I tried to give her an encouraging smile. I was pleased to see her relax by degrees, but felt a spike of something unpleasant when she shook off my hand.

  “What were you and Greg doing in the lobby?”

  I opened my mouth to respond with the truth, that I was demonstrating backflips and handstands, but something about her tone made me pause. I remembered Fern’s earlier warning, about other girls.

  So I lied. “I had a chemistry test last week. We went to the lobby to study so we wouldn’t wake anyone up.”

  Maddie lifted a single eyebrow. “That’s not what Gail said.”

  I stiffened, instinctively taking a full step away. Before I could form a response, Maddie crossed her arms over her chest and challenged, “No offense, but what are you thinking?”

  “What do you mean?” My stomach felt abruptly sour, but I managed to school my expression.

  “With a guy like Greg, every girl, every woman out there is your competition. He’s insane levels of handsome—I mean, he’s fucking hot as sin, and that accent—plus he’s wicked smart, he used to be in the Marines for Christ’s sake. He’s every girl’s wet dream. Do you really think it’s a good idea to have Greg Archer be your first boyfriend?”

  “Who said he was-”

  “Dara told me he’s always over since he split with Vanessa. And she said you’ve never had a boyfriend, and that you’re really inexperienced.” Maddie’s voice held concern and sympathy, and her eyes were loaded with pity. “Do you really think you’ll be able to keep his interest? When every girl out there is going to be trying to steal him from you? You’re dooming yourself to heartbreak.”

  I stalled by pulling my eyes away and inspecting Maddie’s dishes. I realized she thought she was doing a nice thing. She thought she was warning me to be careful with my heart. I should have thanked her for the concern and politely excused myself.

  I should have.

  But I didn’t.

  Because one thing being around Greg had taught me about myself was I enjoyed debating with people, especially when people are wrong.

  So I said, “Your logic is flawed.”

  She snorted, turning her attention back to the sink and her very clean serving spoon. “Really? How so?”

  “First of all, you’re assuming women—or most women—intend to steal men from other women. You paint a very unflattering picture of women—sneaky, underhanded, selfish—and I don’t think that’s the case. I don’t think most women behave that way or have those thoughts. Most women are not conniving.”

  Her gaze flickered to mine then back to her spoon. “Isn’t that what you did to Vanessa?”

  I shook my head and said, “No. I didn’t.” And I refused to dignify her statement with any additional explanation. Instead I continued, “And the other part of your logic that isn’t accurate is your assessment of Greg. Greg is a person, not a spoon, or a saucepan, or a tea cup. He can’t be stolen. Men aren’t stolen. They’re responsible for their own actions and decisions—staying with a woman is a decision. Straying or leaving is a decision. You make it sound like men are mindless, powerless to temptation.”

  She snorted. “In my experience, they are.”

  “Then you’ve known only weak men. And weak men deserve conniving women.”

  Maddie didn’t look at me, but everything about her demeanor—the unhappy curve to her mouth, the prideful tilt of her chin, the jerky movements of her hands—told me I’d struck a nerve. I stared at her profile, waiting for her to respond. She didn’t. Instead the silence grew awkward and unwieldy.

  So I sighed, because I was sad. I’d liked Maddie, I still did, and I’d hoped we could be friends. But now I doubted it was possible. I pulled my fingers through my short hair and w
alked around her, realizing there was nothing more to say.

  I was halfway to the door when she asked, “Are you going to tell everyone about me? About… what you saw?”

  I turned and shook my head. “No.”

  “Then why were you pumping me for information?”

  “Was I? I thought I was just asking you a question.”

  “Please.” She rolled her eyes. “Stop with the innocent act. No one believes it.”

  I shrugged, recognizing the futility of my words before they were spoken, but needing to say them regardless. “I don’t gossip, Maddie. If I want information, I go to the source. I’m not interested in rumors, only the truth.”

  ***

  Greg found me that evening curled up on my bed, staring out the window. I didn’t give much credence to Maddie’s claims—about Greg being lured away from my pathetic and inexperienced arms. I reasoned I wasn’t interested in being with someone who could be stolen. Yet, a bitter kind of melancholy settled over my head and heart, making me crave the comfort of my pillow and covers.

  “Are you sick?”

  I turned at the sound of his voice, the familiar and lovely tight airiness in my chest making me sigh. He filled the doorway, his hands braced against the outside of the frame as his eyes moved over me, shaded with concern and affection.

  “No.” My lips tugged to the side and I reached my hand out to him. “I’m not sick. Will you lay with me?”

  “I thought you’d never ask.” He launched himself into the room, toeing off his shoes, and laid next to me on top of the covers.

  “You can get under—under the covers—if you want. It’s warmer.”

  “I’ll bet it is.” He kissed my nose as I turned completely around to face him, then leaned away, studying me and not taking me up on my under-the-covers offer. “What’s wrong? Something is wrong.”

  I stared at him for a beat, then shrugged and answered honestly, “I think I’m lonely.”

  He cupped my cheek. “Lonely? Have I been neglecting you?”

  I grinned at Greg’s stricken expression and covered his hand with my palm. “No. Not at all. I see you every day. How could you be neglecting me?”