“I could do more,” she said aloud, to herself or no one in particular since she was alone, but decided on a quick shower instead.
When she got out, an unfamiliar electronic guitar riff called her attention, and she tracked it down to her new phone on the bedside table. There was a message from Eamonn: I’m downstairs, forgot the front door would lock me out.
Press #32 on the intercom and I’ll buzz you in, she texted back, and by the time he was knocking at her apartment door, she’d figured out how to change the alert sound on the phone.
“I’m guessing you found the Coffee Witch?” she asked as he came in with a paper bag balanced atop a drinks tray. The Coffee Witch Café was the nearest source of caffeine, two blocks away, and she couldn’t imagine he’d walk farther.
“Nice place. They, ah, had more than one kind of chai, so… I picked the marzipan chai for you. That okay?” He lowered everything onto the kitchen table, set the paper bag aside, extracted one to-go cup from the tray and handed it to her.
My favorite. “Perfect, thanks.”
And then he held out another cup, clear plastic and full of something that looked like a sunrise, red at the bottom swirling up to orange at the top. “Yesterday, I promised you a better breakfast than doughnuts. The Coffee Witch barista said these smoothies are popular and have protein and antioxidants and stuff, so…”
Nell couldn’t stop a wide smile from spreading across her face. “How did you read my mind? I love these!” A marzipan chai latte in one hand and a tropical dawn smoothie in the other was essentially her definition of a perfect morning. Maybe this relationship thing is okay.
“There are scones in the bag too, if you want one.” He laughed, with a self-deprecating twist to his mouth. “The smoothie is… surprisingly good, and the coffee is fantastic, but I just can’t get through the morning without something solid.”
“Maybe later. I’ve got all I need for now — thank you!” And before she’d thought it through or even made a conscious decision, she closed the gap between them and planted an appreciative kiss on his cheek. It wasn’t a sexy kiss, though the chemistry between them seemed to be always simmering and ready to flare up; no, the tender brush of her lips against his skin and the soft prickle of hair on his jaw felt unexpectedly, purely, and almost unbearably romantic.
A pleased flush spread over his face, and his eyes seemed brighter and more intensely blue than ever as he looked down at her with a bemused smile. “I like making you happy, Nella-bella.”
What happened to the cocky pool player from the Frog and Ball? It was as though she’d peeled an onion and discovered a mango inside — pleasant, but disconcerting. “People catch feelings from oral sex,” she blurted out, turning away from him to go sit on the couch. “It doesn’t mean anything.”
“I already caught feelings for you a while back, so don’t worry, nothing’s changed.” As he flopped down next to her, his wry grin told her that he didn’t much like that she’d said it doesn’t mean anything. “Or were you talking about yourself?”
I don’t know. Nell shook her head. “I’ve got too much on my mind right now. I’ve got to send out resumes, find a job. I’ve got to talk to Master Simran about picking up more teaching hours, and I should call the MMA gym to see if I can put my membership there on hold until I’m working again. I—”
He stopped her with a gentle finger touching her lower lip. “It’s okay. I’ll head out and let you get stuff done. What’re you doing tonight?”
“I’ve got a self-defense class at five, then I’m teaching until eight.”
“I’ll pick you up after.” He stood up. “Same place as your sparring class, right?”
She nodded, and when he leaned down to kiss her, she tilted her head up for him, parting her lips for his tongue as the heat between them flared up immediately. So good. She found herself standing, swept up into his arms, both of them trying to get more of each other.
“If you didn’t have stuff to do, babe, I’d take you back to bed and keep you there all day,” he said, his lips next to her ear as he licked and kissed her neck and earlobe. “But I know you’ll feel better once you’ve checked some things off your list, so I can wait.” And with a final nip at her lower lip and then one last kiss on her forehead, like a blessing, he released her and walked to the door. “I’d really like to stay. But I’ll see you tonight.” And he was gone.
She sat back down, biting her lip. Well.
Long minutes later, she could still feel the phantom imprint of his kiss on her forehead. His self-control and the consideration he showed for her needs and day were definitely a turn-on, to the point of distraction.
She worked her way through the dozen job applications she’d started, adding her new phone number and submitting them. Then she found another three possibilities and applied for them too, even though one was a long shot and one wanted qualifications that she didn’t quite meet. Can’t hurt to try. But she kept thinking about Eamonn.
Every time she looked at the time display on her tablet or phone, more time had passed than she’d expected.
In the end, Nell was nearly late for her self-defense class at the dojang. She had to rush through getting changed — nearly everyone was already out on the mats, stretching — and was still in the process of tying her hair back as she left the changing room, just as they were called to line up.
“Where’ve you been, Whelan?” someone whispered from the row behind her. “You’re usually the first one here.” Fortunately, good discipline didn’t allow for talking during bow-in, so Nell could justifiably ignore the question.
The class was not a particularly successful one for her. Because she hadn’t stretched, she felt tight and unprepared, and while doing shoulder rolls at one of the warm-up stations she pulled something in her lower back — nothing major, but it was enough to give her stabbing twinges of discomfort as she kept on with the class. She took an accidental elbow to the jaw as they practiced countering chokes, hard enough that it would probably develop into a pretty bruise. Just what I need for job interviews. But some training sessions went that way; there would always be low points to go with the high points.
“Where’s Master Simran, sir?” she asked Mr. Kahn during the short break between self-defense and the next class. Usually, the dojang owner was around, in and out of the office, even if he wasn’t teaching.
“He and Mr. Price have gone to an instructors conference in Hawai‘i, remember?” Mr. Kahn said. “So I’m in charge ’til they get back next week — Acting Chief Instructor, that’s me!”
Crap. Once he’d mentioned it, she remembered some discussion of the conference in their instructors’ meeting at the beginning of the month. She hadn’t paid attention to the dates since it didn’t directly affect her. “Right. Well, I’m available if you need any classes covered. I was going to ask Master Simran about picking up some extra hours.”
“I think we’re good, but I’ll keep that in mind.” Mr. Kahn finger-combed his hair into place and gave his belt a tug to tighten the knot. “We’d better get this class started. Could you line them up, Miss Whalen?”
“Yes, sir.”
As Mr. Kahn led the warm-up, Nell glanced at the class planner, noticing that she’d been given the intermediate color belt group in the children’s class and then the junior color belts in the teen class. It’s just as well I wasn’t given any senior belts tonight, she told herself. Her back ached, and it wouldn’t have been fun to demonstrate hook kicks or jump round kicks like that. But powering through discomfort was a point of pride with her.
During the break between classes, she snuck an extra-strength ibuprofen caplet from the little first aid kit in her bag, making sure none of the other instructors saw. She’d been late, she hadn’t stretched, and a pulled muscle was a natural consequence, but being teased for it by Riley Kahn or any of the others would not make her day any better, and concern or advice would be much worse.
The next class was
often not an easy one, with teens who could bring a lot of energy to the dojang and didn’t always channel it in productive ways. It was best to keep them busy.
Halfway through the class, she glanced over at the door, and there was Eamonn — a bit early to pick her up. Early is good. Did he want to watch her teaching, then, or was he just impatient to see her? Either of those things could be positive if she let herself feel optimistic. She saw Mr. Kahn notice and nod a greeting in Eamonn’s direction, or maybe it was a nod of approval.
She could feel a smile spreading across her face, and quickly turned it on her students. “You’ve been working super hard this cycle, and I see most of you have got all three stripes on your belts, so we’re going to break some boards today!”
The immediate “yes, ma’am” response, disciplined and enthusiastic, was gratifying. Today she could show Eamonn the admirable, socially acceptable side of martial arts — working with young people, inspiring them to find their confidence and personal victories. Board breaks were an excellent way to do that.
After she’d checked their technique on a target to make sure they were doing their front kicks correctly and safely, she explained the rotation — bow to the instructor and ask permission, break the board, then take a turn holding it with her for the next student. She could have asked for a couple of students from the senior belt group to come over and hold the board, but it was good training for the juniors to learn how to hold as well as break. The intermediate group was sparring, and some of her students’ eyes were focused there instead of on her and the boards, so she called them to attention and reminded them that it didn’t matter what the other groups were up to; even a white belt should be demonstrating black belt focus and self-control. She herself would not look over to see what the sparring group was up to, even if they did sound rambunctious and the thumps of hard contact suggested they were a bit out of control. Not my group. Not my place to interfere.
She took a solid stance and coached the young woman holding the board with her on how to get into position and lock up. She prompted the first breaker, who’d forgotten what to say when requesting permission to break. The impact of the unsuccessful kick against the board made her back protest, but she kept her encouraging-instructor expression at full glow. “Don’t worry, we’ll just reset the board — say ‘second attempt, ma’am’ — and you’ll have it this time if you use your hips.” This time he was successful, so he came to hold the board with her for the next student.
As they locked up for the next student’s kick, there was a shout from the sparring group behind her, more hard contact thumps and heavy feet. A rush of air at her back was her only warning, and she half-turned her head, but she had no chance to disengage with the board or the kid holding it as a pair of big boys crashed into them, limbs swinging, and an elbow connected with her head.
Nell! That had been Eamonn’s voice she’d heard, hadn’t it? But she was lying on her back looking at the ceiling of the dojang, and Mr. Kahn was kneeling over her, telling her to focus on his finger as he moved it back and forth. At the edge of her peripheral vision, two figures in sparring gear hovered, offering anxious apologies and concern.
“I’m fine. Let me get up.” She tried to sit, but Mr. Kahn stopped her with a gentle hand on her shoulder.
“Nell, you were hit pretty hard. Just lie still a moment. You could have a concussion.”
He called me Nell, even though we’re in uniform. That seemed wrong. They could call each other Riley and Nell outside of class, in street clothes, but of all the instructors and masters she knew, he adhered most to the formality of titles within the dojang and in uniform. He’s worried.
Her head throbbed. “I’m good, sir,” she said. “I’m not concussed. I’ve been hit harder in the ring. Just let me get a drink of water and I’ll go back to my students.”
Mr. Kahn snorted with grudging amusement but helped her get to her feet and ushered her toward a chair that one of the leadership students brought over. “I know how you feel, Miss Whalen, but you’re sitting out for a week, and—”
“I can’t! I need the hours, sir.” Her voice wobbled with horror and frustration.
He shook his head slowly, his eyes sympathetic but the set of his mouth unyielding. “Sorry. If Master Simran were here, I might look the other way and let you make the call for yourself, but… I’m responsible for the dojang right now. I’m responsible for you. Don’t fight me on this, all right?”
Years of ingrained respect for senior belts and the martial arts hierarchy, years of discipline and self-control, forced her to choke out “yes, sir” when she wanted to scream and rage and even beg. This isn’t how it’s supposed to go…
“I think your dude wants to come see that you’re okay.” Mr. Kahn tilted his head toward the guest seating area where Eamonn stood with his arms crossed, tapping a foot in a twitchy rhythm — not hovering, exactly, but definitely on alert while still trying to appear cool. “Will you let him take you to Urgent Care? Or at least keep an eye on you overnight?”
Nell huffed out a disbelieving breath. “I don’t need to be taken care of, sir.”
“All right.” His raised eyebrows said he doubted that, but she couldn’t very well argue with eyebrows. “Go take care of yourself, then. I’ll see you next week.”
“Yes, sir.” That came out sounding more defeated than she’d have liked, and she automatically raised her chin and straightened her shoulders, triggering various twinges of discomfort. He gave her an encouraging pat on the shoulder before walking away — back to students, back to training, back to everything she’d be missing. At least he had the sense not to go talking to Eamonn about her care or anything.
She got up from the chair and dragged it over to the audience seating area, placing it back on the end of the row it had been taken from. Only then did she acknowledge Eamonn, turning to him with a sigh, saying, “Well, that wasn’t me at my best tonight.”
“You are absolutely the toughest woman I’ve ever met,” he said, shaking his head. “And I’ve spent my whole life around groupies and roadies and rockers, so that’s saying a lot.”
“Thanks,” she muttered. That doesn’t scare you off? She put on her shoes and picked up her gear bag. “I can change at home. Let’s go.”
“Can I carry your bag?” he offered.
“No.”
“Of course not,” he said. But he held the door for her as they left, and when they reached his truck, he tossed her bag into the back for her, and opened the passenger door for her too, giving her an arm to lean on as she climbed in.
“I’m fine,” she said firmly, even as she appreciated his steady arm and the comfortable ride home. “I don’t have a freaking concussion. I don’t need to be babied.”
He stood at the open door of his truck, leaning on the frame, regarding her with a bit of concern. “Ninja woman, it was a hard hit. I believe you when you say you don’t have a concussion — I figure you’d know, right? — but it’s still okay to be hurting, to need a little care.” He gave her thigh an encouraging pat, his big hand lingering just enough that she knew it could easily become a caress if she encouraged him at all.
“Yeah. Well, I don’t want to go get my head looked at, but you can stay the night with me if you like.”
“You want to come to my place instead? I’ve got ice packs, and a really comfy bed, and a clean t-shirt you can sleep in.”
It is a really comfy bed. The thought of his silky high-thread-count sheets and fluffy pillows called to her. Nicer than mine. “Sure.”
He closed her door and strode around to the driver’s side. Straight back, confident, not even scared off by seeing her take a hard hit.
Everything I’ve ever wanted. As he got in and put the truck into gear, she watched him out of the corner of her eye. After a bit, she said, “I… uh, might not be much use to you tonight. Not that I — I’m just so tired…”
His eyes were on the road, one hand on the wheel, and
his other hand reached out, open, inviting her to take it. So she did. His fingers closed around hers, giving them a comforting squeeze. “Nella-bella, it’ll be a pleasure to just cuddle with you,” he said, and she heard something unexpected in his voice. Warmth. Affection?
She knew she ought to say something, to respond in some way, but her head throbbed and her back ached, and the truck’s leather seat cradled her so well, and the warmth of Eamonn’s hand and his thumb circling her palm in a light massage lulled her into the neutrality of silence as they drove.
“You want me to carry you inside?”
Nell blinked. Must have dozed off. She unbuckled herself and eased her way out of the truck, grimacing. Every muscle in her body seemed to have stiffened up and was protesting. “My legs work just fine. And you’ve got to stop trying to carry me across thresholds, already.” She wanted to call back the words as soon as she’d spoken them — being carried across a threshold had echoes of wedding bells around it, and there was absolutely no way she’d entertain that sort of nonsense, even in theory and far in the future.
The truck was parked inside the garage, and Eamonn led the way through a small laundry area into a room with soundproofing tiles on the walls and ceiling — a music room, clearly, since a grand piano sat in the center of it, half a dozen guitars and bass guitars hung from hooks on the walls, and a Celtic-style lap harp and gleaming brass saxophone were displayed on stands in the corners. Nell thought she ought to say something admiring about the impressive setup, but he didn’t seem to expect it, waving dismissively at the instruments and saying, “This is my workspace, as you can probably tell. Have to go through it to get to and from the garage. The stairs are over here. Hungry?”
Rock God in Exile (Smidge Book 2) Page 19