Placing my hands on both sides of my face, I replied, “It’s there.”
“It’s not here.” He wasn’t gentle when he tapped my forehead, the tip of his fingernail scraping my skin. “That’s the problem.” Stepping back, he glowered at me. “What’s going on with you? You’ve been like this for weeks.”
I shrugged. I couldn’t go into details with Mike. “I’ve got a lot going on. It’s taking its toll.”
“Then work the bag.” Mike was well and truly pissed. “Take your anger out on something that won’t hurt you.”
I winced at the comment. Last week he’d nearly dislocated my shoulder. I’d been right there with him, working on the shoulder toss I wanted to perfect. Larger bodies weren’t as easy to maneuver as small ones, and the women in the class weren’t anything like the vampire opponents I might face.
It was that very thing—thinking of vampires—that had caused the injury. One slip, dropping my guard, had almost caused me a lot of pain. That wasn’t the bad thing, though. It was knowing Mike would feel guilt over it, upset at himself for hurting a woman. That wasn’t the purpose of the class, or why he offered the lessons free of charge. He wanted to help women, not dismantle them piece by piece.
“I really need these lessons.” So fucking true it wasn’t even funny. Without Mike, I would be hopeless. He’d taught me so much since I’d come to New York. True, I worked out daily if possible, but learning to get flexible and use your body as a weapon had its uses as well. A pretty body didn’t mean shit if you didn’t know how to use it, to wield your fists or direct essential kicks. The bag could never teach me those things. It would continue hanging from the ceiling, mocking me to do my worst.
“Do you mind telling me why? Learning to break someone’s neck isn’t what most women ask to learn when they come to my class.” He crossed his arms over his chest and set his feet. He wasn’t going anywhere without an answer.
“It never hurts to be prepared,” I offered, hoping he’d take me at my word.
He didn’t.
“Is someone fucking with you?” He went from angry at me to angry at the person he created in his head. “If so, you need to talk to someone. Love isn’t supposed to hurt.”
I would have smirked, but then I wouldn’t have a gym to visit. Besides, it wasn’t funny. Domestic violence wasn’t cool. Mike had taken up the cause—extending his gym to create a new room used entirely for martial arts and self-defense—of teaching women how to defend themselves. His mother had suffered beatings from his stepfather, something he’d shared with the class a few weeks before when someone had gotten inquisitive. I was shocked the bulky, usually carefree and easygoing man, had went there, unlocking and revealing the demons of his past. But he did, informing us all why he’d started taking various styles of martial arts at an early age, why he felt it was so important a woman know how to defend herself. Or, more importantly, ask for help if she needed it.
“No one is fucking with me.” Not yet, anyway. “You said I was too advanced for the class. I took you up on the offer to teach me more.” I considered asking him about the weapons training he’d promised—eager to learn all the ins and outs of the Bo—but the scowl he directed at me kept my yap shut.
“I’m not teaching you more until you’re honest with me.” He walked to the side table to get a spray bottle of disinfectant to clean the mats we’d pulled out. “My responsibility is to help you learn. I can’t do that if you’re not here. And when I say here, I mean in this room. You can’t be a million miles away.”