Iron (The Warding Book 1) (16 page)

The thought of the ass-whooping to come consumed me. I kept trying to force it from my mind, but it came back again and again until it was all I could think about. I could see my growing distraction reflected in the obviously perturbed face of my boss while I mopped up the coffee I had spilled across my desk, ruining a stack of paperwork. I could hear it in my mom’s voice when she called to remind me that my grandmother’s birthday was coming up and it took her three tries to get an answer out of me as to whether or not I could attend the family dinner party. I saw it in the annoyance on the pizza delivery guy’s face when he came to drop off my white pie with broccoli… only for me to realize I had two dollars in my wallet.

Worst of all, I could hear it in each of Jenni’s repeated inquiries into my state of being. We talked daily and those conversations wore the worst on my heart. When I begged off of our Friday night tradition of drinks and gossip—something I rarely passed up, especially given the week I had just had—I could tell she was shocked. A full minute of silence passed while I panicked and tried to come up with a feasible reason for avoiding her. My quickly spun tale of monstrous laundry piles and dust bunnies the size of stray cats was weak.
Soooo
weak. She laughed at the dramatic delivery of the lie, like any good friend would, but I knew she wasn’t fooled. My sworn promise to make it up to her at her upcoming gig mollified her, but it did me no good.

I still felt like a world class heel.

Friday night came and with it that restless, sort-of-sick feeling that made me aimless and irritable. It was the kind of restlessness that I knew would keep me awake well into the night but was powerless to stop. I couldn’t even get in to any of my favorite shows, a true sign of how low I had sunk. Instead of flopping around on the couch, I headed to bed in hopes that sleep would claim me but, nope; no dice. I lay awake for hours, tossing and turning. It was creeping up on 2 a.m. when I found myself musing over the fact that I really did have a Sasquatch sized pile of dirty clothes in the corner of my bedroom. I couldn’t quite escape the merry-go-round of trepidation and guilt.

I don’t know how long I laid there, sleepless, but when the alarm went off the next morning it was far too soon. I dragged myself through a shower and breakfast with all the enthusiasm of a teenager on the first day of school. I threw together another leggings and old t-shirt combo, suitable for the beating I was about to take. No sense in dressing to impress. I was pretty sure there wasn’t a single thing I could wear—or do—to impress my teacher (cough
nemesis
cough). If I had been a religious person, I might have said a prayer before walking up that third floor staircase. As it was, I doubted that would do me one lick of good. I was pretty sure whatever god was up there was getting a kick out of me eating my words.

I’d like to say the second session with Gannon went better than the first but that would be a big, fat lie. The day started off horribly awkward. I don’t know who was more uncomfortable: me, who had to struggle not to cringe away like a kicked puppy every time he took a step toward me, or Gannon, who obviously was no more enthused about teaching me than the first time we met. I suppose Seana’s verbal chastising had done some good. He wasn’t exactly bubbling with warmth, but this time we started off the day with a slow, step-by-step lesson in form and the basic functions of hand-to-hand combat. I was immeasurably glad not to see those stupid sticks come off the rack. Not that I was looking forward to getting pummeled with fists either but, hey; a girl has to take what she can get, right?

He drilled me on different fighting stances, punches and kicks, all of which I struggled to keep from going in one ear and right out the other. From what I could gather I was a terrible mess; my stances listed too far to the left, my punches were weak, and my kicks flat-out sucked. His instructions were curt, his expression so deadpan I could only assume he was running me through the exercises on the toddler level difficulty. I guess my performance from last time had earned me a demotion to the kiddie class. Great.

By the time he was through with his coaching I was drenched with sweat. My hair was plastered to my neck and forehead. I was so out of shape it was disgusting. My arms felt like limp noodles and my legs hadn’t fared much better. While that made my ratty gym attire justified, it did nothing for my confidence. I desperately wanted to sit down and catch my breath but he didn’t offer and I certainly wasn’t going to ask. Instead, he returned to the ring with two sets of padded gloves. He let me fumble around with them for a moment before yanking them out of my hands and strapping me in.

He put his own pair on with ease. Showoff.

As he took his position across from me, I was filled with that good, ol’ righteous anger. His expression remained passive but that smug spark was back in his eyes. That haughtiness made my stomach acid curdle. I don’t think I had ever hated anyone more than I hated him in that moment. I’m sure my loathing showed in my narrowed eyes and clenched jaw. I forced myself back into first position, quivering knees bent and noodle-y arms raised to protect my face.

Then the games began and I was reminded that I could hate him far, far more.

While I didn’t take quite the beating I had the first time, I was still the obvious loser. Every. Single. Time. I just didn’t have the coordination or the stamina that he did. It was glaringly obvious that he was pulling his punches yet, again and again, he blew past my weak-ass guard and connected. My lip got split open again when I failed to move fast enough to cover my face. A square hit or two to the gut knocked the wind from me as well. I wasn’t the black-and-blue punching bag I fully expected—and, quite frankly, deserved—to be, thanks to his going easy on me. My ribs were glad but my ego was not.

I was on my hands and knees, wheezing and trying not to dry heave from a third punch to the stomach, when I knew I had lost our final match. I just didn’t have the strength to get back to my feet. All the fight had drained out of me. He stood there, towering over me for a moment. I don’t know if he was eyeing me with some more of that pitying disdain he liked to dish my way. I didn’t want to look up into his face to find out one way or the other. Instead I sucked in another burning breath and kept my eyes glued to the floor. I was pretty sure the blood splattered to the left of my hand was my own. It sure as hell wasn’t his. I had managed to block the odd shot here and there, but my gloves had never touched skin. Besides, my chin felt warm and wet. That damn lip.

“We’re done.”

His footsteps rattled in my brain like war drums as he stalked off, leaving me there in my puddle of shame once again. I sat back until my ass hit my ankles, my arms burning. I folded myself into a huddled mass that somehow felt good, and wrapped my trembling arms around my knees. I closed my eyes. I was as exhausted as I was humiliated. At least we had started the torture early this time; the room around me was flooded with the sunlight. The sky outside was bright and blue; the cool, sunny kind of autumn Saturday that felt full of possibilities.

I felt like the beautiful day was mocking me.

This time, I was pretty sure only a few minutes passed between Gannon’s exit and Mairi’s soft footsteps coming up the stairs. It was an effort to lift my head. The concern in her eyes made me wish I hadn’t. I waved off her offered hand with a still-gloved fist and dragged myself up to my knees. While I completed the arduous task of getting to my feet on my own, she asked, “Should I get Seana?”

I wobbled a bit but managed to stay standing once upright. Good god damn I hurt. Still, I ignored my screaming muscles and shook my head. I’d have another shiner in the morning and my lip would continue to bleed every time I smiled or sneezed over the next day or so, true. For some reason, I didn’t care. Maybe I didn’t want to drink that disgusting sleeping potion again. Hell, maybe I
wanted
the pain; wanted the reminder. Maybe I wanted to look at myself in the mirror and see what I had so foolishly begged for. Maybe I wanted to hate myself for ever thinking I could handle this new rough-and-tumble world I had stumbled into.

Then again, maybe I had just taken one too many blows to the head and needed to lie down. I used my teeth to pry the Velcro fastening of one glove open, ignoring the incredulous look Mairi gave me when I refused her help. The longer I stood, the more in control I felt. My muscles burned like hell and I felt as strong as a newborn kitten, but my pride wouldn’t give an inch. I finally made it out of one glove and let it drop to the floor, a nasty little spike of joy buzzing through me at the thought of disrespecting Gannon’s spit shinned sanctum of cruelty. I let the other glove join its mate, kicking them away like they were the cause of all my problems. I wished I could kick him as hard as I kicked them.

I caught a whiff of myself in the temper-tantrum process and cringed. Apparently I had yet to find a deodorant that could stand up to two hours in the ring with a fae prizefighter. Maybe what I really needed was a bath. It was an effort to put one foot in front of the other in an orderly fashion, especially with Mairi hovering by my side the whole way, but I persevered. Picking up my purse from the table by the door was like lifting a ton of bricks. I think I groaned aloud. I apologized, “Sorry I’m not much for conversation. I think he might have deflated a lung.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time.” When I shot her an alarmed look, she winked. I managed to smile at her dry humor, but even that hurt. She bit at her lower lip, shifting from foot to foot. “Are you sure there isn’t anything…?”

“No. I’ll be okay. I’m just gonna head home. Take a bath. Apply a gallon of Icy Hot. Eat a pint of ice cream. Wallow in some self-loathing. You know: the good stuff.”

She chuckled. “Sounds fun. Want some company?”

~*~

“—and, seriously, who the fuck does he think he is? He’s supposed to be teaching me. Teaching me fight; teaching me to defend myself. Some fucking
teacher
he is! All he does is beat the piss out of me. He can see I have no clue what I’m doing. I clearly don’t know the first thing about any of this fighting crap—that’s why I asked Kaine for help in the first place! Do you think he’d take it easy on me?
Nooooo
, he barks at me like I’m a freaking cocker spaniel that peed on the floor every time I do something wrong, but it’s not like he ever really showed me the
right
way. Hell, the first time he just threw that damn stick at me and expected me to come at him. Who the fuck does he think I am—Xena?

“And I know he gets off on wiping the floor with me. I just know it. He keeps that stupid stoic face of his on the entire time but I
know
. I can see it in his stupid eyes. He’s just so fucking…
Stupid
.” I spat the last word like it was three-day old sushi and it seemed to echo off the tiled walls. I stopped my tirade to take a deep breath and then an equally deep gulp of Pinot.

I was chin deep in lavender scented bubbles but they weren’t doing a damn thing to calm me. The warm water beneath was doing wonders for my aching body, though I’m pretty sure the wine helped just as much. I balanced my glass on the edge of the tub and sank back down to my chin to stew in my indignation.

Mairi was seated cross-legged on the closed toilet, listening to my outburst with an ongoing litany of mumbled agreements and understanding nods. It didn’t really matter what she did or said, although I was thoroughly enjoying her silent understanding that it was time to be a chum and refill my glass whenever it got low. What really mattered was that I could vent. Finally!

How we had wound up having a girlie bitch-fest in my bathroom, with me submerged in the tub and gulping down my third glass of wine, I couldn’t really remember. I certainly hadn’t expected her to come on in and stay for a spell, when she first checked in on me and offered to fetch me a drink. I couldn’t even remember how we had gotten on the topic of Mr. Stupid Eyes in the first place. I just knew it felt good to finally be able to say something to somebody.

That tight, sour feeling had lodged itself my stomach. Like homesickness, even though that made no sense. I
was
home. Maybe I had never realized how dependent I was on being able to use Jenni as a brain-dump for just about everything in my life. I sucked at keeping secrets (revisit my pathetic laundry excuse), so it had become easier to avoid her all together. If I couldn’t share my current woes with my bestie, I certainly wasn’t going to share them with anyone else. That had made me a hermit. I had never been given much to maudlin displays of emotion (cough
liar
cough), but the weight of the last two weeks had really settled quite heavily on my aching shoulders. I hadn’t meant to launch into such a tirade but Mairi was the first person I had been able to be candid with—and as much as it hurt, it felt equally good to finally let off some steam.

“He’s not so bad once you get to know him,” she said softly. The look I gave her must have held quite an edge, because she sat back a bit and backtracked quickly. “Not that I’ve ever had to train with him. I don’t think I’d last two seconds against him. You’ve got some balls, even getting in the ring with him.”

“Good save,” I mumbled, glaring at some stray bubbles as I flicked them off of one wrist.

She gave me a sly grin. “Sorry. I guess it’s not a good time to try to convince you that he’s actually a good guy, given that he’s currently at the top of your shit-list. That’s kind of like siding with the dude and talking about logic after a break-up, isn’t it?”