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“I’m protecting yours. I don’t ever want to see so much as a scratch on you.”
I finish the other and turn away, needing a few feet of separation to regain my center. Grabbing a shield target off the opposite wall, I pull in a deep breath and picture my mother’s face, my mother’s vacant, bruised face. Remember who you are, Bash. Birdie deserves better.
By the time I turn around again, I’m a different person, cold and emotionless, exactly what Birdie needs. Regardless of what I want, I’ve got one purpose, one motivation. My job is training Birdie to defend herself against anyone, including me.
Birdie
Bastien turns away, and my legs nearly give out like they’re made of jelly. There’s no way I just saw what I think I saw. The heat in that man’s gaze was volcanic. My hands tingle under the tape where he gently stroked my skin, which goes well with another part of my body reacting to Bastien’s heated stare.
If it were anyone else, I’d expect fake attraction as a ruse to get me to spill what he thinks are my secrets. Not with Bastien, though. Bastien can’t bullshit worth a… well, a shit. I don’t think he has a sarcastic bone in his body, not that I know him personally.
Drawing my eyes away from his ass as he crosses the room, I flex my fists in the tape and try to focus. Ruse or no ruse, I’ll have to take care to keep my eyes open and my mouth shut or risk giving myself away.
Bastien collects a stiff, black vinyl pillow-looking thing, and when he turns, I can immediately tell that something’s changed. Whatever warmth had been in his eyes has cooled, and his jaw is set hard as granite. I mean, this is some real-life Jekyll and Hyde transformation happening. Bastien, for real, looks angry.
I had chickened out of talking to Spatch about training because, frankly, he scares the hell out of me. Now, Bastien stands two feet away, holding a padded target, but he may as well be holding a gun. The man looks scary as fuck.
“Hit me. With your dominant side,” he barks.
I jump at his terse order but move quickly to obey, throwing what I think is my best right. Bastien reacts before I’ve even touched the vinyl. His eyes widen, and he pulls the target back sharply. I stumble forward when I hit nothing but air, barely managing to stay on my feet.
Bastien stares at me with an odd look on his face. He slowly straightens, mumbling under his breath as he tosses the target away. “Make a fist, Birdie.”
Doing as he says, I tuck my thumb and hold out my hand. The Mr. Miyagi wannabe shakes his head, and taking my hand in his, he unwraps my fingers to free my thumb. “If you ever attack someone like that, you’ll lose the fight all on your own with your first swing. It’s hard to fight with a dislocated or broken thumb. Never, and I mean ever, tuck anything into your fist unless it’s a set of brass knuckles.”
A shiver works its way up my arm, either from his touch or his words. Bastien doesn’t give me a chance to figure it out, as he’s soon stepping back and dropping into a defensive stance. Holding up both hands, he orders, “Try again.”
“What about the target? Won’t I hurt your hand?”
Bastien almost smiles. “You can try.”
I set my feet to mimic the stance he showed me earlier and throw a right again, making sure my thumb is emancipated this time. My fist made contact with his palm, but Bastien didn’t act like he felt a thing.
Instead of a congratulatory pat on the back for stellar effort, Bastien grabs my left hand and lifts it toward my head. “Protect your head. Always. Now again.”
On and on this goes, with Bastien barking out corrections after every swing. Use your whole body. Don’t drop your left. You dropped your left again. Now, throw the left. Unwrap that thumb!
Half an hour later, I’m winded and covered in sweat. And maybe tempted to throw something heavy at Bastien’s head. “This is so much harder than running.”
Bastien shrugs and flexes his hands. “Just different conditioning. The two nights we’re not defense training, we should probably meet in the gym. If you put on a little muscle, your punches would do more damage.”
I tug my shirt down, attempting to cover my pudge. The pudge that no amount of jogging will get rid of. Wait a minute. We? He just said, we.
My face whirls around fast enough to threaten my neck, and I gawk at Bastien. Nobody’s life is so pathetic to give up five evenings a week for me. I open my mouth to say so, but Bastien rips off his damp shirt and drapes it over his shoulder. Oh, damn!
This—all those defined lines—is going to be a problem. I thoroughly scan from the ridges on his shoulders down to his happy trail. Yep. I’m in trouble.
My tongue trips all over itself and forgets what I had been planning to say. No problem, apparently. Bastien has his own script he’s following. “Five o’clock tomorrow, Birdie.”
After dropping his little bomb, Bastien marches out the training room door, leaving me staring at his impressive back with my mouth hanging open. What. The hell. Just happened here? Mind reeling, I wander from the gym to my car beneath the pink and orange sky. The man is insisting on training with me five days a week.
For a long time, I sit frozen and stare out the windshield as the color fades from the horizon. It doesn’t make any sense. I rack my brain, trying to figure out why Bastien Laurent gives a shit. He’s a good man. Always respectful. I just don’t see him giving up his free time for anybody.
I know he’s curious about what happened last night, but surely, he’s not so over-the-top nosy that he’d volunteer for this ridiculous training schedule just to needle information out of me. Would he?
He seems to have accepted that I’m not working the streets, so I don’t know why else he’d be worried about my free time. Unless… he thinks what went down last night is a sign that I’m working to take down this organization.
The idea is a bit of a stretch but not too farfetched when considering Knot Corp’s recent history. Thanks to what happened in Iran, everyone here is now hypersensitive to traitors. No one would have thought one of our own would betray us, but it happened. Bastien might think not all of the cancer got excised.
