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While the men light up cigars and place bets, James and I walk into the middle of the room and stand opposite each other. His face is pale against short red hair, his eyes a dark shade of blue under this light.My hair is tied back in a bun but that won't stop James from trying to get a good hold on me.
I won't let that happen.
“Form position!” Maksim calls out in Russian, modestly annoyed because we haven't done so already.
Raising our fists to protect our faces and opening our legs to create balance through our bodies, James and I nod at each other.
“Just go down,” I whisper, holding his uneasy gaze.
“He won't like that,” James mouths back. “He wants to show you off.”
My heart sinks because he's right. Maksim won't like that. He's boasting.
“I'm sorry,” I say truthfully. At least I tried to spare him, for this moment.
“Fight!” says Maksim in Russian.
———
James and I smile pitifully at each other to apologize for what is about to happen. Then, he goes in for the kill. He swings for my face with a few steady punches. I evade his onslaught with effortless grace, ducking and weaving to the left and the right, my muscles easing into my motions.
James always dishes out the first hit, I've noticed over the years. It gives me an advantage because one is off balance while trying to strike.
I've never told him of his bad-habit, since we often have to fight each other to train or entertain and it gives me a chance to put him down before things get bloody.
I dodge another punch, then James pounces at me. I catch his wrist and fling him across the room with all the strength I have, letting out a harsh breath. I then run at him and dish out meditated jabs, landing a few to his hard stomach when I can get through his fist attack. He gasps, twisting his face in pain, but manages to keep focus.
I don't stop there.
I dance him around in circles, lashing out athletic kicks to bat away his punches until I'm behind him.
I'm trained with Wing Chun, a Chinese Martial Arts way of fighting. Since I was... well, I don't really know how old I was when I first started fighting, but I was young, I've always fought this way.
My muscles now warm and loose, I beat James' kidneys with perfect clenched fists, exhaling for each strike. My assault puts him on his knees, groaning in agony. Clutching the scruff of his neck, I ceaselessly beat him into a bloody haze, my knuckles cracking and throbbing with pain. His eyes come up real good, red and bruised and puffy. He will look like hell tomorrow.
I boot him in the chest, knocking him over with brutal force. He doesn't get up, just lies there half curled up in a ball. So I wait, trying to filter the rush of adrenaline. I don't want to get lost in myself while fighting my friend.
The seconds tick by at snail pace. I can hear the men over there by the doors muttering amongst themselves, though I can't make out what they're saying.
James is still crippled on the floor. I steal over to assess him to make sure he's okay.Hejumps to his feet and clouts me right in the face, whipping my head back and splitting my bottom lip. The pain is dull. I spit out a pool of metallic flavored blood and meet his blows with rapid movements, punch for punch, my knuckles smashing against his; my chest on fire with controlled breaths. “Aargh!” I scream through clenched teeth with every strike.
He's battling in his stride, and because I knowI can't get through his ambush, I lash out a high axe kick, knocking his head back. Dizzy again, he stumbles about.
I pant through my nose, watching him strive to gather himself.
“She's fucking unbelievable!” someone yells, keyed up—I think it's Rumo.
When James is back on par, he darts at me, growling, “Gragh!” He kicks my feet and jabs through the air like he's going for gold, forcing me around the room.
With my forearms, I block his storm, left then right, amid punting away his lazy kicks. He's trying to knock me over by kicking my feet but he's not doing a good job of it. I'm a little angry with him. He knows I'm good with my feet.
I side-kick behind his knee to put him off balance, then I twirl around and flip him over, scissoring him between my legs. I land on my palms as we hit the floor with a heavy thud, my hands throbbing with pain. Unfolding my legs from around his body, I kick him away and leap to my feet, stretching out my thigh muscles.
James struggles to get up and when he does, staggers back, I assume to put some distance between us for a breathing moment.
The adrenaline rushing through me is intoxicating, tingly sensations swimming in my bloodstream—I'm slowly losing focus. My heart is pounding.
“What... what are you-you waiting for?” James pants, squeezing his eyes shut a few times.
