Page 27 of Quake
“It’s a lot of work?”
“A solid eight hours six days a week.”
“Seriously?” My mouth fell open. “How do they live? I mean, pay the bills and…”
“Sponsorships, grants, part-time work.” Caleb gestured to the punching bag hanging from the ceiling. “Are you ready for a crash course in boxing?”
I swallowed hard, staring at the bag with wide eyes. “Boxing?Me?”
His eyes sparkled at my reaction, and I seethed silently at his apparent amusement at my panic. “It’s easy. Just wait and see.”
“Where have you been the past month?” I asked with a moan.
“Right here,” he murmured. Blinking, he gestured to the bag. “Let me show you.”
Picking up a set of fingerless gloves, he flexed his fingers through the openings and secured the Velcro strap around his wrists. Then he held up his fists, the muscles in his arms rippling. Angling his right fist, he allowed me to watch how he hit the bag in slow motion, then he brought in his left, then back with his right. The first two were short, sharp jabs, and the last hit with his right was a little wider and to the side rather than straight on.
“It’s a good set to test the strength of your blows,” he explained. “And repetitions will work your muscles and build up even more power.”
“You’re not subliminally training me to become a boxer, are you?” I asked, raising my eyebrows. The giant punching bag intimidated me, not as much as Caleb, but it hung there taunting my fragility like a bright red bully made out of leather and stuffing.
“No,” he replied, his lips quirking. “Subliminally attempting to get you over your hesitation at hitting something, but boxing? No way. You’re too delicate for that.”
I flushed and glanced at my feet.
“Here,” he said, taking off the gloves. He took my hands and pulled them on, one by one, before securing the Velcro, dressing me like I was something breakable. “The gloves are a little big, but they’ll do. Give the bag hell. Just like I showed you.”
Squashing down my embarrassment, I turned to the bag and raised my fists.
“Stand tall. Straighten your back,” Caleb said, grasping my shoulders from behind. “Use your upper body to store your strength, then push it out with your arm and fist from your shoulder.”
“You make it sound easy,” I complained, overly aware of his body position more than my own.
“Give it a go, Jules.” He let me go, the loss of his touch sending an icy chill through my body, and he positioned himself on the other side of the bag, anchoring it in place with his shoulder and hip.
Jules?When had he decided to give me a nickname?
Sucking in a deep breath, I lashed out at the punching bag, my fists slamming against the leather.Smack, smack, smack!
I was overthinking things.Smack, smack, smack!I was attaching myself to the one person who’d given a shit.Smack, smack, smack!I’d fallen for the fantasy, not the reality.Smack, smack, smack!We both had things in common, like difficult parents and things that’d served as catalysts for the pain we both felt.Smack, smack, smack!
Soon, I became lost in the rhythm, running through the punches he’d painstakingly taught me.Right, left, right.
“Whose head you picturing?” Caleb asked after a while.
“No one in particular,” I muttered, taking a breather. “Am I doing it right?”
He smirked, crossing his arms over his chest. “You’re a little sloppy, but A for effort.”
Glancing at the punching bag, I said, “It’s quite the stress reliever.”
“Ain’t it?”
Shaking out my arms, I turned away, my gaze finding the outside door…and the darkness that lay beyond. My heart twisted painfully and started to gallop in my chest as I realized the sun had set.
“What’s the time?” I asked, my voice coming out in a terrified squeak.
“Ah, it’s almost eight.”
