Page 9 of Moved
Given how seriously Racer had taken his promise to watch over me, I doubted he’d say no. But maybe I could influence how he felt about teaching me and make it a positive thing instead of another nanny chore. The way to a man’s mood was through his stomach. A batch of Texas style chili might help. Walking to the kitchen, I started gathering ingredients for dinner.
An hour later, I turned the burner on low to let the chili simmer and thicken. The kitchen had warmed considerably so I opened a window. Outside, I heard Racer talking. The words were too faint to hear clearly but he didn’t sound a bit annoyed. Was there actually someone else here? I pressed closer to peer around the corner. He stood with hands in his pockets, looking down at a cat. I stared at him for a minute. Apparently, nice-Racer was only for animals. He rubbed his hand over his head, a move I saw often in exams when someone didn’t know an answer. He continued to talk, but I couldn’t hear what he said. A few moments later, the cat haughtily stood and turned away from Racer, going back wherever it’d come from.
Racer watched the cat walk away then turned back toward the house. I quickly moved away from the window. No need to look like a nosy neighbor. Though, I now knew what an extended period of time stuck in seclusion would do to me. I’d start talking to animals for company. I giggled.
Humming, I gathered up my dirty laundry, then flopped down on the couch to read while I waited for the chili. Not only would I need to ask about the self-defense, I’d need to ask where he did laundry.
Well before dinner, I ladled a huge helping in a deep bowl and carried it downstairs. Racer opened his apartment door before I reached the bottom step.
“Going somewhere?” Dressed in low riding jeans and another snug t-shirt, he watched me closely. I tried not to visualize the abs so clearly defined by his clothes. Grumpy guys shouldn’t look good. What a waste.
“Not really,” I held out the bowl. “I made a batch of chili and thought maybe you might like some.” He took the bowl, not using the sides, which were cool, but with one hand supporting the bottom. “Careful, it’s hot.”
“Thanks,” he said still holding it from the bottom. It didn’t appear to bother him. “Did you need something else?”
“Where do you go to do your laundry, and do you give self-defense lessons?”
His eyebrows rose in surprise, and the perma-scowl actually lifted. “Why are you asking?”
“I’ve got dirty laundry.” I knew what he’d meant. He didn’t take the bait. “Fine, my dad called and said you knew some self-defense stuff and that he’d feel better if you taught me a few things. It’s okay to say no.”
He looked down at the chili and back at me. “A bribe?”
“A goodwill gesture. I get the feeling that you don’t like me here.” He made no move to deny it. “If I’m doing something that bothers you, just tell me. If I’m asking for too much, just say no. It’s no big deal.” Please say no. Please say no.
“Meet me in the shed in ten.”
Dang it.
This time he didn’t close the door in my face. I nodded my agreement and ran back upstairs to change.
I had mixed feelings about going to the shed with Racer. Itwassomething to do—an actual battle against boredom—but not something Iwantedto do. I pulled my shirt off and switched it for an exercise top I used for jogging. How stupid was I? Obviously, Racer wasn’t very happy I was here or that he needed to keep an eye on me. And by asking him to teach me how to defend myself, I’d pretty much just given him the perfect opportunity to take his frustrations out on me. I swapped my jeans for loose yoga pants.
Changed, I jogged down the stairs, stepped outside, and approached the shed with trepidation.
Racer waited on the mat by the hanging bag. He hadn’t changed clothes. His bright blue eyes followed me as I wiped my feet and closed the door.
“It’s getting cooler out,” I commented nervously.
“Yep. Take your shoes off. You won’t need them for this.”
His ominous statement didn’t make it any easier to slip off my shoes and walk toward him. The heat of the floor penetrated my socks, warming my feet; and the skin on my arms prickled despite the loose hoodie over my tank top.
“If someone’s coming at you, they won’t be following a set of rules. So, you shouldn’t either. Fight dirty if you can. But be careful. Sometimes that can piss the attacker off more. Use your head.”
I nodded and stepped up onto the mat with him. About a twelve foot square with the bag to the side, it gave enough room. He crouched slightly, and I eyed him.Bring on the bruises.
Before I knew what he did, I was on my back with him pressing down on me. Nothing hurt, though.
“If I were an attacker, I wouldn’t have cushioned your fall. I would have used it to stun you.” His frustration and annoyance came through, making what might have been constructive criticism come out as a scolding.
He moved off me and offered a hand. My contemplation, whether just to stay on the mat, lasted only a moment before I reached up to clasp his hand. He yanked me up so hard I flew into his chest. My cheek bounced off his pectorals. His arms wrapped around me, pinning my arms.
I tried moving away but he held tight. It took a second to realize he’d done all of that on purpose.
“Now what?” he taunted.
Tilting my head, I looked up into his blue eyes. I was too short to give him a head butt to the nose but, boy, did I wish I wasn’t. He said fight dirty, so he’d be expecting me to go for his privates. I turned my head and thought for a second, weighing my options. He also warned that fighting dirty might piss of my opponent. But without hands, I was only left with my legs and head. What else did he expect me to do?
