Burn (Indigo) Page 16

  “Who’s coming?” She glanced back at Karl as she and Zae headed back the way they had come, past angled stands of vibrant fresh produce and homemade candies wrapped in shiny cellophane.

  “Just a prospective M.U. student who wants to know more about the school,” Zae said matter-of-factly. “Who?”

  Zae mumbled a name but Cinder couldn’t understand her.

  “Chiclets? Is that what you said?” Cinder laughed lightly. “Come on, tell me who you’ve got coming over.”

  “Chip Kish.” Zae stopped in front of a tiny, dark wood booth where Thai street food was being served, and she dug for her car keys in her purse. “Chip is coming over tonight.”

  Cinder peered at the contents of Zae’s basket. “Just a casual business dinner to talk about school, huh?”

  “Yeah, that’s about it.” Wallet in hand, Zae stepped into a long line at the checkout, where a woman with flat blonde hair used a stubby pencil and the back of a paper bag to calculate totals due.

  “Fresh fiddleheads,” Cinder persisted. “Asparagus, fresh feta cheese, and imported black olives . . . sounds like the ingredients for your asparagus salad, the one you only make at Christmas and Easter. You know, maybe I’ll stay for dinner at your house, since it’s just a casual gettogeth—”

  “I’ll shoot you on sight if I see you within ten yards of my house tonight,” Zae warned. “The kids have an overnight with their grandparents, so Chip and I have the house to ourselves.”

  “I don’t understand why you need a whole house to yourselves for business talk about Missouri University,” Cinder said.

  Zae glared at her before pursing her lips and punching Cinder in her arm.

  “I guess that means you don’t want to talk about this anymore?” Cinder chuckled.

  Pointedly ignoring her, Zae stepped up to the cashier’s table and unpacked her basket. Cinder stood close to Zae, her mind turning toward her own plans for that evening. Gian had invited her to dinner and planned to take her to a Brazilian restaurant he knew in the Central West End. He had told her twice to dress comfortably in something sporty, so Cinder had her suspicions that dinner wasn’t all Gian had planned.

  She watched Zae pluck a few bills from her wallet to pay for her produce, all the while wondering why Zae was so determined to hide her growing attraction to Chip. Cinder wanted to climb onto a roof and shout her engagement to Gian, perhaps even send a telegram to the Massachusetts prison Sumchai Wyatt currently called home.

  Cinder couldn’t understand why Zae would be ashamed or self-conscious about falling in love with Chip. They certainly made an interesting pair, one that made sense specifically because of their differences.

  Zae was a proud Republican with centrist views more in line with older Southern Democrats than the typical modern Republican. Chip, a registered Democrat, often argued with Zae about his liberal beliefs.

  Chip taught at Sheng Li while he figured out what course of study he wanted to pursue at Missouri University with his G.I. Bill. Zae, who had earned a doc torate in English Literature from Princeton, was a tenured professor at Missouri University with seven highly-regarded publications to her credit.

  Tennessee born and reared, Chip had that unassuming charm unique to Southern gentlemen. That charm combined with his golden good looks to make him irresistible to most women, and Chip was something of a libertine. Zae had married young, at twenty-two, to the man of her dreams, but she’d lost him to illness after fifteen years. Chip never dated a woman for more than six months. Eight years after her husband’s death, Zae had yet to loosen her hold on his memory enough to give another man a fair chance at winning her heart.

  Chip was thirty-four and Zae was almost eleven years older, and Cinder could understand a little hesitancy on Zae’s part. They were as different as two people could be, yet those differences were what gave their partnership its excitement.

  Cinder almost told Zae so, but she thought better of it as they returned to Zae’s car. She had faith that all would work out as it was supposed to, in spite of Zae’s efforts to control the one thing no man or woman could—the course of true love.

  * * *

  Fresh mums in hearty reds and eye-popping yellows and oranges adorned the rear patio of Brasileria. Sparkling gold lights hung from the rough-hewn rafters overheard, giving the appearance of dining under a second canopy of stars to the few patrons sitting at the outdoor tables. As Gian led her across the patio, Cinder thought they would have dessert or wine outside following their meal. But, holding her hand, Gian pulled her to a short flight of stairs, across a small plot of neatly cut grass, through a box hedge wall and to an empty lot where tall tiki torches burned into the dark.

  “Wh-What is—” was all she got out before a chorus of male voices loudly greeted Gian in English and Portuguese.

  “Cinder,” Gian started, “I’d like you meet some friends of mine.”

  The darkness hid their true number, but it seemed to Cinder that at least thirty half-dressed men stepped forward to greet her.

  “Hello,” she said with a slight laugh, and she tried to catch the eye of as many of them as she could.

  “This is another place where I like to train,” Gian told her.

  Cinder raised an eyebrow. Through the trees edging the wide, open expanse of matted grass, she could just make out the distant silhouettes of playground equipment. Tiki torches of varying heights gave the immediate area an unearthly aura heightened by the drum and bass-heavy beats emanating from a boombox the size of a small sofa. The boombox rested atop a scuffed Coleman cooler with little heaps of discarded clothing and shoes piled around it.

  Training? Cinder thought, easing closer to Gian. It looks more like they’re preparing for a human sacrifice.

  “You didn’t tell me that your ‘someone’ was so pretty,” said a dark-skinned man, heavy with chiseled muscles, who stepped up to Gian and Cinder. The man’s face and chest dripped with sweat, which caught the firelight. He wiped his hand on his loose-fitting dun trousers before he offered it to Cinder. “Luiz Weickart,” he said, his hand swallowing Cinder’s. “I understand you’ll be working out with us tonight?”

  Cinder was the only woman among dozens of men. She knew Gian wouldn’t bring harm to her, but she couldn’t say that with any certainty about Luiz Weickart or the others. Studying the nearest men more closely, Cinder noticed their calloused knuckles, and the grass and dirt stains on their skin and clothing. One of the men set the boombox on the ground so he could open the cooler and grab a handful of ice. He wrapped it in a white T-shirt that quickly began to turn red when he tilted back his head and pressed the bundle of ice to his bloody nose.

  “Gian,” Cinder began hesitantly, “is this some kind of fight club?”

  He smiled at her before catching Luiz’s eye. “Didn’t I tell you she was smart, too?” he said to Luiz before turning to Cinder. “Yes. That’s exactly what it is. I think you’ll learn a lot of things here that’ll help you in the tournament.”

  Gian started toward the boombox, Cinder close at his back. “Gian, you can’t be serious,” she said anxiously, keeping her voice low. “The only thing I could learn here is how to get my ass beat!”

  The man with the bloody nose smiled in greeting and stepped aside, giving Gian room to return the boombox to the cooler.

  “I want to go home now,” Cinder said firmly.

  Gian grabbed the tail of his T-shirt and drew it over his head. Bare-chested, he spread his arms wide and then reached back, stretching his pecs and biceps before dropping his shirt to the ground.

  “I’m not fighting with these men, and I won’t watch you do it, either!” Cinder snapped through gritted teeth. She turned to leave when Gian raised the volume on the boombox.

  The fast, lively music stopped her as cleanly as the sight of the men arranging themselves in a loose circle. Some of them clapped to the rhythm of the drums while others faced off, performing something that looked like a hybrid of a traditional fight stance and a breakda
ncing move.

  “We do capoeira here,” Gian explained, stepping up behind Cinder and lightly resting his hands on her shoulders. “It’s a Brazilian form of fighting that relies on rhythm and timing. Come on and watch for a little while. If you want to give it a try, Luiz and the others can show you a few basic moves.”

  Gian ushered her to the perimeter of the fight circle, and two men scooted aside to make room. Gian began to clap, but Cinder stood rapt, watching.

  The two combatants lacked the grace of proper dancers, but there was a certain elegance to their moves. Long muscled arms swinging in time to the music, backs hunched and knees unlocked, they began sparring, striking at each other in sweeping, roundhouse punches.

  They kept their centers of gravity low, which helped them stay on their feet when their opponents attacked. One of the men, grabbed around the waist by an opponent who tried to take him down, spun out of the man’s grasp. In the next second, he was on his hands in a cartwheel maneuver that caught the aggressor in the jaw with a heel.

  Cinder cheered and clapped, impressed by the move. “That was incredible!” Cinder turned to tell Gian, only to find him gone.

  She searched the faces of the men on either side and behind her, but she didn’t find Gian until she again faced the fight circle. Gian stood on the opposite side, swinging his arms in wide circles in the proximity of the other fighters waiting for a turn in the circle. Cinder had seen him do that before, to stretch his muscles and move blood through them prior to sparring.

  Oh, God, she thought in horror. Please, keep him safe.

  Cinder clapped, but the anxious pounding of her heart was louder in her ears than that of the tribal rhythms echoing into the dark sky. Gian’s style of fighting was so different from that of the swarthy, acrobatic men before her. Cinder’s mind’s eye tormented her with images of Gian’s beautiful face covered in heel-shaped bruises.

  But the second he entered the circle, her fears ebbed. Gian lacked the musicality of the other fighters, but he had rhythm and strength. Added to his power and preci sion timing, Gian’s skills made him an effective capoiera fighter. The wind whistled when he sliced an arm through it for a near miss of his opponent’s jaw. Cinder cheered out loud when he went into a handstand to deliver two glancing kicks to his sparring partner’s head and chest.

  Cinder swelled with pride and desire watching the easy, languid movement Gian brought to the circle. Power, physical and emotional, were truly aphrodisiacs.

  The fights were short, and almost as soon as he entered the circle, Gian and his partner were backing out of it. Everyone waited for two more to enter, and that was when Gian raised his hand and beckoned to Cinder.

  “Hell, no,” she murmured, shaking her head.

  “Come on!” Gian moved a step toward her.

  Knowing he would pull her in if she didn’t get in there on her own, Cinder slowly approached him. The clapping of the spectators grew more raucous.

  “Are you wearing anything under this?” Gian asked, giving her short cotton skirt a little tug.

  “Yes, bike shorts,” she answered.

  Squatting before her, Gian took her skirt by its hem and eased it down to her ankles. His eyes gleamed with the smile his pursed lips held at bay while Cinder braced herself with a hand on his shoulder. Hoots and whistles temporarily drowned out the pounding music as Cinder stepped out of the pool of white fabric and faced the crowd wearing skin-tight black bike shorts and a matching sports tank.

  Gian dragged his fingertips along her calf and thigh as he stood, her skin tingling along their path.

  “This is your basic move.” Gian demonstrated the stooped, sweeping arm motion that prefaced a match. Luiz stepped up on Cinder’s other side and fell into rhythm with Gian. Cinder quickly picked up the routine, and she instantly understood the point of it. It was easier to change positions if you were already moving, and the hunched posture protected the torso. The arm movements could be defensive blocks or offensive strikes.

  “You got it,” Gian praised her. “Good girl. You want to try some kicks?”

  “Do I really have a choice?”

  “Nope.”

  Luiz stepped forward and showed her a basic kick, one where she raised her knee hip-high, then kicked out straight, hard and fast. Cinder envisioned the effective emasculation of an attacker she used the kick on, and it gave her a little tickle of glee. Her joyous confidence escalated with each new block, strike, and kick. To the casual observer, Cinder might have looked like she was learning the individual steps of a complicated dance, but Cinder reveled in the knowledge that if she sped up the moves and put power behind them, she could defend herself against almost anyone, or at least hurt an assailant badly enough to make him regret his decision to target her.

  “Did you have fun tonight?” Gian asked as he caressed her upper arms.

  * * *

  “I can’t remember the last time I laughed so much.” Cinder smiled. “Thank you.” She cupped his face with a gentle hand. “I wish I could give you as much as you’ve given me.”

  Gian’s grin faded. He took her hands and curled her fingers around his, holding her hands close to his heart. “Kid, you don’t owe me anything. I—”

  “You taught me karate,” she spoke over him. “You paid for those lessons,” he pointed out. “And Webster Groves is starting to feel like home because of you,” she added.

  “I think Zae and Chip and the guys at Sheng Li had something to do with that, too.”

  “And you make me love being in love with you.”

  Gian had no response, at least not in words. He bowed his head and kissed her, nestling their clasped hands under his chin. His lips, warm, pliant yet firm, sampled hers politely, then with more eagerness accompanied by a tightening of his hands around hers. Right there on her shadowed doorstep, he would have peeled off her sweaty bike shorts and hoisted her to his waist, sheathing himself within her. But Cinder pulled a hand from his and, after a bit of fumbling, blindly unlocked the front door, leading him inside with their kiss.

  Cinder made it up all three flights of stairs with Gian tugging at the back of her skirt and slipping his hand under it. She never got the chance to lock the door to her apartment.

  Gian, his chest to her back, pressed her to the door, pinning her there with one knee between hers. Breathless from the jaunt up the stairs, he panted in her right ear as he lowered his trousers and threw up the back of her skirt. Cinder poked out her backside to help him wrestle her bike shorts to her knees. Hot and heavy, rigid and seeking, he found his entry and boldly shoved into her.

  Gritting his teeth, Gian forced himself to move slowly, to give her the same pleasure her slippery sheath gave him.

  Cinder had no desire for generosity, nor patience. She reached back and grabbed his bum, urging him deeper, faster. His thighs hard, Gian supported her weight in an incredible show of strength when he pulled her to his chest, allowing their snuggest fit possible. His left hand went to her breast while his right middle finger targeted the sweating kernel hidden within her damp folds.

  A few quick, light strokes of his finger was all it took to send bullets of carnal rapture shooting through her. Her fingers clenched, her nails digging into the meat of his buttocks. She threw her head back, nearly butting him in the mouth. Her warmth constricted around him over and over, wringing everything he had from him.

  “You leave me weak,” he gasped, his thigh muscles burning and shaking.

  Cinder released him and turned in his arms to face him. With the pads of her thumbs, she swiped perspiration from his temples. “That’s odd,” she said. “Because you give me such strength.”

  “It doesn’t come from me,” he said softly. “It was always right in here.” He laid his fingers over her heart.

  They righted their clothing and went into Cinder’s apartment. Gian, stroking her back, followed her into the bathroom. Cinder started the taps in the bathtub, sprinkling a handful of Epsom salts into the running water. Gian sat on the edge
of the tub as it filled. He took Cinder by her waist and tugged her between his widespread knees. For the second time that night, he took Cinder’s skirt off her.

  “Gian,” Cinder started as Gian helped her out of her bike shorts and sports tank, “why do you like fighting so much?”

  “I don’t,” he said, his tone and expression solemn. “I hate fighting.”

  “Then . . . why Sheng Li and the capoeira—”

  “I’ve experienced enough combat to last three lifetimes. I hate it. Unfortunately, it’s something I’m really good at. When I was in the service, I needed to know how to defend myself. I do what I do with the hope that by teaching people to fight, they won’t ever have to.”

  “That doesn’t make any sense.”

  “Sure, it does. If you have the same or better weapons than an opponent, they’re less likely to attack you.”

  “That just means that everyone will be walking around with the ability to kill anyone they want.”

  “I hope that people use what they have up here,” Gian said, touching his temple, “to avoid using what they have here.” He held up his fist, which opened to cup her face. “Some people need the weapons I can provide.”

  She nodded in full agreement.

  He smiled, breaking the tension. “Your tub is so small compared to mine.”

  “This is an antique. I love the lion’s paw feet.”

  Gian hugged her close, pushing his face between her breasts. He inhaled her scent, enjoying the sweet organic aroma of her sweaty skin. Tempted to flick out his tongue to taste her, he stood to remove his clothing. Gian settled into the tub first, then welcomed Cinder. She slipped into the cradle of his legs, resting her back on his chest with her knees poking out of the water, which sloshed over the edge of the tub every time Gian moved.

  “You could seat seven in the tub in my master bath,” Gian told her. He lathered his hands with a bar of apricot-scented soap. “Your whole bathroom could fit in it.”