Burn (Indigo) Page 2

  Perhaps subconsciously, the woman moved closer to Gian. “You’re in the attic apartment in the big Victorian on Elm, right? My brother’s girlfriend’s father owns the company that installed your security system. That’s some package you got,” Karl said with a low whistle. “Ain’t even a housefly gettin’ in there without the right security codes.”

  “If Sionne is covering your five o’clock, maybe you should get going,” Gian said. Karl’s remarks left the woman shivering, and illustrated one of the things Gian hated about living in a small town—everyone knew someone who knew your business. “If you want to get good parking, you’d better get to the stadium early.”

  “Good thinking, boss,” Karl said. “I’ll bring you a souvenir.”

  As he moved past her to the smaller desk in the corner nearest the door, Karl stroked the woman’s arm. She cringed, and Gian quickly ushered her into a chair, carefully circumventing her personal space before taking a seat behind the desk.

  “What brings you to Sheng Li this after—”

  The woman set a stack of bills on the center of his desk. Her touch had been delicate, but the sudden sight of the pile of cash jolted Gian.

  “I’d like to take private lessons,” she said plainly. A low chuckle issued from the desk near the door. “Get the hell out, Lange,” Gian ordered.

  “Sure thing, boss.” Karl picked up his yellow and black duffel bag. “Enjoy your private lesson.”

  Gian didn’t reply, and he and the woman kept their silence until they heard the front door of the studio open and close.

  Gian leaned back in his chair and laced his fingers over his abdomen. “There’s a schedule out in the front lobby detailing the times for adult instruction. I offer a variety of classes that would fulfill your personal defense, strength and conditioning, and competitive fighting interests. Classes start as early as seven in the morning and end at six. I’m sure you’ll find something that will fit into your schedule. You should take a look—”

  She grabbed the cash and was rising from her chair when, faster than she would have believed possible had she not felt it, Gian caught her wrist. Her startled gasp earned her release. She dropped the money back on the desk.

  “I’m sorry,” Gian hastily said. “I shouldn’t have . . . You don’t have to run off.”

  “If you don’t offer private lessons, I have no interest in pursuing study here,” she said, a slight tremble in her voice. “I need to start right away. Thank you for your time.” She swallowed hard. “May I go now?”

  “You don’t need—”

  He had started to tell her that she didn’t need his permission to leave, but the longer he looked at her, the more he realized that perhaps she did.

  She sat the way she stood, as though she wanted to take up as little room as possible. Her hands trembled despite the warmth of the room, and she constantly, nervously, plucked at the edges of her scarf, making certain that as much of her head and face was covered as possible.

  “You don’t need to look into other dojos,” he said with a long sigh and a glance at the brick of cash. “I can accommodate you.”

  “When can we start?”

  “First we have to establish what type of class you’re interested in, and then I have to check the schedule, find out which of my guys can work you in.”

  “No.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “I want you.”

  He’d competed in muy thai and mixed martial arts matches against opponents who could shatter a man’s jaw with a single punch, yet three words spoken by this strange little woman in black nearly knocked him out of his chair. And she hadn’t even meant them the way he’d heard them.

  “All of my teachers are highly qualified.” He cleared his throat. “They— ”

  “I’d like private lessons, at least three times a week, preferably in the evening. I was told that you were the best,” she insisted, “and—”

  “By whom?”

  “—I can pay you more if that isn’t enough. According to your website, your personal rate for private lessons is fifty dollars an hour plus a twenty-five dollar fee for use of the private studio. This should see us through to the end of August. Please, count it.”

  Lifting an eyebrow, he tilted his head toward the cash. “My calendar is full, Miss . . . ?”

  “Please,” she said slowly.

  “Miss Please?” he suggested in a weak attempt to put her at ease.

  “Please, teach me to defend myself.”

  Her breathy plea whittled away his resistance. “Why don’t I give you a free trial. Decide what you’re getting into before you fork over your nonrefundable tuition.”

  She swallowed hard. “Okay. When?”

  “How ‘bout now?”

  “Now?”

  Standing, he returned her money to her. With a short sweep of his arm, he directed her toward a door behind and to the right of his desk. She tucked the cash into her slouchy black purse.

  “Take off your shoes,” he said, stopping her before she entered the room. “Place them neatly by the door.”

  She saw that he was already barefoot when she stooped to place her shoes, purse, scarf, and shades by the door.

  He stepped into the room and onto the beige mat covering most of the thirty-by-thirty-foot floor. Without looking at her, he stopped her again before she set foot in the studio. “Bow to the room, to show respect for the art you’ll learn here.”

  His hands at his sides, he bent at the waist in a short bow, demonstrating the proper form. He straightened to see her copying him exactly. “Now you may enter the dojo, and bow to me.”

  She approached him, her eyes cast down. Meeting him in the center of the mat, she executed another bow. He wanted to explain that the second bow was both greeting and a show of respect to the instructor, but his tongue had been glued in place from the moment she’d entered the private studio.

  The dark paneling and carpet in his windowless office made his workplace rather cave-like, but the private studio with its bamboo paneled walls was airy and bright, its only ornamentation two Japanese tiger prints and a stone urn containing a neatly pruned bonsai tree. A domed polarized skylight provided clean illumination and gave the place a cozy openness that the main studio lacked. The private studio was so named because it also doubled as Gian’s sanctuary. He allowed none of his staff to train or teach in it, and it had been months since he’d used the space for private lessons.

  Without her disguise, the woman standing before him was a lovely addition to the room. She wore no makeup to mask the natural glow of her brown skin. Her close-cropped cap of glossy black hair and her big dark eyes made her appear far younger than he first assumed her to be. Her mouth had the compact beauty of a rosebud, but her lips were full and so very inviting.

  “I’m not dressed properly,” she said softly, still avoiding his eyes.

  “You look fine to me,” he assured her. He clapped his hands, startling her but successfully breaking the hypnotic hold her lips had on him. “Our first session will be a simple fitness evaluation. Touch your toes, and try to do it without bending your knees. If you can’t do it, don’t—”

  She turned to the side and her upper half dropped. Her palms were flat on the mat on either side of her feet.

  “You’re pretty flexible there,” Gian said. “You . . .”

  Her shirt had come untucked, revealing the skin of her lower back. Two long, fine stripes of pale scar tissue drew Gian’s eye. “How’d you get—”

  She stood upright so fast, the top of her head missed a collision with Gian’s chin by mere inches. Tugging her shirt down, she took a step back.

  “Hands at your sides,” Gian prompted, getting back on track. “Now, extend your left leg and raise it as high as you can.”

  She followed his direction, holding her left leg perfectly straight and hip high. Gian slowly walked around her. He took his time, deliberately testing her. Rock steady, the only indication of discomfort she gave was a subtle pursi
ng of her lips.

  “You’ve studied dance,” he stated.

  She nodded.

  He passed in front of her, his gi brushing her left foot. “Your toe point gave it away. Can you shift your leg to the side without dropping it?”

  She did so, her right foot digging into the mat to maintain her balance.

  “Now raise your arms as high as you can.”

  His hands clasped behind him, he watched her assume the position. She bobbled a little, but quickly found her center and steadied herself.

  “That’s very good,” he told her. “Relax now.”

  She dropped her arms and leg and wiped a sheen of perspiration from her upper lip.

  “You’re very strong and you’ve got excellent balance,” he said. “Some of my best students studied dance before they came to me. Where were you taught?”

  “Flexibility, strength, and balance,” she said pointedly, her dark eyes finally meeting his. “What’s next?”

  “Reflexes and agility. I’m going to throw a series of light punches at you and I want you to dodge them.”

  She inhaled deeply, steeling herself, while Gian took a fight position. A hesitant nod signified her readiness to begin, and Gian threw out his right fist. She shifted left, neatly avoiding it. After a few slow punches, Gian speeded them up, and he was impressed with her reaction. “Very nice,” he said. “You’re a natural. You’re watching my eyes but following my shoulders. You’re anticipating the direction of the punch. Have you had fight training before?”

  “In a way,” she said, slipping under another punch. Gian said, “I’m going to throw them in combination now. Let’s see what you got.”

  She kept up with him. High, low, jab, cross—she dodged each of them. He moved her all over the mat, chasing her with punches she skillfully avoided until . . .

  “Gian, you still here?”

  The loud male voice broke her concentration, and she walked into Gian’s right fist. She staggered back before tripping over her feet, and she landed hard on her backside. The familiarity of the brilliant, wet pain in the center of her face confused her for a moment, taking her to a place she had hoped never to see again.

  “Grab an ice pack and a towel!” Gian shouted to the man who had appeared in the doorway. Kneeling over his victim, he reached for her. “Are you okay?”

  She scrambled out of his reach, stopping only when she butted against the wall behind her. Blood seeped between the fingers she pressed to her nose. “I’m fine. It’s nothing.”

  Squatting, Gian ran his hands over his closely cropped head of dark hair. “Damn it, I’m sorry. I should have been paying better attention.” He took her elbow to help her up. She stiffened, tightly closing her eyes as she found her feet.

  “I think we’ll call it done for today,” Gian said. He escorted her into the office and sat her in the chair facing his desk. Gently, he guided her head back. “Don’t move,” he told her. He grabbed antibacterial wipes from his desk and quickly plucked three of them from the canister. Standing behind her, he peeled her hands from her face and replaced them with the wipes and the ice pack that had been left on his desk, applying gentle but firm pressure to the bridge of her nose. “I should have pulled that last one,” he said. “You were doing so well, I guess I got a little carried away.”

  She moved his hands a bit higher, more effectively staunching the flow of blood. “It was my fault,” she said woodenly.

  He remembered the scars on her back and wondered how many times she had told herself that. “It’s never your fault,” he assured her. His voice sounded strange to his own ears. He cleared his throat and forced himself to sound normal. “What I mean is I’m the trained professional. I should have been more careful.”

  “I know what you mean,” she said. “This time, it was my fault. I let myself get distracted and I moved right into the punch. It won’t happen again.”

  Gian smiled. “You’re a real tough lady, aren’t you?”

  She raised her head and sat on the edge of her chair. One last swipe of the wadded wipes, and her nose was clear. “What’s next?”

  “How ‘bout you coming back when you’re up to it? In the meantime, I’ve got some paperwork you’ll need to fill out. I need an emergency contact—”

  “911.”

  “—a waiver—”

  “I take full responsibility for any injuries I might incur.”

  “That’s what you say now,” he responded.

  “You have my word,” she stated firmly. “I won’t sue you if I get hurt.” She returned the ice pack to him but crumpled the wipes in her hand. “Is this time tomorrow good for you?”

  Her wide eyes were unreadable. The longer she stared at him, the more Gian wanted to study her eyes, to learn their secrets. “Uh,” he said, tearing his gaze from hers. “Let me check.”

  He sat in his chair and spun to look at the calendar posted on the wall. “I have a full day of classes scheduled. It’s a busy season with the kiddies out of school. I don’t finish up until five-thirty.”

  “Will you be too tired to teach me?”

  “I’ll switch some things around. It’s not a problem. You’ll get my best. So I’ll put you down for five-thirty?”

  She nodded, her fingers fiddling with the hem of her shirt.

  He used one of his promotional pens to write PRIVATE LESSON on the 5 P.M. line of his calendar. “There are a few rules you’ll have to adhere to.”

  Her eyes widened in a flash of fear, then narrowed as a spark of anger reshaped her mouth.

  “They’re all a matter of respect,” he explained. “Respect is a very important part of the disciplines I’ll be teaching you.”

  Her face relaxed and she nodded.

  “You can wear shorts, sweats, T-shirts—whatever exercise clothes you prefer until you purchase a gi.” He tossed her a catalog and a business card. “You can order one from this place, or you can go to the shop on the card. It’s in Maplewood. I require all of my students to wear white. No pinks or tie-dyed gis in my dojo.”

  He smiled to soften the directive, but she merely nodded her acceptance of his rule before she retrieved her belongings. On her way back to her chair, she took the cash from her purse and returned it to the messy desk.

  “Would you like a receipt for this?”

  “It isn’t necessary.”

  “Then we’ll talk more tomorrow.” He rolled himself a few feet to the tall filing cabinet behind his desk. He unlocked it, then opened the bottom drawer to retrieve a cash box. “We’ll discuss your goals and the best way to achieve them. I take what I do very seriously and I expect my students to do so as well. If you expect me to go easy on you, or if you think this is going to be a social hour, I’ll return your money right . . . now.”

  He turned around to see that he was talking to empty space. He shot out of his chair, nearly vaulting over the corner of his desk, and got to the main studio in time to see the woman, once again shrouded in black, walking out the front door. Only then did Gian realize that he had failed to get her name.

  * * *

  As was her habit, she glanced over her shoulder before unlocking the door to her attic apartment. The steep, narrow stairwell behind her was deserted, but she quickly opened the door and slipped inside, an old arrow of panic piercing her belly as she closed the door a bit too forcefully. Both automatic locks fastened themselves. She turned the three deadbolts before typing a release code into the security console built into the adjacent wall. She had ten seconds to supply the code before the unit sent a silent call to the police, who would respond in less than three minutes if her last security drill was still accurate. After rearming the unit, she secured the heavy chain and notched the steel police bar in its groove and latch.

  Opening the door to the foyer closet, she took off her scarf. She hung the scarf on a hook inside the door, then held onto the door frame to maintain her balance while she kicked off her black flats. With her toe, she scooted them neatly into the gap between her w
hite Nike Cross Trainers and a pair of sensible black pumps.

  In her bare feet, she padded into the kitchen. She passed her right hand through her hair, her fingertips reading the raised line of a scar hidden just behind her temple. She’d spent the afternoon preparing her dinner, a banquet of broiled prawns accompanied by broccoli rabe sautéed with bacon, red onion, and a drizzle of balsamic vinegar. Dining alone was no excuse for not dining well, but she got something more than physical nourishment from her efforts.

  Cooking fed her mind and soul along with her body. It was her therapy, her companionship. The acts of washing, peeling, chopping, slicing, mincing, and dicing kept her on her feet and her hands busy, sometimes for hours, depending on the complexity of her recipe or menu. It wasn’t until after she had consumed her meal, when she looked up from her empty plate to see the vacant chairs around the dining table that loneliness tried to sneak up on her. Washing her cookware and plates by hand, drying them and putting them away helped push the loneliness aside long enough to get her to bedtime, when her attention to herself through bathing and grooming took her to the point where she could climb into bed and turn herself over to sleep.

  She had gotten into a routine during her waking hours, one that successfully, if not joyfully, moved her from one day to the next. At the end of her day, she clutched a handful of her bedcovers under her chin and succumbed to the heaviness of her eyelids, wishing that she could manage her sleeping hours just as well.

  Chapter 2

  “So, uh, who was the lady in your private studio last night, Gian?”

  Gian looked up from the employee schedule opened atop his desk. His black pen froze above the square in which he’d been writing the name of the instructor who had just pried into his business.

  “She’s a new student, Chip,” Gian said, returning to his schedule.

  “She had some really good moves. That is, before I interrupted you. Was she okay?”

  “She got over it quick enough,” Gian answered. “What am I missing?” Karl asked. He ceased his pacing behind Chip’s chair.