Burn (Indigo) Read online

  Hungry as he was, Gian spent a short moment marveling at the sandwich—which was no mere sandwich— she had prepared. It was a classic Dagwood elevated to culinary art. He identified five different meats, including mortadella— his favorite— and at least three varieties of cheese layered between the halves of an eight-inch ciabatta roll. Romaine lettuce, red onion, tomato, and green bell pepper slices complemented the cold cuts. Gian devoured three hearty bites. “What else is on here?”

  “I made a sandwich spread. Minced black, green, and kalamata olives, capers, sautéed shallots, Dijon mustard, and a few spices mixed into a little basil oil. I also splashed a bit of white balsamic vinegar on top of the vegetables. Do you like it?”

  Smiling around bulging cheeks full of the sandwich, he leaned over and kissed her, smearing a corner of her mouth with oil.

  “That good, huh?” She laughed lightly.

  “Better,” he answered, chomping off another bite. Cinder got up for napkins.

  Gian licked his fingers. He was wiping his hand on his jeans when Cinder returned. “I’m starting you on something new this month. Make sure you bring your mouth guard to class tomorrow night.”

  Cinder gave him a few paper napkins. “That sounds interesting. What are we doing?”

  He grinned. “Weaponry. Every two weeks between now and the tournament, you’re going to learn a new weapon, and you’ll learn how to improvise them in the field.”

  “What field?”

  “Home. The street. The middle of a department store.” He licked his fingers. “The field is anyplace you find yourself having to defend yourself.”

  “Why would I have to defend myself in the middle of a department store?”

  “It was just an example. Hopefully, nothing ever happens at Macy’s that would lead to you busting skulls. But if you ever have to, you’ll know how.”

  “Sounds fun.” She giggled.

  Gian finished the sandwich and followed it with two cups of coffee and a slice of gooey butter cake. In her darkened living room, he and Cinder cuddled on the cushioned bench behind the sofa to watch a meteor shower. She kissed him every time they saw a shooting star. With the shooting stars coming more frequently and the kisses lasting longer, Gian decided to bid her goodnight while he thought he still could.

  “I can’t stay, sweetie. I’ve got fifty new students to process.” He gave her a final nip to her lower lip and started for the door. “They want to start immediately, and I’ve got to get them on file for insurance purposes before they can work out in the dojo.”

  “Are you sure you can’t stay?” Pressing her chest to his back, she slipped her right hand into his pants. He stopped abruptly at the door. “I think one of you might want to stay awhile longer.” She nuzzled his back with her nose. “He’s at full attention now. He definitely wants to stay.”

  Her fingertip traced delicate circles over the sensitive bed of nerves at the back of his little soldier’s head. Not so little anymore, it seemed to buck and rear to battle its way out of his jeans. “I suppose we could stay for a few more minutes.”

  “Minutes?” She flicked her tongue over his earlobe, then suckled it.

  Gian moaned, his response incoherent.

  “What was that?”

  “I’m not going anywhere.” In one rough motion, he turned and kissed her, taking her by her backside to lift her. Her arms and legs locked around his neck and waist. Pressing her into the wall, his hands went into her hair, clutching her head. He spoke to her in the language of desire. Through the fluency of his kisses, he showed her that there was nothing he wouldn’t do for her, this woman whose kisses blessed him, whose body gave him new life every time she shared it with him. Her strength was total, and elastic in the way it stretched over him, giving him the invincibility that weapons and fighting skill never could.

  “I love you.” He stroked her hair from her face, caressing her cheek, her lips.

  The earnest intensity of his declaration seemed to startle her out of their kiss. She cupped his face, holding his gaze. He wondered . . . hoped . . . she saw the weight and truth of his love.

  Her lower lip trembled. Tears glistened, but failed to fall, from her lower lashes. “I know,” she said.

  Gian touched his forehead to hers. There was no arrogance in her response, only humble gratitude and acceptance. He carried her into the living room and fell into the comfortable depths of the sofa with her, determined to show her, in every way he knew, how very much he loved her.

  * * *

  “Did you get a cat?”

  Gian looked up from the applications and insurance forms spread over his desk to see Chip enter his office. Chip’s fresh white gi temporarily blinded Gian. “No, I don’t like cats,” Gian answered, returning to his paperwork. “Why do you ask?”

  “Your face. Looks like you got into a fight against something with sharper claws than Karl.”

  Absently touching his face, Gian remembered the nicks he’d given his jaw and neck during his hasty morning shave. “I really wish people would stop mentioning that.”

  “They will,” Chip assured him. He took the chair facing Gian’s desk. “Just as soon as something more interesting happens around here. You’re the talk of the town. I was at the university last night, and a lot of people asked me about it there.”

  “What were you doing at Webster?”

  “Lecture.” Chip scratched his chin, his gaze toward the ceiling. “Nothin’ big.”

  Gian set down his ballpoint pen and leaned back in his chair, his fingers laced over the knot of his obi. “Since when are you interested in lectures?”

  “Since recently. It ain’t no thing, Gian.” Chip forced a cough. “I’m gonna grab a bottle of water before my first class, boss.”

  “Hold up.” Gian grinned. “What was the lecture on?”

  Chip’s gaze seemed unable to find Gian. “Just some talk on woman warriors . . .” His voice dropped off, his words running together unintelligibly.

  “What’s that again?” Gian tried not to laugh as Chip squirmed.

  Chip sighed. “Waking the Warrior in Every Woman,” he drawled.

  “Is there a woman warrior in particular who interested you in the subject?”

  “Don’t go there, man.”

  “I’m not trying to pry. I just didn’t know you had an interest in that sort of thing.”

  “Neither did I,” Chip replied, “until the speaker started talkin’. It was . . . enlightening.”

  Enlightening? That was a Professor Zae Richard word if Gian had ever heard one. “Did you go alone?”

  Chip hopped out of the chair and went to the desk that had once been Karl’s. “Hey, I got my applications processed.” He took up a sheaf of forms and gave them to Gian. “I finished ’em before I left last night. What time did you finally get outta here?”

  “Around eight. I got involved with something and didn’t get home until early this morning. I wanted to come in early to process the applications I took yesterday.” Gian glanced at the wall clock. “I’ve been here since six.”

  “You’ve been at this for three hours?”

  Gian nodded. “I had to get them done. Our first group of new students came in at seven-thirty for the first Dangerous Housewives class of the day.” He reached back and tapped the schedule with the tip of his pen. “Aja’s got two new Brees, two Gabbys, one Susan, and one Edie.”

  “No new Lynettes?”

  Gian bent over his work. “The Lynettes don’t tend to need self-defense classes.”

  “Have you talked to Cinder yet?”

  “Yeah. We’re good.”

  “Are you?”

  Gian raised his eyes to Chip. “I don’t follow.”

  Chip sat back down. Resting his elbows on his knees, he leaned in toward Gian. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but I don’t think you’re using your brain when it comes to Cinder.”

  Gian’s face hardened. If anyone else had said that, chances were good that he’d be brawling again
. He waited until the muscles in his jaw relaxed before he said, “Cinder and I have more than a physical relationship. We couldn’t be more different, but in the ways that matter, we understand each other. I find balance with her, and I think I give that to her, too. If you think I went after Karl yesterday because I’m being led by my dick, then—”

  “That’s not what I meant,” Chip cut in. “I think your heart leads you when it comes to Cinder. Your brain takes a backseat. When we were on tour, you were the best commander because you were so logical. So reasonable. You didn’t let emotion figure into the choices you had to make, and I know how hard some of them were for you. I think . . .” Chip chose his words very carefully. “I think you should balance the heart with the brain when you run into situations like what happened on Halloween.”

  “When did you get so wise?”

  Chip smiled. “Not wisdom. Just good horse sense.” “Maybe it’s the company you’re keeping,” Gian suggested.

  Chip stood and turned, unsuccessfully hiding a grin and a blush.

  “Who did you say you went to that lecture with?” Gian persisted, enjoying Chip’s discomfort.

  “I didn’t.” Chip looked at the place on his wrist where a watch would have been, had he been wearing one. “Look at the time, boss. I think I’ll go help Aja set up for her next class since she’s got so many new students.”

  “Good idea.” Gian chuckled. Right before Chip cleared the door, he called, “Hey . . .”

  Chip turned in the doorway.

  “Thanks.”

  “Anytime, boss.”

  Chapter 12

  Cinder shouldered her way through the crowded lobby and hurried past the students lining one wall of the dojo. Gian had told her that he had new students, but he hadn’t mentioned numbers. Chip’s beginning taekwondo class appeared to have doubled in size while at least ten more new students in the lobby waited for the start of the five-thirty Strength & Conditioning class.

  Cinder was turning into Gian’s office as Gian rushed out, and he had to catch her by her shoulders to keep from stampeding over her.

  “You weren’t kidding,” Cinder said. “There are so many new faces here today.”

  “Every class has been packed,” Gian told her. “I have to split up Aja’s five o’clock because I don’t think she can adequately manage all the new students. I had to call one of my former students in to help me teach since Aja’s working with you tonight.”

  “Why?” Cinder clutched the braided strap of her gym bag a little tighter.

  “You’re starting weapons tonight, remember?” “Aren’t you teaching me?”

  “Gian!” Chip stuck his head around the archway. “Could you come out here? I’ve got someone who wants to sign up for classes, but he wants to talk to you about a payment plan for his tuition.”

  “I’ll be right there,” Gian told Chip. He cupped Cinder’s face. “Aja’s better at weaponry than I am. You’re ready, honey.”

  “I know, it’s just . . .” She stared at her feet, but then looked up at him with a slight smile of confidence. “I’m so used to you.”

  He gave her a quick kiss. “You’ll like Aja.” He backed toward the dojo. “Everyone does. Stay focused and you won’t get hurt.”

  “Thanks,” she muttered at his back as he disappeared.

  Her step less eager, Cinder went to the private studio.

  Aja had remained an enigma in the course of Cinder’s association with Sheng Li. Like “Maris” from Frazier, Aja existed for Cinder only through hearsay. Curious and wary, she entered the private studio.

  According to Zae, Aja was Sheng Li’s most experienced instructor. She was the most decorated, with seventy fighting titles and belts. Tough and resourceful, Aja had emigrated alone to the United States from Japan at seventeen years old. Cinder admired her for that even as she feared Aja’s prowess with weapons she had only seen in Ninja Turtle movies.

  I have the wrong movies in mind, Cinder told herself after stepping into the studio. She’s Yoda. Shock obliterated Cinder’s nervous jitters. No Asian version of Zae awaited her at the tall cabinet in the far corner. Not unless Zae had been hacked off at the knees and aged thirty years.

  The small woman turned around. “Miss White?”

  “Yes,” she nodded. “Yes, sensai.” Cinder bowed.

  The little woman approached. Though she appeared to have no difficulty walking, she carried a staff a foot taller than she was. Cinder doubted Aja topped five feet. Her gi, if it could be called that, consisted of a tunic that appeared to be two rectangles of coarse, drab fabric hand-sewn at the shoulders and sides. The unfinished edges of the armholes were frayed, and Cinder was tempted to reach out and pluck the loose threads fluttering at the hard muscles of Aja’s shoulders.

  Aja’s gnarled toes poked from crude rope sandals. Her formless trousers swam around her hips and legs. When she smiled up at Cinder, her craggy face splintered into a thousand wrinkles that radiated from the corners of her black eyes and her mouth. Wispy silver and black strands of her hair had freed themselves from the loose bun at her nape to elegantly frame her broad face. Cinder found her oddly beautiful, like a perfect piece of driftwood, or desert dunes after a windstorm.

  The hand gripping the staff was all knuckles, its deeply cracked, heavily lined skin revealing a long life of hard work. The old woman moved with the strength and agility of a gymnast, and the muscles bunched in her arms and shoulders looked hard and strong as she flipped the stick horizontally, shoving it at Cinder. She issued a rapid-fire command in heavily-accented English.

  “I’m sorry,” Cinder started, struggling to steady the staff, which was heavier than it looked. “I didn’t quite understand you.”

  “Find the balance,” Aja repeated more slowly, and a bit more loudly.

  “I don’t underst—”

  Aja grabbed the staff back, gripping it firmly at its midpoint, her hands a few inches apart. She gave it a little shake. “Find the balance. Find the center of the bo to find its strength.”

  Cinder took the staff. She adjusted her grip, copying Aja. The bo seemed much lighter once she had it centered.

  Aja marched back to the cabinet. She took two sticks the approximate length of her arms from a lower shelf. Smiling, she started back to Cinder. Ten feet away, Aja began swinging the sticks, screaming shrill fight cries that brought the fine hairs on Cinder’s arms to attention.

  Instinctively, she warded off Aja with the bo, holding it horizontally to block slashing strikes, vertically to avoid side-to-side swings that whistled through the air. The staccato notes of the bo clacking against the shorter sticks echoed in the studio. Aja didn’t stop her charge until she’d backed Cinder into the wall.

  “Good, good,” she praised, holding her sticks under one arm to give Cinder a proud clap on the shoulder. “Gian taught you well.”

  “We’ve never used weapons before,” Cinder admitted, panting. “This is my first time.”

  Aja’s second proud slap to Cinder’s arm nearly rocked her off her feet. “You got good instincts,” Aja said. “You want to survive a fight. Your head trusts your body to know what to do to protect itself.”

  “Does my grip make a difference?”

  “You’re a smart girl, very smart. That is a very good question.”

  Again, Aja snatched the bo. Holding it in an overhand grip, she said, “This is wrong. This is how you hold oars to row a canoe. Do you think you will fight a canoe?”

  “No, sensai,” Cinder answered.

  Aja switched her hold, one hand over, the other under. “You hold it like this, the right way. You get more control. You can switch direction faster without losing your grip or the strength in your block or swing.” She demonstrated, her movements powerful and precise as the bo slashed gracefully in every direction.

  After nearly an hour of practice and sparring, Aja led Cinder to the cabinet. She opened the doors. Cinder expected to see more weapons, and she did. But she also saw a box of spaghetti, a caniste
r of air freshener, and a few long wooden dowels. Aja selected a dowel.

  “See this?” She held it, hands wide apart. “It’s the same size as the stick of your broom or mop. What will you do if an intruder comes into your home? Do you have your own cabinet with the bo, the club or the bolo? No!”

  Cinder jumped, startled by the sharpness of Aja’s last syllable.

  “But you have a broom.” Aja grinned, her eyes gleaming with animal cunning. “And you have a mop.” She raised the dowel and snapped it over her knee. “And now, you have your own pair of eskrima sticks.” The jagged ends of each half aimed at Cinder, she worked them in slow circles as she had her other pair of sticks.

  “Your home will protect you,” Aja continued, placing the dowel halves in the cabinet alongside her genuine eskrima sticks. “A package of spaghetti, a can of air freshener, your rolled up newspaper—all are weapons.”

  “I don’t see how you can hurt someone with spaghetti,” Cinder said.

  Aja pulled one strand of uncooked spaghetti from its box. Cinder almost giggled when Aja hit her forearm with it. “One is good for nothing.” She took the entire box of spaghetti. “But together . . .” She whapped the side of the cabinet with it.

  Cinder winced at the resultant BAM!, imagining the package crashing into human flesh.

  Aja jabbed at her with it, showing her another defensive maneuver. Impressed, Cinder studied Aja’s every move, especially her use of a newspaper as a weapon.

  Aja held up a flat-folded issue of the St. Louis Post-Dispatch. “Like this, what happens when I hit someone?” She swatted at Cinder with the newspaper. The sections slid apart harmlessly, the sales circular floating to the mat. “Paper flies all over,” Aja answered herself. She rolled the paper into a tube, her forearm muscles working as she gave it a savage twist. She lunged at Cinder, driving her back in a move the Three Musketeers would envy. “What’s black and white and red all over?”

  “I have no idea,” Cinder nearly whimpered.

  “Your opponent, after you beat his ass with this.” With a loud clap, Aja brought the end of the newspaper down into the palm of her left hand. “You can easily break the cartilage of the nose or the larynx with this. You can jab an eye or his tenders.”