Chapter 6 Lana #2
“Oh.” I can’t imagine how hard it must be to feel like people are speaking a different language and struggling to get the subtext each time.
Was he always like this? I wish I could ask but we’ve gone deep enough for a second date so I step back, thinking more clearly once he’s not so close in my space. “So you said we’d go back to basics.”
“Alright,” he rasps, his face unreadable, meeting my shift in energy with a nod. “Keep your feet shoulder-width apart. You need to be grounded,” he instructs, demonstrating a stable stance.
I mirror him, the tension from our previous exchange linger but I push it aside, focusing instead on the way his muscles flex with each movement.
His forearms are covered with ink and thick veins.
I’ve never had a thing for veins but I don’t know if it’s the nurse in me or the giggling teenager, probably both, but I wish I could run my finger on them.
Like now.
No.
Focus.
“This will help you stay balanced if someone tries to knock you off your feet,” he continues, stepping closer to adjust my stance again, his fingers brushing my skin with intention, always checking my gaze if I’m not triggered and turning me in a puddle for this caring man that I’m only seeing for the fourth time in my life.
“Now, when you’re ready, throw a punch. Focus on your form, and remember, you need to be quick,” he encourages me, stepping back.
“What? I’m not going to punch you, I don’t want to hurt you,” I gasp, shaking my head. I thought it was about protecting myself, not harming someone else.
“Punch me, Lana. You won’t hurt me, I promise. I’ll teach you how to counter a blow, but I don’t want to be the one aiming at you, so punch me and I’ll show you how I protect myself from it,” he explains, his voice soft like a blanket around me.
I’ve never done this.
I’ve never defended myself.
Ever.
With a deep breath, I throw a weak punch and my fist connects with Carter’s hard chest. “Again,” he grunts.
The second time, I add more power and feel it to the end of my digits.
“Good. You’ve got power in your arm,” he says, a hint of approval in his voice that sends a thrill through me. “One more,” he prompts.
“Wait, I don’t want to hurt you, are you okay?” I’m no Hulk but from experience, I know for a fact that getting punched isn’t a nice sensation.
“I’m used to fighting sweetness, don’t worry about me, not even a second, okay?” he reassures me, the nickname slipping from his lips naturally like he said it a thousand times before.
Sweetness.
I could call him on it.
I could.
“Okay,” I murmur before sending another punch on his muscular chest.
“Better.” He nods, stepping closer again. “Now look at my body language, look for cues of your opponent striking back.” There’s a flutter in my chest, both from the intensity of the lesson and the closeness of his body to mine.
“What… What do I do if they throw it back?” I ask, reminding us of why we’re here in the first place. Carter’s expression shifts, a shadow of seriousness crossing his face.
“You need to be quick. Duck under it, or sidestep. Avoid the impact. It’s all about reaction.” He demonstrates, moving gracefully despite his tall frame. “Here, I’ll show you, lower your knees,” he commands, pointing at my leg, “arms protecting your face and stomach, yes, exactly like that.”
I blush at the sound of his raspy voice softening on me.
“Now step to the side, quicker, yes, exactly.” He steps toward me.
“I’m gonna fake punch you now. I won’t hurt you, but we’ll do it once so you can see that you can protect yourself from it, okay?
” His blue eyes go back and forth between mine and my mouth as if he wants to find all the answers on my face.
“Okay,” I murmur, the wheels of abuse waking up in my memory, unsure of how I would react to someone punching me.
“Ready?” he asks again, his jaw ticks and I wonder if this is how he displays nervousness.
I nod and look at him aiming at me. Taking a deep breath I lower my knee, avoid his fist and step to the side, his body away from mine.
He stares at me, my fists still protecting my face, then steps closer and delicately unfolds my arms back to my side like a flower.
“Perfect,” he mutters so low I wonder if it was meant for me to hear.
How can this giant be so cold and gentle at the same time?
“I think we’ll stop here for tonight, sweetness.
Is that alright with you?” he asks, his thumb mindlessly stroking my hand again.
Little fireworks spread on my arms as his touch lights up a fire in me I thought would never spark again.
“I’m kind of hungry, actually.”
“I know just the place,” he says bluntly, clenching his jaw. I part my lips, my gaze drawn to his like magnets. But then, a loud noise from the bar side of the hall shatters the moment and breaks our spell.
“Here,” he says, giving me a bottle of water, “I’m gonna grab a sweatshirt for you, it’s cold outside. Then we’ll walk to it. It’s close, five minutes tops.”
“Great.” I give him a soft smile, finishing the water bottle before he comes back with a large sweatshirt carrying the name of his club on the back. Raven Sons MC Club.
“Sorry, I didn’t have anything in your size. That’s mine.”
I nod. “It’s okay, thank you.” I slide inside his large black sweatshirt, the scent of spice and forest imprinting on my skin. Could I…keep it?
“Let’s go,” he states, offering his hand, pulling up the rope of the ring for me to go down easily.
Without letting go of my hand, we walk outside, passing by the bar where a few men look at us, their banter going silent for a few seconds as we pass by them, some staring at Carter with wide eyes and others carrying a smug grin.
I don’t want to seem rude, so I offer a small nod before we leave the place by the large main door.
“Where are you taking me?” I smile, enjoying his hand holding mine, and his thumb rubbing the back of my hand. His hold is soft yet strong, and I like it. There’s something about him that grounds me, that makes me feel safe, protected from my past.
“I hope you like tacos,” he says, looking down at me with a spark in his eyes.
“I love tacos,” I reply, actually hungry and glad we’re not heading to a fancy over-the-top restaurant like Ben used to enjoy.
“Good,” he deadpans, looking at the street left and right before we cross it, continuously checking for cars or anything that could harm me.
Good, yes, that’s the word.
CARTER
I’m holding her hand.
I’M HOLDING HER HAND.
Women don’t usually make me feel anything but Lana, damn, Lana is making every single atom of my body awake and aware of her every move.
I could tell the session we had was intense for her and perhaps reminded her of difficult memories.
If only I could grab that fucker. I’d be happy to break his bones and bury him alive in the woods.
Oh, that’d be a treat. Like presents on Christmas day.
Her hand is small and soft in mine, and I like that she hasn’t pulled it away, letting me stroke her hand since we left.
It’s only a five-minute walk, but damn, between watching her get outside her comfort zone on the ring and not running away from my emotionless face, I’m out of my depth, and I don’t know if my next move will be good enough.
Perhaps she’d prefer a fancier place, but I’m not that kind of guy.
I like simple stuff, things that taste good, places where you don’t have to bother about your clothes and shit.
But then, Lana has surprisingly accepted the things I gave her until now, so perhaps she will like this too.
She’ll leave you once she realizes you’re just a block of ice with no heart beating inside. You’re worthless, you belong in the basement with hammers, knives, and dead bodies.
“Thank you for the sweater,” she says softly, breaking my thoughts with a light smile as she looks up at me.
We’re almost there, passing the streets in our workout wear, but it’s not that cold, so she won’t be sick from it.
I would have never offered if I thought it would be too cold for her bare legs with her shorts on.
I’m still in my black T-shirt, the evening air cooling down my blood pulsing like a racehorse since she let me hold her hand.
“You can keep it if you want,” I offer, my voice cold as ice. I’d like that, actually. Very much. Knowing that there’s something from me in her home. Something she can look at and think of me if the idea doesn’t repulse her. She blushes but doesn’t answer.
Is that a good thing?
I don’t ask ‘cause we’re already there. Small place, ten tables max, just a food truck with Mexican music, light bulbs, and a small terrace.
It’s warm and inviting. There’s a few folk and a family with kids.
It’s not much, but I like it. The food truck has been there for years, parked between the warehouses of our neighbors and paying the protection from the club to stay on our territory.
I guide us to order and hear her hum at the sight of the food.
“Evening fellows,” greets Marcos, the owner, who knows exactly who I am since most of the club go there once a month to eat after fight night. “What’d ya like?”
I wait for Lana to choose, but I notice her smile fading. Did I do something wrong? “Do you need more time to choose? We can get drinks, there’s no rush,” I assure her, ‘cause her hazelnut eyes aren’t as sparkly as a minute ago.
“No, it’s fine,” she shakes her head, “I’ll take the shrimp one please,” she tells me, and I give her order to Marcos.
“What do you want to drink?” I ask her, and she points with a trembling finger at a bottle of soda. I pay, then invite her to sit on the multicolored wooden chair beneath the string of lights.
“Thank you for the meal,” she stutters with a low voice, the long sleeves of my sweater covering her hands. Something’s wrong. I angle my face on the side, scrutinizing her.