Chapter 6Oh my god. I have a thing for Miller.
six
. . .
oh my god. i have a thing for miller.
“You sure you don’t mind?” Art asks for the hundredth time.
I roll my eyes as I stuff my hoodie into my bag. “Stop asking if I mind. I don’t mind, Art!” I grab the apple and banana from the counter and add them to my stuff. “Mara, are you ready?”
“It’s too early!” She moans from the bathroom, where she’s combing her hair like a limp noodle, the door open so we can hear her complaints clearly.
“I’m dropping Art off at the clinic to see the doctor before I take you, remember?
We gotta go.” Toeing into my black Vans, I grab my down parka and loop my scarf around my neck.
“It’s right now or not at all,” I threaten like I always do.
It’s not a real threat but more of a warning I’m about to lose what little patience I do have .
I wish I had more patience. My mom calls it fiery, but when I reflect on the times I’ve lost my cool, I usually feel a lot like a toddler stomping her foot.
Luckily, Mara pads down the hall with a mope on her face. I pinch her cheek as she walks by, earning me a sock to my bicep.
I rub the spot because it actually aches from her–she’s so strong. “Hey!” I grumble, rubbing over my coat again and again. “That hurt. You owe me a cookie for that.”
“No way,” she says as Art pulls open the door. Once we’re in the car and Art has double-checked the front door is locked, we’re on our way, and Mara is still tired.
I pat her leg by reaching into the back seat. “Cheer up buttercup; in a few minutes, you’re going to be doing some karate.”
She groans.
“You love it, so quit,” I say, coming to a stop. We drive the rest of the way in silence before wishing Art good luck at his appointment. I remind him that mom is picking him up as she’ll be off in just an hour, and he waves his hand at me. “ My back’s hurt–not my brain .”
Fair enough.
Mara begins stretching as I drive her to her event. They’re doing one-on-one training for Kumite coming up in a few months. That will be when Mara can prove herself in a one-on-one competition. It’s kind of what she’s training for, in a way.
Rule number one of karate: it is used only for self-defense.
Rule number two: learn rule number one.
This Kumite is meant to demonstrate those skills, but some are offensive as well. It’s… everything to her.
This morning, they’re doing footwork drills to prepare, so I’m glad she’s snapping out of her funk .
As I’m treading up the bleachers, my legs feeling like they’re full of fucking sand, the voice that makes me want to vomit comes screeching up behind me. The bleachers creak as I fall to my butt, then, sitting down right next to me, is Rock.
But of course.
I roll my eyes. “Please get away from me now.”
“That’s not a very nice good morning,” he growls. I swear he tries to growl it like he’s mimicking someone with actual talent. He sounds like an old lady who’s trying to cough up a fucking hairball.
He’s trying to sound like one of my audiobooks.
He knows I listen to them.
Those two months we “dated” (because I refuse to think of it seriously ), an audiobook had started up in my car when I drove us on a date. Yep, I drove us. Yet another missed red flag.
He laughed when he heard it. Teased me endlessly.
“What’re you, some kind of call girl?” He really said that.
And he did a really disgusting snort when he asked, too.
I almost got mad, but then I remembered his brain was probably the size of a pea and his dick the length of the little pod it came in. I didn’t care about his opinion.
I know art. The performance of stories from words written with care. It’s a movie for your brain to build. And it’s amazing. So Rock could then and can now kiss my ass.
He flips his raggedy hair to the side and leans toward me, his body giving off a wet heat like an animal coming in from the rain. “You look good in that parka, D. But I can keep you warmer than that thing.”
I roll my eyes again, and he doesn’t know how hard I’m working to swallow my vomit. “Please leave,” I say, jaw tight, pulse beginning to pick up. A stray curl collides with my nose as his breath presses against my face .
“Leave with me.” His words crawl down my shirt like a toxin-filled spider, full of venom that can ruin me with just a tiny touch. Everything about him makes me squirm and scream, and my feminine wiles are waving their arms in the air, saying, do not trust this man!
And I don’t.
I throw my elbow into him, but my arm bounces back toward me. His core is lumpy and thick with buoyant muscle. I feel his grin over me as his lips come to my ear. He’s so much bigger than me, and that fact is now officially giving me panic.
He reaches over, unphased by my elbow, and lets his fingertips slide across the thin strip of exposed belly peeking from my baby tee.
I elbow him again hard, twice, as hard as I can.
So hard my abs seize with a cramp from the amount of strain I cast toward him.
I pull my coat closed and stand up, taking the bleachers two by two until I’m pounding the glazed gym floor, heading to sit with the class waiting for the mat.
I can’t leave. But I can’t sit off in no man’s land.
As I’m passing Mara and the other girls in her class, from behind, Rock calls, “you fuckin’ bitch,” and his words travel up my spine like ice picks working me over. Of course, he had to say that so Mara could hear. He’s even more of a prick than I thought.
I smile at Mara and give her a playful “what are you gonna do” type of look and sit next to a girl wearing an all-black gi, pressed to the nines. Her hair is shiny, slicked back, and neat. She eyes me cautiously and then spots Rock huffing off. She smiles knowingly.
After a few minutes, there’s a break, and my mouth is dry after the surge of adrenaline passes.
Stepping into the lobby, I peer down the hall and spot a drinking fountain that no one else seems to have noticed.
I make a break for it, but a few steps in, I am grabbed by my hipbone.
A familiar weighty hand. Panic seizes me for only a moment before I turn with a right hook to knock out anyone.
I may not do karate, but I work out, and no fucking floppy-haired loser with no game and a small dick is going to hurt me.
The right hook sends him a few paces back and gives me time to head back inside the auditorium and take a seat.
My heart is racing a million miles a minute.
My knuckles are throbbing viciously, sending a searing pain down my forearm, haloing in my wrist. Sweat trails down my spine, soaking the waistband of my leggings. I just punched him so fucking hard.
Oh my god.
No. No, no . Don’t do this. He put his hand on you not once but twice . He doesn’t get to do that.
I take a deep breath and repeat those facts to myself as Mara takes the mat and begins her footwork drills. I keep my eyes on her bare feet and slowly get lost in how artfully and masterfully they work as she steps quickly, with more ease than a dancer.
Rock ignores me when he reappears, only a few red welts on his cheek to be seen. And yet, as I look down at my throbbing knuckles, they’re bright red and already fading to blue along the edges. He ends up at his mat at the far end, and I’m good with that. It can end there if he lets it end there.
Why does it have to get that far? Fucking men.
The rest of the morning goes by in a blur of me replaying everything that happened while simultaneously paying close attention to my sister, cheering her on.
A few hours later, heading home with Mara, I explained to her that Rock is just an asshole, but he’s harmless. I don’t know if she believed me. I think she sensed I wasn’t sure if I believed myself.
Monday morning, I pull my hair up into a messy bun because I feel so sweaty and hot from the adrenaline.
If residual adrenaline isn’t a thing, I’m making it a thing.
The rest of Saturday and all day yesterday, I thought about Rock being so aggressive with me.
What if I hadn’t hit him? I feel gross still, and it’s Monday morning.
I hate that Rock has that power from how he behaved.
Atticus sidles up to me as I take a seat at my computer, logging in for the day.
“What do you need me to look up?” I breathe as I focus on the keyboard, my pulse still a little bit wobbly.
“I need–” he stops himself, and I close my eyes, knowing exactly why.
“What the fuck happened to your hand?” He grabs it and turns me as he yanks it closer to his eyes, studying the puffy, discolored skin.
“What happened, Laney?” he growls, and this man actually fucking growls it.
Like if I don’t tell him, he'll cuff my wrists and shout at me until I come clean.
“I promise I’ll tell you,” I plead as Miller enters the shop through the back door. “But later. Okay? Please?” I can’t dodge telling Atti, and he’ll make a big fucking deal out of it if I fight him; I know he will. I just… don’t want to in front of Miller.
Would I have cared a few weeks ago? Probably not, and I don’t like what that means. Whatever it means.
“Fine,” he snarls. Actually snarls. This man is something else. I want to roll my eyes at him, but he’s out of my space and out the shop door, bumping Miller on his way.
“Hi,” Miller greets, and then his eyes, like a moth to a flame, fall directly to my sore hand.
He swallows, and the way his Adam’s apple ducks beneath his collar for a second, how his eyes taper a little as he takes it in, and how he inches closer to me on his feet…
all of it has my heart flying around my chest so quickly I’m a little dizzy from the feeling.
He rests his hand on top of mine, and it’s strangely intimate and not at all expected. Bold for Miller. It seems so hard to believe he isn’t sure of himself when it comes to making a move when what he did just now was so incredibly romantic.
Romantic?