Chapter 24 #2
He pulled me closer, gently holding my face, and without a moment's hesitation, he leaned in and brushed his lips against mine.
I was caught off guard, trembling like a leaf.
My knees weakened, the ground beneath me started to crumble, flowers bloomed inside me, and my mind focused solely on his mouth.
That kiss was slow, soft, and sweet; his lips felt like silk against my skin.
When he finally pulled away, my stomach tightened, yearning for more. More.
The door swung open, revealing a vast, empty corridor. We walked further inside; the sounds of voices grew louder, blending screams with cheers, clapping, and music.
We turned left at the end of the hallway and encountered another set of large double doors. Zane grasped the handle, allowing me to step inside first. My jaw dropped at the sight before me.
The expansive space resembled a gym, but at its center lay a wide, round sparring platform covered in a thin black mat. Surrounding it were men seated on the floor, their bare torsos glistening as they clapped and sang. I noticed two guys playing some instruments.
All around, groups of people sat on benches, their eyes fixed on two individuals on the mat. Were they dancing? No, wait—a fight?
“What are they doing?” I asked, perplexed by the scene.
“That's capoeira,” Zane replied, his gaze locked on the two men finishing their routine on the mat. The music and clapping gradually faded. “They're just practicing. We'll put on a little demonstration of what we've learned,” he added.
“I'm sorry, what exactly is capoeira?” I asked, genuinely clueless about the term.
“My uncle, who is the owner, and our teacher, spent over a decade in Brazil learning capoeira.
It's a martial art that combines elements of dance, acrobatics, music, and ritual. It was developed by enslaved Africans and Afro-Brazilians as a means of resistance and self-defense. They practiced it under the cover of music and dance to avoid detection by their enslavers. What you just witnessed is called ginga—the foundational swaying movement that keeps capoeiristas balanced and prepared to attack or defend,” Zane explained, his passion evident in every word.
“I never thought of dance as something dangerous,” I chuckled.
“Well, it's not dangerous per se. It's an art form that focuses more on self-defense than actual striking,” he countered.
“So this is your form of exercise?” I inquired, intrigued.
“My uncle started this club a few years back, but it's private.
We don't advertise; people come here solely through referrals, mostly friends and family,” he said, scanning the room until his gaze landed on someone.
I followed his line of sight and saw V, breathing heavily, then glanced at Clous, who was smirking and nodding in approval, while Jake flicked his gaze between me and V.
“Come on, you'll sit with them. I need to get ready,” Zane said, gently caressing my face.
“I don't want to go over there. I can stay here,” I protested, standing my ground.
“You won't see anything from here. Come on, they won't bite,” he said, his eyes pleading.
But I was hesitant to sit alone with them.
“I promise they won't say a word, please,” he insisted, stepping closer and cupping my face in his hands.
How could I say no? We made our way over, my stomach churning uncomfortably.
After exchanging greetings, I settled onto the bench, leaving a noticeable gap between myself and V.
I was unsure how much she knew, but to my surprise, none of them spoke.
“I'll perform in about 20 minutes; I'm in the third jogo,” Zane said, preparing to leave.
“Jogo?” I asked, confused by the term. He smiled.
“Sparring, to put it simply, but 'jogo' means game. In capoeira, we don't use the term 'sparring.' Each game represents different styles, and I'll be showcasing Angola. You'll see it, and I'll explain later,” Zane said with a grin before rushing off.
I sat there, my legs crossed, feeling a warmth settle deep within me. I took off my coat and placed it beside me, deliberately avoiding any eye contact with the Vipers. I couldn't recall a moment when I had felt so out of place.
Suddenly, music filled the air, and everyone began to clap. It felt like I was at a theatrical performance. I noticed two figures approaching, crouching by the instruments and exchanging nods with an older man whom I presumed was the master and Zane’s uncle.
They greeted each other before entering the circle, executing cartwheels in perfect succession. As the music played, I clapped along, entranced by how the players synchronized with the rhythm.
Their movements were so fluid that they resembled a dance, yet there were precise kicks that punctuated the flow. It wasn't a chaotic battle; rather, it was a dialogue of movement, rhythm, and strategy that entranced me.
The next duo entered with a quicker, more aggressive tempo as the rhythm shifted.
Their acrobatics intensified, and I was eager to see Zane take the stage next.
My heart raced, mirroring the fast, hypnotic beat that echoed around us.
The master began to sing, and I was left in awe. The atmosphere buzzed with applause.
I caught sight of Zane and another fighter crouched, waiting for their moment.
My breath hitched as Zane cartwheeled into the circle—barefoot and clad only in black sweatpants.
His movements were slow and fluid. Then he froze in mid-movement, extending a hand as if to “call” the opponent into a symbolic duel.
Every motion was intentional, grounded, and focused on maintaining balance and control. It was a mesmerizing exchange of body language, and I found it impossible to look away—especially from Zane, who left me breathless.
His body was taut and glistening with sweat, but what captivated me most were his tattoos. I had caught a glimpse of something on his forearm before, but now it was a stunning canvas demanding my attention. I squinted to take in every detail.
A thin lightning bolt stretched from his right shoulder to his chest, while another zigzagged from his lower left side across his abdomen, with the word “Hope” inked beneath his left pectoral.
On his right arm and forearm, I could clearly see more tattoos, and another design spanned his back, extending from beneath his neck to almost his waist. I was entranced, forcing myself not to blink for fear of missing something.
Once the performance concluded, Zane and his opponent embraced and exited the circle.
I was overwhelmed with emotion, struggling to catch my breath—it felt as if my heart was beating louder than the music itself.
Sweat appeared on my forehead, and heat was invading my insides.
Scattered butterflies flew chaotically, tickling my desire, my craving for him.
While other pairs entered the circle to perform, my focus remained solely on Zane, his image etched into my memory.
After what felt like an eternity, the event came to a close.
The players embraced and shook hands with the master, and people began to disperse.
Unsure of what to do next, I noticed the Vipers had already slipped away without a word.
The master caught my eye and approached me. He appeared to be in his fifties, with a bald head, narrow green eyes, a pronounced nose, and a plump lower lip. His physique was toned and lean.
“You must be Luna. I hope you enjoyed our performance,” he said with a smile, extending his hand for a handshake.
“I'm Rob, nice to meet you.” His handshake was gentle, fluid—much like the performance I had just witnessed.
“Zane is changing; you can head to the changing room.
I think he's finished,” he gestured kindly.
“Go ahead, don't worry,” he reassured me, sensing my hesitation.
I thanked him and walked through a metal door, finding myself in a dimly lit, narrow corridor. As I ventured deeper, I spotted a red metal door with a small window and saw Zane inside, already dressed and organizing his belongings in a locker. I stepped in.
“Hey…” he said, locking his gaze onto mine.
“Hey…” I replied, a bit lost for words.
“So, what did you think? Did you enjoy it?”
My mind was still racing with images of his performance and… his naked body.
“It was incredible. I can't even categorize it as just dance or just fighting,” I said, smiling.
“Both,” he chuckled.
“It was mesmerizing; I've never seen anything like it,” I admitted, my excitement bubbling over. “How long have you been practicing?” I asked, genuinely curious.
“Like I mentioned before, my uncle returned from Brazil about five years ago, bought that old building, and started teaching what he learned to friends and family.
I was his first student. Then others expressed interest, and he agreed to teach.
Each year, more guys got into capoeira, but it's just a hobby for him—he doesn't get paid,” Zane explained as I moved closer.
“I noticed your tattoos,” I said, watching for his reaction.
“Yeah, I got them last year when I turned eighteen. I wanted to get them for a while,” he said with a smile.
“When's your birthday? I realized I don't really know much about you,” I said, my tone becoming a bit colder as Marco’s words echoed in my mind.
“August 10th,” he replied, leaning in slightly. “Don't worry; you'll get to know me. Just ask whatever you want, and I'll answer,” he said earnestly.
“Anything?”
“Anything!” he almost whispered. I had countless questions but didn't know where to begin. I decided to start at a pivotal point.
“Why did you write my name in that classroom?” I watched his expression closely.
“I already told you, because I like you.”
“But why write my name so many times? That must have taken hours.”
“86 minutes,” he replied nonchalantly. My mouth went agape. “We were messing around; Clous proposed to break into school; he had a key.”
“But the window was broken?” I interrupted, and he chuckled.
“Well, we had to break the window; otherwise, they would have known it was someone from inside. Clous’s mom works as a secretary at the school; she has keys. Clous stole them, and we knew the security cameras were broken—his mom told him.”
As Zane spoke, I listened intently, eager for every detail.
“When we got inside, we weren't really thinking.
We were just bored. I was against it, but I went along to be close to V.
Clous brought some weed, and we smoked. I didn't know what it did to me, but I felt the urge to write. I found a black marker on the teacher’s desk and unintentionally wrote your name, then again and again.
At first, no one noticed, but when they did, it was too late.
I felt compelled to fill every empty space with your name—it became my mission.
I probably wouldn't have done it if I were sober.” Zane paused, and I had another question bubbling up.
“Have you ever been in my room without me knowing?” I wanted to gauge if he would be truthful, and his answer struck me like a bolt of lightning.
“Yes, I have,” he confessed, lowering his gaze.
“When?” I pressed, my anger rising.
“On my birthday. I drove to your house and parked close enough to see you through the window. I assumed it was your room. It was evening. It was unclear to me why I came. Don't ask me.”
“How did you know where I lived?” I demanded, my heart pounding, unsure if I was more scared or intrigued.
“Clous. His mom is a secretary, remember? He accessed your file.” The intricacy of his actions was overwhelming, and I wanted to know everything.
“And then what happened?” I pried impatiently.
“I got closer and observed you for about ten minutes until I saw you turn off the light and come downstairs for dinner with your parents. I know my actions were inexcusable, but I wanted to know everything about you. I spotted a ladder, and before I knew it, I was in your room through the open terrace door. I wandered around and saw your diary on the desk.”
“You read my diary?” I exclaimed, taken aback.
“Not exactly. Just the page it was open to—it was left unattended,” he clarified.
“So that's why you wrote my name? To recreate what I had written, to win me over or something? I can't believe this. I feel so foolish. You played me.” My emotions surged, and I felt like I could burst into tears.
“I know anything I say might not convince you, but please just listen,” he said, his voice steady.
“What I did was wrong, and I regret it every single day.
Writing your name was a product of my clouded mind due to the drugs.
I didn't understand what I was doing. Most importantly, I would rather not do that.
I could have denied coming to your room or reading your diary, but I don't want to do that. I want to be honest with you. What I feel for you is beyond my understanding, and it often leads me to make mistakes.” Zane paused, and I struggled to process his words.
A whirlwind of emotions swirled inside me, and I felt torn between wanting to walk away from him and wanting to embrace him.
“I don't know what to say,” I finally managed to utter. “It's frightening to realize you broke into my room and went through my things. Ordinary people wouldn't do that.”
“I guess I'm not ordinary. I act on my impulses,” he replied, and in that moment, my next words struck like daggers—not just toward him, but into myself as well.
“Like beating a random guy to death?”
The pain those words inflicted was palpable.
His mouth fell open, eyes wide with shock.
I searched for a hint of emotion in his silence, but all I found was emptiness.
I braced myself for an explanation that never came.
Instead, he walked away, and my nightmare materialized—Zane’s silence pierced through me like a knife.