Chapter Twenty-Five
LJ’S APARTMENT IS ANapartment in name only. In the far corner, I see a bed and nightstand peeking out from behind a Japanese-style screen, but other than that, this is a gym.
The spacious room is bathed in light from the floor-to-ceiling windows. Mirrored walls stretch along one side, reflecting an impressive array of equipment meticulously arranged across the polished hardwood floor: a sleek treadmill, a rack of free weights, a squat rack and barbell. Suspended from one of the crossbeams, a row of heavy bags sway gently, ready to take their lumps.
And, of course, the star of the show: an elevated platform with padded flooring, surrounded by an arsenal of training aids: speed bags, agility ladders, and grappling dummies with angry grimaces on their rubber faces.
The whole space smells of sweat and determination as I stand awkwardly, shifting my weight from one foot to the other. After some breakfast, a shower, and a metric boatload of coffee, I changed into the most athletic outfit I could piece together from Jack’s trunk: a black sports bra and a pair of dark blue leggings. On a whim, I wove my hair into two French-braid pigtails, a look that seems to amuse LJ as he strides across the floor to meet me.
“Cute,” he says, flicking the end of a pigtail.
I swat him away. “It’s how UFC girls wear their hair, right? Figured they know what they’re doing.”
He shrugs, his muscles rippling beneath his fitted black tank. “You’re not wrong.”
A moment passes, and with it, the tension I was feeling. If we were going to touch on the fact that he basically saw me and Rob have sex, that time has passed. LJ is clearly all business now.
“Come on,” he says, nodding towards the sparring area. “Shoes off. Barefoot.”
I toe off my sneakers and peel off my socks, then scramble after him to the mats. He stands like a soldier at attention, hands folded at the small of his back.
“Okay, first things first,” he says, his voice low and steady. “Always trust your instincts. If something feels wrong, it probably is. Got it?”
I nod, trying to push away the nervous fluttering in my stomach. Trusting my instincts has never been my strong suit, especially now that nothing I thought I knew about myself is even true. But with LJ standing before me, exuding confidence, I find myself wanting to believe.
“What do you do if someone attacks you?” he asks. I’m taken aback by the bluntness of the question, but stand my ground.
“Go for the jugular,” I joke.
LJ doesn’t laugh. “Wrong,” he says. “You don’t panic. Remember, a clear head is your best weapon. Flailing and spiraling wastes energy and wastes time.”
“Oh,” I say. “Okay.” It does make sense.
“Self-defense is called self-defense for a reason. It’s not offense. It’s not attacking back. It’s keeping yourself safe so you can escape. Don’t try to be a hero.”
“Don’t be a hero,” I repeat.
That gets a little snort of amusement out of him. He releases his stance, takes a step, then two, around me, circling. “Don’t waste the effort trying to incapacitate anyone totally. Because no offense, Princess? You’re not going to overpower anyone.”
“None taken,” I say. “So—”
In a flash, before I can finish my question, he’s lunged for me. One swift movement and he’s caught my neck in his elbow, wrenching my right arm behind my back.
“Ah!”
He’s strong, sure, pure power in motion. My knees thud into the padded floor as LJ pushes me down. But just as soon as I hit, he releases me.
“See?” he says, towering over me. “And I was barely even trying.”
I scowl up at him, rubbing my neck. “I get it,” I say shortly. “You’ve made your point. So what do I do?”
LJ offers me a hand, and I take it, warm and firm. He pulls me to my feet.
“Keep your distance,” he says. “That’s move number one. Always try to create space between you and your attacker. They can’t grab you if they can’t get near you.”
I nod. “Logical enough.”
“Next,” he barks. “Go for the weak spots. Eyes, nose, throat. Anything to incapacitate your attacker long enough to get away.”
He demonstrates a simple jab, his movements fluid and precise, then steps to my side.
Like this,” he says, guiding my hand through the motion. “Keep your elbow tucked in and aim for the center of your target.”
I mimic his actions, feeling a surge of satisfaction when he nods approvingly. “Good,” he says, his eyes meeting mine. “Now, let’s try something else.”
He shows me how to throw a proper punch, the weight of my body behind it. At first, I do it all wrong: thumb tucked, spinning my whole torso around, feet too close together, but with after a few tries and corrections from LJ, I start to get the hang of it. He’s surprisingly patient, guiding me through each step until it starts to feel natural.
“Good,” he says again. “Now, hit me.”
At that, I balk. “What?”
“Hit me,” he says. “I want to see what you’ve got.”
“I don’t want to hit you,” I protest.
A rare smile crosses his face. “I doubt that,” he murmurs. “Very much.”
I put my hands on my hips, annoyed. He’s the one who can’t stand me, I think. I’m so tired of his bullshit angst.
“Why do you hate me?” I ask.
The question rings out in the apartment-slash-dojo, with nothing but silence following it. LJ shuffles his feet, arms folded and not meeting my gaze.
Finally, he looks up.
“I don’t hate you,” he says.
“Bullshit,” I say. “You’ve had it out for me since I got here. You don’t want me staying, you don’t like having to watch me, you gripe just about any time I do anything. I’m tired of it. What fucking gives?”
A muscle flickers in LJ’s temple. He sucks his teeth, exhales hard.
“Do you know how Rob and I met?”
That’s a random non-sequitur,I think. But I can’t help my curiosity.
“No,” I answer.
“Fighting ring,” LJ says. “Underground shit, down in New Orleans. People show up, place bets, winner splits with the house. I was house champ. Took on all comers but no one ever got one over. ‘Til this redhead nobody out of Virginia shows up and challenges me. Beat me, took the prize money.” He breathes out. “I was stronger, but he was quick and smart and played off my showing off. I was ready to kill his ass.”
“But you didn’t,” I venture.
LJ snorts. “Obviously not. He helped me up, shook my hand, offered me a job. Said he knew what I was capable of.”
“Shifting,” I say.
LJ nods. “We find each other, I guess. Or Rob knows how to find us. He was just out of prison, said he was starting over, wanted to get a new thing going...”
“So that’s how you ended up here,” I finish for him.
“More or less.” LJ shrugs. “Look, I was getting the snot beat out of me six days a week. My body wasn’t going to last much longer. I figured whatever this guy was offering for me would be better, safer, even.”
“And it was?”
LJ just shakes his head. Doesn’t answer.
“You’re too good for this, Maren,” he says. “Too good for all of us. You deserve the truth. Not charity. Not some...guilt-trip pity party.”
Something about the raw edge in his voice gives me pause. This is more than just dislike of me, more than just bro code or grumpiness. This is...
“What...what do you mean?” I ask, careful, unsure.
LJ doesn’t answer.
“What are you talking about?” I say, more forceful this time.
LJ looks up, eyes burning.
“You know why Rob went to prison, Maren? You know what crimes he committed? He wasn’t always just this noble thief helping out the little guy.” He works his jaw.
“What did he do?” I almost whisper.
“Felony,” LJ says. “Trafficking. Schedule I.”
Realization is slow to dawn. “He was—”
“Drugs, Maren. He was moving more smack into Virginia than anyone for miles. Nineteen years old and the top supplier to everyone in Sherwood. And Rob...” He swallows. “He sold to your dad. The night he died.”