Chapter 2
I adjust the elastic band of my ponytail and try not to stare too hard at my reflection in the mirrored wall running along the far side of the open space.
It’s my fourth self-defense class in two weeks, and already I feel this quiet confidence that I can take on anything.
Maybe not anyone—I’m still only five-foot-three—but the few skills I’ve picked up in my short time here are enough.
One decisive move is all I’ll need.
In most cases.
I inhale sharply through my nose and focus on my instructor.
Today, Travis is in a red padded suit standing at the front, watching us like he’s about to pluck out the weakest link.
He smiles too easily for someone whose job is to pretend to attack people and show us all the different ways we could die if we don’t act fast enough.
“Remember,” he continues, hands behind his back as he snakes around us, “if you can’t get away, the only option you have is to survive. Hit first. Hit hard. It’s all about impact. Hesitation will be your downfall.”
Not in my case.
Falling in love is my downfall—was my downfall. Trust was my downfall.
And it’s a mistake I won’t make again. For a third time—it’s a mistake I won’t make a third time. Because Eric wasn’t the first man to leave me with regrets.
But mark my words, he’s my last.
From this day on, it’s me against the world.
I feel my heart rate kick up a notch and my focus cloud. I blink, trying to mentally shake him out of my mind, but it only makes me dizzy.
I glance at the others, needing some kind of assurance I’m not the only one completely off balance here, but the women around me are not only focused, they’re watching Travis like they’re ready for war.
Panic rises in me as Travis turns his gaze on me.
Get a hold of yourself, woman. You’re literally paying the man to do this.
“Red. Up front.”
Red? Oh, he’s referring to me—the only woman in here with auburn hair. I push back my annoyance and lift my chin as I march to the front.
I’m confident all right. Confident I’m not fooling anyone.
“Let’s start simple,” he begins, following behind me. “Palm strike. Step in, aim for the nose. You have under a second to disorient your attacker.”
No pressure or anything.
Standing beside me, he demonstrates it into the air. Swift and poised. A few women mimic the motion, but I apparently missed my cue.
“Again,” he huffs as he demonstrates a second time.
Is that . . . frustration in his tone?
Dammit, focus.
As if to make up for my delay, I mirror him the second time he does it and pound my palm upward as I step forward.
“Nice. Remember, power comes from the hips. Vocalize if you need to. A good grunt goes a long way.”
I feel my cheeks flush and try again.
Step, palm, hip, strike. This time, I release a growl from the core of my chest. And even though I can’t put my finger on it, there’s something satisfying about it. Like the breath you release after finally breaking the seal of a tight-lid pickle jar.
“Now,” Travis exclaims, moving in front of me with a sort of thrill like he finally has a real opponent. “Eyes on me, full speed, no hesitation.”
My heart pounds, but with a curt nod, I square my stance.
He meets my eyes. “You’ve got one shot to show him he picked the wrong girl, Red.”
He lunges.
My gasp gets stuck in my throat. The word “girl” still lingers in the air by the time I react. With a tightened jaw, my palm slices through the air before I can control the impact. One sharp thrust against the padded helmet and he reels back with a grunt.
Shoot—forgot to vocalize.
Applause breaks out behind me but I barely hear it. My hand stings. My pulse roars. And my fake attacker—looks as stunned as I feel.
I straighten, sucking in a steady breath. No girl here.
Travis removes his helmet, giving his head a little shake. “Remind me not to cut you off in traffic,” he mutters with a grin.
I release a breath with a small smile. “How ’bout you just get my name right for now. It’s Willow.” I move back to my place in the third row.
When class is over, I grab my duffle bag and thank Travis before stepping out into the hall.
Leaning against the wall, I breathe. Really breathe like I haven’t in days.
I can totally do this. I can take care of myself.
My moment of empowerment dies fast when I check my phone.
Eric.
My ex-boyfriend of nearly two years ruining a perfectly productive Tuesday afternoon. We broke up earlier this year when I realized he was stringing me along like cheap entertainment. Not a woman he’d cherish, love, and respect for the rest of our lives like I stupidly believed.
He’s not even here and I tense everywhere. Holding my breath, I open his message.
Eric: You live like a pig.
What? No.
I read the rest.
Eric: Found the ring by the way. Grabbed a few other items too. Gifts from your admirers?
I must still be on an adrenaline rush, because I hit the dial button. He answers on the first ring.
“You did not break into my apartment. I told you I’d send back the ring.”
“Hey, who’s this pink pearl necklace from?” he asks casually.
“Put it down and get out.”
“Probably not even real,” he mutters and in the background I hear the tinkle of something being dropped, followed by what sounds like his slimy fingers lacing through my jewelry box.
I know it’s with me—it’s always with me—but I slip my hand into the side pocket of my duffle bag and scrabble frantically for it.
My grandmother’s ring. The dark green, emerald-cut stone sitting over a gold diamond band. I sigh with relief.
Glancing down the hall, I whisper into the phone sharply. “Take that worthless piece of junk and don’t touch anything that doesn’t belong to you.”
Eric would have had to propose for that diamond ring to mean anything to me.
But he didn’t. The ring was only meant to control me.
To make me believe he was mine—when in reality, it was a marker.
A way to stake his claim for when I was singing at the local lounges and bars downtown while we were together.
How could I have been so blind? I fell for his charm, his confidence. But underneath the polished law-school grad with big plans for our future . . . was someone who hated when I laughed too loud, dressed too revealing, or spent time with anyone who wasn’t him.
He scoffs. “Didn’t hear you say that when that guy at the bar had his hands on you.”
I growl. “Eric, I swear—”
“Where are you? Come home, let’s talk this out.”
“We don’t have a home. I’m finishing out the lease like we agreed. Now get out before I call my good friend Larry from down the hall—you know, the ex-MMA fighter? He’ll haul your scrawny ass out of there before you can blink twice.”
He waits a beat. That same tight silence that tells me he’s waiting for me to stop rambling the way I do so he can be serious for a moment. “Something’s come up. I need my security deposit back for this place. You, uhh . . . you’re gonna need to move out.”
“What? How much was the security?” I don’t know why I ask. I know I can’t give it to him just to hold off moving out until the end of the year.
“Double the rent.”
I release a breath. “Fine. I’ve got a place lined up anyway,” I lie. My plans to move in with Rose completely fell through when she decided to stay in Colorado—for school . . . and for the hot cowboy who wouldn’t back down until she gave him another chance.
Heck, I don’t blame her. She doesn’t have to live by my self-imposed rule to never date again. She still believes in happily ever afters.
I’ve fallen in love enough times to know that’s just not how the world works.
“I can help you pack,” he says with a hopeful tone. Like I’d ever willingly let that man near me again.
“Don’t make me get a restraining order against you, Eric. Get out of my apartment.”
“Restraining order? Come on, Willow, it’s not that serious.”
I clench my teeth. Resisting the urge to confront him for manhandling me—and not in any fun, kinky way—at my job last month, when a friendly, albeit tipsy bar patron was giving me a tip.
Eric never got physical before, but once was enough to drive me to sign up for these classes. In a few years, I’ll be able to support myself financially. And, thanks to Travis, I can now defend myself in any physical situation too.
“I was drunk.”
“I don’t care. I just want you out, Eric. Now.”
He sighs and there’s a quiet beat before he says, “You can stay until the end of the week.”
“Four days? You need to give the building more notice than that,” I argue. He’s the lawyer. He should know.
“Did that a few weeks ago. That’s what I came by the bar to tell you that night.”
“So instead of telling me I need to move out, you decided to restrain and threaten me instead?” I seethe. If it were possible, I despise him even more.
His tone softens. “It was a misunderstanding. You know I don’t like seeing you with other men.”
“I could have been fucking him over that piano, and it wouldn’t have been your concern, Eric,” I hiss, feeling my blood pressure rising.
“I’ll give you a day to cool off, but you’re going to need help packing. I’ll stop by tomorrow.”
“Take the damn ring and go,” I grit out before hanging up. My throat clogs as I suck in a deep breath, exhale and repeat.
When my eyes stop burning, I make another call.
She doesn’t answer on the first ring. She never does.
When I’m about to give up, her voice comes on the line. “Hey, sweetie. Lovely hearing from you,” she says with surprise in her tone.
“Hey, Mom. How’s your tour?” My mother isn’t a singer like me. She’s a writer. A writer of historical romances, the kind with all the fancy ball gowns on the cover. She’s almost always either on tour or at a writers’ retreat, leaving her apartment in Manhattan empty for most of the year.
Which brings me to the reason for my call.