Chapter 26
Tate: Got anything on the Camry?
Will: Nothing yet. We had a few leads, but they ended up going nowhere. We’ve made it through a third of the list so far.
Will: How are you two holding up?
Tate: I’m crawling out of my skin.
Will: Me too. How’s Liv? You keeping your hands to yourself?
Tate: Trying.
Will: You like her. Don’t you?
Tate: I’m teaching her to box today.
Will: Haven’t you been doing that?
Tate: Not with the gloves. She’s not mad enough. I’m going to try to poke the bear.
Will: How long have you been married now?
Tate: Two weeks.
Will: Yeah. That’s going to go over well.
It was a week before Halloween, and we’d been a married couple for almost two whole weeks.
There’d been no sign of Leroy since the shattered window, and we were all on edge waiting to see what might happen next.
Strangely for me, having Tate clucking over me like a mother hen had taken the brunt of my worries, as if I’d transferred them to him.
The only thing left of me seemed to be a carefree, teasing, flirtatious woman bent on getting under Tate’s skin.
I was also sleeping better. Of course, that could be the brooding, stubborn bodyguard lying next to me most nights.
He was back to the old Tate. Bossy and brusque and annoyingly committed to my safety.
Sigh.
For the record, I was extremely grateful for the safety part. I just… Couldn’t we have that and a little harmless flirting to make the whole situation more bearable?
Since we’d been married, we hadn’t had a self-defense lesson. And today, Tate seemed to be making up for lost time.
He had just spent five minutes correcting my fighting stance. Then he pulled out a pair of red boxing gloves from the tractor and dropped them onto the field between us.
“Alright, Rawlins. Up until now, you’ve been practicing your form. And while you’ve gotten better, your punches are still weak. You’re still scared to really hit me, so I’m hoping the gloves will get that out of your head.”
He was going to eat me alive.
I somewhat awkwardly put the gloves on and steeled myself to ignore the bossy attitude and accept the help he was offering. Gratefully. And I’d let him.
To a point.
“First thing.” He stood with his arms crossed in a stance meant to intimidate. “I’m not teaching you to win a fight. I’m teaching you how to survive one.”
“Why can’t I do both?”
His gaze moved down my arms, which were also crossed against my chest, and I couldn’t help but flex my biceps. He didn’t look impressed.
“You’ll have to prove you can first.”
“I’ve gotten a few shots on you.”
“No, you got—” He stopped abruptly, looking so charmingly worked up that it was hard to look away. “No. We’re not doing the little back-and-forth thing right now. You need to stop distracting me and concentrate.”
“Of course,” I said demurely.
“That’s an order, Rawlins.”
“That’s not my name anymore,” I shot back, just to see his reaction.
Exasperation. All over his face. My favorite kind, especially when an annoyed head tilt accompanied it.
“Don’t do that.”
“What?” I asked.
“You know what. Stop it.”
I leveled my gaze with his. “Make me.”
He stared at me for a long moment, delightfully vexed. “Put your hands up.”
“Are you going to arrest me, Officer?” I asked, thrilled by the thought.
He sent another look my way that made me bite back a laugh, then motioned to the way his hands were raised up, like he was fighting in a boxing ring.
Apparently it was time. I picked up my gloves and followed suit, unable to resist dancing on the balls of my feet and throwing out a few jabs into the air.
Tate stopped one of my punches with the palm of his hand, holding it steady.
“Let me be absolutely clear. This is a last resort. Your first objective is to get away using the techniques we went over a few weeks ago. Scratch, claw, kick, make noise, and go for all the places to take a man down. But if that’s not possible, then… ” He trailed off.
“I’m so glad you have such confidence in my ability.”
“It’s not that I don’t think you’re capable.
It’s just that I don’t know how much time we have to invest.” He nodded toward me.
“Hands up again. Protect your face. Elbows in. I’ve taught you punches and jabs, but now we’re going to learn how to do a combination move. One hand in front and one in back.”
I followed his instructions, and he nodded approvingly at my attempt.
“Okay, the first thing you want to do is the jab.” He stepped back and threw a straightforward punch as a demonstration.
I mirrored his actions. “Its sole purpose is to create distance between you and your attacker. If you happen to land a solid punch and it throws him off balance, you turn and run for help. But mostly this is the decoy move.”
He eyed me like he was waiting for me to protest. Instead, I practiced my jabs and was decently proud when he watched me without correcting.
“I told you I was good at this,” I said.
He ignored me.
“Your next move, if you haven’t run away yet, is your power move. This is coming from the fist in the back. If the jab’s the decoy, this is the money shot.” He eyed what I could only assume were my pathetic muscles and added, “Hopefully.”
In the middle of throwing a few punches, one right after the other, Tate stepped closer and put his hands on my stomach. My stomach tightened automatically, and my eyes flew to his.
“Get that look off your face. Don’t read into this,” he warned.
“Read into what?” I asked, all innocence.
He ignored me, keeping a light but firm grip and angling my body in a way that he claimed would allow for the most power in my throw.
Coincidentally, my body now felt weaker, so I wasn't sure how he’d come to that conclusion. But I gave the jab-punch combo my best effort, despite feeling inexplicably addled.
“No. The power comes from your body, not your arm.” He got into his stance and made a spectacular show of tightening his body before throwing a jab and a punch, demonstrating his technique with impressive speed and muscle work.
“That’s exactly what my throw looked like,” I said.
I brightened at his annoyed look.
“Arms up,” he demanded again. “Hit me.”
I tried a few more times, adding as much power as I could. After every punch he blocked, his voice became more and more clipped.
“Olivia. Hit. Me.”
“I’m trying,” I spat, wiping a string of sweat off my forehead with my arm. I was still getting used to the bulk and weight of the gloves on my hands. He was quick, dodging and weaving, making it all look so easy that my frustration took hold and my swings missed the mark.
If this was a good-cop/bad-cop routine, he was nailing the bad-cop vibe. His no-nonsense and condescending attitude had my nerves completely spiked.
“Stop slapping at me,” he said, grabbing my arm to show me what he wanted. “Punch all the way through. You slow the momentum down when you get close to my stomach.”
“Don’t move, then.”
“Your guy isn’t going to just stand there and take it. Be quicker.”
I gritted my teeth and punched again. Even I could see it was a weak effort. He stopped and pulled off my gloves, throwing them to the ground. He ran a frustrated hand through his tousled hair.
He took a breath and started in a controlled tone, “You need to punch like the stomach isn’t the goal. The goal is two feet past the stomach. You need to punch hard, and don’t slow down before you get to the target.” He motioned toward me with my bare fists. “Try again.”
I balled my fists together in the way he taught me before attempting a sucker punch.
He caught my fist neatly in the air.
“You didn’t set up your stance.” He glowered.
“I was going for a surprise attack,” I protested, breathing erratically.
“Don’t do that,” he said.
With a seething breath, I adjusted my stance, feet shoulder-width apart, bouncing slightly on the balls of my feet. I drew my hands up, tightening my abs, then bounced for a few moments, keeping eye contact before striking.
He caught my attempt neatly in his fist and all but rolled his eyes in annoyance. “You slowed down.”
“I don’t want to hurt you.”
That was starting to feel like a lie.
“How could you hurt me with a swing like that?”
I yanked my hands out of his grasp, frustration flying out of every pore in my body.
“You’re a jerk when you’re like this.” I turned away, determined to put some space between us.
Before I could take more than two steps, he grabbed the back of my shirt and pulled me toward him.
Into him.
Into a place where time slowed down considerably.
His hand was still gripping the fabric while mine landed on his chest. He smelled like hay and pine, a combination that was unexpectedly intoxicating. Even while I was annoyed, I couldn’t help but breathe him in. His head dipped toward me.
“I’m trying to get you riled up.” His low voice caused goosebumps to fan out across my arm. “You know that, right?”
I blinked. I hadn’t known that. There was a spattering of emotions on his face. He held himself so tight, so controlled.
“I need you to be mad right now, Liv. I need to know that you can hold your own if I’m not there.
I can’t control everything, and that scares the…
” He trailed off, and I saw him visibly refocus.
“But I do have some control over how well you can throw a punch. But I can’t be any meaner without feeling bad. You need to be angry. Not just scared.”
“I’ve been plenty angry,” I shot back, pulling myself somewhat regretfully out of his arms.
“When? I haven’t seen it. You’ve been jumpy, nervous, watching your back, but you’ve never gotten mad.”
I took a step back, confused. What? I hated Leroy. I hated what he’d done. I’d been plenty angry.
Hadn’t I?
“You’ve rearranged your whole life around fear,” Tate said. “You stopped living. It was self-preservation, and that’s completely understandable. But now is the time to be mad. You need to learn to hit and rage so when he does come, you won’t be running away or hiding in the corner.”
I blinked.
Heat and a sudden moisture stung my eyes.
He was right.