After Hours (InterMix)(19)
I felt his hand on my forearm, demonstrating for the other trainees in my group. His fingertips seemed to dawdle at my wrist as he spoke, casual as a woman might caress a garment at a store, admiring the fabric. Surely I was imagining that.
“Basic move,” he said, and I felt each word vibrating in his throat. “She’s using her right arm, so I’m going to use my left to get free. This isn’t the time to panic. Erin and I aren’t a great example, but usually your head’ll be pretty close to your attacker’s, and thrashing around is a great way to concuss yourself or the patient, or pull a tendon in your neck. Steady and calm’s the name of the game.”
Steady and calm. I could feel the muscles in Kelly’s broad back, feel his heat and his breathing, smell his perspiration. Steady and calm, I repeated to myself. Bet that’s not how you f*ck.
“Pretending she’s got a good squeeze on me,” Kelly went on, “I’m going to turn my head just slightly, to keep blood flowing through the carotid artery.”
He said some other stuff, stuff I really ought to have been paying super-close attention to, but it was hard with us pressed together . . . even in the incredibly unerotic setting, with potentially lifesaving information being imparted, even with a hangover. My body was pretty sure that its very existence balanced on its chances at rolling around with Kelly’s body in a non-training situation, and told my brain to f*ck off.
He got free—who knew how—and when the next person’s turn came to put Kelly in a headlock I tried to take mental notes. But his expression was nearly as distracting as his body, his mean face strained from the exercise and reminding me of how it might look, other times.
The drills went on for another full, sweaty, awkward hour, then we took a five-minute break before switching to self-defense basics.
What if a patient grabbed your clothes? Your hair? Your arms, legs, throat, waist, or tried to gouge your eyes? We learned tricks for all these terrifying scenarios, then got teamed with a fellow trainee or trainer to do some improvisational drills, with Audra patrolling, correcting people’s form. To my equal pleasure and annoyance, I got paired with Kelly. If I wasn’t mistaken . . . had he picked me? We’d been standing fairly close together, but I felt pretty sure he’d chosen me. It’d be just like him to lay claims. And it’d be very unlike me to take such perverse enjoyment from it.
I eyed him as we faced off. “Who’s attacking?”
“We’ll trade. You start.”
“Fine.” I was tired and stinky, and so far the course had left me more overwhelmed than empowered. I circled Kelly and looped my arm around his neck. Again, I felt way more like a dangling kitten than an assailant.
“You’ll never take me alive,” I told him, exhaustion making me punchy.
He nearly laughed, a huff with a smile behind it, though I couldn’t see his face. “You make a lovely psychopath.”
I squeezed his neck a bit harder, and he broke my hold, twisted around, and grasped each of my arms above the elbow. I was relieved to recall the technique without even thinking, but Kelly had a real grip on me, not a loose one like we’d done in the drills at the start of class. He was holding me tight enough to hurt . . . though surely not as tight as a raging patient might. Lonnie’s face flashed across my mind, dropping my stomach to my feet but focusing my energy. I looped my arms up inside Kelly’s. It took four spirited tries to break his hold.
“Not bad,” he said.
I rubbed my sore forearms. “Not great. You could have head-butted me into unconsciousness ten times over, in the time that took.”
“So try it again.”
And I did. Kelly made me do it a dozen times, until my shoulders burned and my face was flushed and my arms tenderized. I’d probably have bruises like his by the end of the three-day course, tattooed all black and blue.
We swapped, and he stooped to curl his arm around my neck. His hold was loose enough, but his elbow was as locked and unyielding as an iron collar. I did everything I’d been taught and everything Kelly’s deep voice reiterated just behind my ear, but he was too strong. Or I was too weak. I felt dizzy from the hangover and the creeping claustrophobia, my muscles more limp with every attempt, noodles turning soft and useless. My pushes grew frantic, and he must have sensed I was beyond trying.
When he finally stepped back and let me rest, I was panting and no doubt red as a brick, my sweat stinking of whiskey and wine. He studied my face, and I didn’t think I’d ever felt so unattractive.