Just One of the Guys(39)
My mother tsks next to me. I ignore her, too caught in Ryan’s spell to do anything other than close my mouth and swallow. Look at me, I will him. He doesn’t, continuing on with his spiel. I should be listening more carefully, as I am doing a story on him, but my hearing seems to be obscured by lust, which is actually causing my ears to buzz. No matter. I know from experience that I’ll recall his words later…trick of the trade. He moves with catlike grace, pacing in front of the class as he discusses the need for every woman to be able to fight the good fight.
Ryan claps his hand, snapping me out of my daze. “Okay, let’s get started. Everyone, grab a partner. We’ll start with some basic stances, blocks and punches.”
Blocking and punching is something I learned my first week of life. We form lines and imitate our Adonis-like teacher. It is immediately apparent that I am clearly the best student here. Yes, I acknowledge proudly as I help the woman on my left set her feet the proper way, I am a natural at fighting off men. Perhaps this explains some of my dating history, but there it is. I correct Angela’s weak little fist—her thumb wasn’t even across her knuckles, poor lamb—and demonstrate the block with great vigor.
I might not be the prettiest one here, or the tiniest or the one with the cutest ass showcased in designer sweats, but clearly, I am awesome at fighting. Ryan is at the back of the room, helping my mother and a couple of other women back there. His voice carries to me. “That’s right, good, Betty. Great. Legs a little farther apart.” God, if he said that to me, I’d throw him to the floor and have my way with him, the rest of the class be damned. My insides quiver with lust.
We move on to strategic strike zones, and I’m horrified to learn that some women try to pummel their attackers on the chest and shoulders, rather than going for the pathetically vulnerable groin or oh-so-delicate Adam’s apple. Angela holds up a pad for me to hammer-fist. Please. I could have aced this class when I was eight. Still, I imitate Ryan’s punches with sharp efficiency, smacking the pad with quite a few more pounds of force than anyone else manages, causing Angela to stagger back. Surely Dr. Ryan Darling, black belt and surgeon, will note my supremacy at beating the shit out of the punching bag.
Unfortunately, my strategy isn’t working. Ryan sees those who are struggling and moves through the lines to correct a fist here, demonstrate a block there. Because I am so proficient at man-fighting, his glance flickers right over me.
“Okay,” Ryan says about a half hour later. Some of the poor lambs, Angela included, are sweating up a storm. “You’re a great class, so I think we’ll move on to something a little harder. Brittany, would you give me a hand on this one?” Brittany, who looks about nineteen, sways to the front of the room, her long, straight blond hair a curtain of perfection, lip gloss thick as an Exxon spill. She cements her bimbo persona with a light and fluttering giggle.
“Great. Thanks,” Ryan says. “This next move would be useful if someone was rushing you. You grab the arm of the person, pull them toward you, using his own energy against him. Then you just pull the arm down…boom. Your attacker would flip right over.” He pantomimes the move in slow motion. “You grab…you pull…you flip. See how easy it is?” Then he grabs Brittany’s hand and does it again, though of course he doesn’t actually flip her. Her face is glowing, and she’s clinging to Ryan’s hand like he’s pulling her out of a pit of molten lava. “Grab…pull…flip. Okay, let’s give it a try. Get with your partners, decide who’s going to go first…”
Bouncing on the balls of my feet, I turn to Angela. “Don’t hurt me, Chastity,” she whispers, blinking rapidly.
“I won’t!” I exclaim. “Come on, attack me.”
Other women are already rushing at their partners, including my mom, who makes an adorable attacker, I note. No one is actually flipping, although one teenager stumbles. This is my chance to shine, but Angela wrings her hands, shifting her weight nervously.
“Come on!” I bark. “You’ll be fine.”
She, grimaces, closes her eyes and rushes. I grab. I pull. I flip.
Angela tumbles neatly through the air and lands with a smack on her back. Her breath comes out in a wheeze.
“Shit! Are you okay? Oh, Ange, I’m so sorry.” Honestly, I didn’t think she’d be quite so light. Guilt and remorse stain my face with pink. I cover my mouth with one hand. She’s just lying there. “Ange, I’m sorry!”
Angela adjusts her eyeglasses, which were jarred askew, and blinks up at me.
“Great job!” Ryan appears at my side, reaches down and helps Angela to her feet. She rubs the small of her back and stares reproachfully at me.
“I’m so sorry,” I whisper.
“Are you okay?” Ryan asks Angela.
She nods and smiles ruefully. “My friend here doesn’t know her own strength,” she says.
“Sorry,” I say yet again.
Ryan Darling turns to me. “What’s your name?” he asks, cocking his head. “You’re really good at this.”
“I have four older brothers,” I murmur demurely, then smile. “Hi. I’m Chastity O’Neill.” About freaking time he noticed me, I think, then immediately forgive him. His bone structure alone could send the Greeks to war…and his eyes! A pure, clear, Derek Jeter green. Man, oh, man. Nice work, God.