SICK HEART by Huss, JA (non fiction books to read .TXT) 📕

Suddenly Cort is coming at me, fist in front of him, punching the air. I back up, but he sprints and then he’s slapping my face again. Only this time, he’s not playing. It fucking hurts.

He dances a circle around me, jabbing, trying to hit me. Well, not trying very hard. More like threatening to hit me. Then he points to my fist and places his fist against his cheek, telling me to block.

Fuck that. I shake my head, letting him know I’m not playing a losing game with him again, but the sting from his next slap makes me gasp out loud. And that sting lingers as heat for many seconds as I just stare at him in pissed-off rage.

I flip him off and he laughs. Out loud. It’s low, and deep, and for a moment it stuns me and I get lost imagining what his voice really sounds like.

Deep, I think.

And just as those words flash though my head he’s got me by the legs and I am slammed into the mat so hard he knocks the wind out of me. I gasp for air, sucking in with a sick wheezing sound. He wraps his arms around my shoulders, pins me, knees gripping my hips, and places his head into the crook of my neck and whispers, “You better fight back, Anya. Because if you don’t, I’ll make you wish you had.”

Then he’s up. Bouncing back on the mat. Hands in front of his face like I am some kind of threat.

I get up on my hands, scooting backwards. What the fuck?

His words echo in my head. He said them in a soft voice, but they were not soft words. That was a threat.

He points to me, then lifts his finger in an upward motion, telling me to get to my feet. When I don’t, he rushes forward and sweeps his foot just over the top of my head. So close, I feel the wind he creates against my hair.

I am breathing so hard, I’m gasping, still not able to draw in a full breath from the hard fall. But I scramble to my feet and quickly step away from him.

His eyes narrow on me. Like he’s zeroing in on his target.

What the hell? I can’t fight this man.

He dances forward and jabs at me, his fist coming so close to my face, I swear I feel the kiss of his knuckles against my lips. I strike, hitting him in the neck, and he laughs, bouncing backwards out of reach. Then he nods, and beckons me with his fingers. Daring me to do it again.

But before I can plan anything, he’s already slapped my face again. And he’s not playing. Because that shit hurts. And in the half-moment that I’m thinking those words, he slaps me again.

I rush him, swinging wildly. He doesn’t back off. He covers his face with his fists and lets me land every single punch. Mostly I punch his hands, which is stupid, but I get one past them and hit his throat.

He starts coughing as he bounces backwards. Well, it might actually be a laugh and not a cough. But I did hit him.

He smiles as his feet stop and his posture straightens. His fists fall down to his chest and he nods at me.

I hold my breath, waiting for him to talk again. But he doesn’t. He just points to the mat and quickly runs through my series of drills. Putting a lot of force behind the fake punches and a lot of effort into his feet.

Then he stops again and points to me, narrowing his eyes and growling. A clear threat that says, Do not half-ass your work in my gym.

I let out a long breath and salute him with two fingers.

Message received, Sick Heart.

Then I turn my back on him before he can say anything else and get back to work.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN - CORT

Anya came out here this morning thick with memories of yesterday’s soft landing. Hazy with the kindness I showed her in the clinic as I wrapped her hands. Comforted with the extra food I put inside her belly.

I knew she would. That’s why I turned my back on her when I started the kata. I have trained hundreds. I am not a fool. I know that when I turn my back the natural instincts kick in. Few people work harder when they can get away with working less and Anya is nothing special. It is only when you are watched—only when you think your effort might be rewarded—that you put in full effort.

Her face has to be stinging. I hit her quite hard a couple times. But she’s the one who let her guard down, not me.

I return to my place on the mat and start my kata over again. She keeps her back to me through the entire thing, repeating her three simple drills. I watch her carefully for any sign of slacking, but even though she tires and her form becomes sloppy by the time I move on to my own drills, she doesn’t repeat her no-fucks attitude again.

Sometime around noon I take her over to the bag and show her the punches I want her to work on. The padding I put over her knuckles will keep her from bleeding through the gauze and tape, but she will split those wounds open again today. She won’t know it until I take her wraps off though. That’s the important part.

Perception is ninety percent of reality. Thinking it’s true makes it true. And if she thinks that padding is protecting her, then it is.

Her real test will come tomorrow when she knows better. But for today, she is blissfully unaware. The pain she feels when she punches the bag will be attributed to her prior wounds.

When I lead her over to the middle of the mat in the late afternoon her face is red, and sweaty, and she has been