Page 83 of Tainted Love

She plants a playful kiss on my cheek and snatches her crutch from its place leaning against the house. It’s obvious she doesn’t even need it anymore, but she tucks it under her arm for my benefit, smiling back at me as she goes.

Lucy walks inside.

She’s walking again.

She doesn’t need me to carry her anymore. She doesn’t need to wrap her arms around my neck and hold on while I do the work. It stings for a moment, then the warm pride sets in.

The world tore her down, ripped her to shreds, laughed at her, and tried to burn her alive.

But here she is. Walking. Smiling. Thriving.

She’s ready.

Chapter 26

Lucy

My father never taught me how to defend myself. He was never much of a fighter to begin with. If anyone tries to mug you, just give ‘em what they want. Your life isn’t worth the cash in your purse.

He wasn’t wrong but I can’t help but wonder if he’d still be alive today if he knew how to disarm an attacker.

There were only four gangsters in that auditorium, Marty Zappia included. There were twelve dancers, myself and my father included. We outnumbered them. We were all physically fit with trained bodies but not a single one of us walked out of there.

Dante raises his gun and points it at my face.

It has taken a bit of time, but I’ve managed to push aside my fear response. I don’t shudder or cringe away from it anymore.

“It’s just a gun,” Dante told me on the first day. “You should be no more afraid of it than it is of you.”

I stare down the barrel. I breathe easily. I know its parts inside and out. I know how it works, how to make sure it doesn’t work. I think back to that morning with Marty. I was so numb. I couldn’t think straight. Fear shut me down out of reflex. But now?

Now, a new reflex kicks in.

I snap forward and grab the top of the gun with my left hand. I tug back and down, forcing Dante to bend in my direction. With my right hand, I jab forward and stop less than an inch away from his jawline.

Dante sighs with disappointment. “You’re still too slow,” he says. “I should be disarmed already.”

“I’m trying.”

“Not hard enough.”

I release him and step back, feeling a dull ache in my knee. It’s manageable but I shouldn’t ignore it. I lower myself into the armchair by the corner to give myself a break and Dante takes my cue to grab his bottle of water off the shelf across the room next to the pile of ottomans and throw cushions stacked on the old sofa.

We pushed all the furniture out of the way to give ourselves enough space for our training. The place looks nothing at all like it did when we first arrived, but I guess I’ve changed, too.

Dante twists the cap off his water bottle. “You shouldn’t hold back anymore either,” he says. “Hit me.”

“I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You won’t.” He chuckles. “Lucy, you’re a performer. Do you rehearse one way and do something completely different on opening night? Or do you practice the way you’re going to perform?”

I smile. “Point taken.”

“It’s the same principle. You don’t want the first real punch you throw to be the first time you really need it to land. If you hesitate at all, they’ll take advantage of it. Action beats reaction every time.”

“Okay.” I reach down for my own water stashed by the chair leg. “I’ll do it.”

Dante wipes the sweat from his brow and kneels in front of me, planting himself in my eye line. “Your size already puts you at a disadvantage,” he says. “Generally speaking, you never want to pick a fight with someone larger than you but there aren’t a whole lot of ninety-pound, five-foot-tall gangsters out there.”

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