Page 50 of Bear
Early the next morning,I wake up in pain, so I dig out the only other bottle of oxy I have, the supply really low, and take one. It crushes my soul to acknowledge I’m slipping, but I don’t know how to handle the pain without them. I hate that I need them.
Addict.
The word licks through me like an evil demon whispering in my ear. I draw in an agitated breath, pushing the thought aside. It’s just until my shoulder calms the fuck down. I haven’t relapsed or anything. I’m not dependent on this shit. I’m not.
But I have been. My chest tightens. I don’t want to be that person again.
Against my better judgment, I head downstairs to get in a quick workout. I figure I can concentrate on my legs and give my shoulder a fucking break, and maybe hit the recumbent bike, too.
As I reach the bottom of the steps, I hear Lennon before I see her. “Ow. Fuck!” comes her hissed exclamation.
Frowning, I hurry toward the gym, but stop short in the doorway. With a hint of a smile creeping onto my lips, I lean against the doorframe and watch.
Lennon stands in front of the hanging bag, swatting ineffectively at it. I have to hand it to her—she’s really cute in her gray shorts and bright-pink sports bra, but she doesn’t even have her hands wrapped. She should have come to me if she wanted to do this.
“Little Gazelle, what the fuck do you think you’re doing?” I let my voice rumble out low and smooth, so as to not scare her too badly.
She sucks in a quick breath as she catches the bag to stop the swing before she whirls around. “Oh, uh.”
“‘Oh, uh,’ is right.” I shake my head, pushing off the doorframe and advancing on her. “You’re going to injure yourself again going at it like that.”
She clenches her teeth together, giving me a rueful smile. “I thought using the bag would be safe enough.”
I shake my head, dragging my eyes away from her because fuck—all I want to do is drink her in. “Nope. As a beginner, we’d wrap your hands and have you wear gloves to use a punching bag. There’s such a thing as bare-knuckle boxing, but it’s something you work up to. Besides, I wouldn’t teach you how to punch using a bag. You need proper technique, gotta learn the correct stance, how to hold your hand. I’ll teach you how to move your body to give you maximum power.”
Her eyes light up like a kid in a candy store—or more specifically, like she has one of her lollipops between her lips. “Are you going to teach me?”
I draw in a breath, unable to say no to her hopeful question or that smile. I rub my hand over my thickly stubbled jawline. “I promised you, didn’t I?”
She grins. “You did.”
“I can show you a few things to practice this morning, if you want.”
When she wrinkles her nose at me, I think it might be the cutest thing I’ve ever seen. “Don’t I get to practice on you?”
I step up close to her, tilting her chin up with my fingers. “Baby girl, I think you might be biting off more than you can chew.” I wink at her, then ease back, taking her hand in mine. “So, here’s your first lesson. Do you remember when you hit that asshole Chris at the party and what it felt like?”
Her face goes a little pale and her teeth clench. “Yeah. I do.” She makes a face. “It fucking hurt.”
“Yeah, I know it did.” I huff out a quiet laugh. “Show me how you held your hand before you socked him in the nose.”
She folds her hand into a fist, thumb tucked inside her fingers.
I shake my head. “You’re lucky you didn’t break your thumb that night.” Her eyes widen, and I take her hand, unfolding it. “Fingers curl down, thumb folded, between the first and second knuckles of your middle and index finger. In other words, keep it out of the way.” I show her where her fist is going to make contact, letting my fingertips skim over her soft skin. “You’ll be leading with those front two knuckles. Leave your ring finger, pinkie, and thumb out of it.”
I take a few more minutes showing her a proper stance, and then take her through how to use her body to her advantage, first teaching her a jab and then a cross.
“You practice those two punches for me—start with the jab. Watch the mirror, make sure your arm’s coming out straight, but you’re not lunging forward with your body.”
She nods and gives it a try, her face the picture of concentration.
“Remember what I said, don’t lunge forward.” I come in next to her, adjusting her stance ever so slightly. I tap the top of her head. “Imagine there’s a pole from the ceiling that extends down through your head and body to the floor. You can’t move forward. You can only swivel.” I show her a few times in slow motion what I mean, then gesture that she should try.
She does it a few times, perfectly, before muttering, “Yes, sir.” She stops, her eyes comically big as she does this little shimmy before she takes her stance again.
I growl. “Fuck you’re tempting.”
“Should I move on to the cross yet?” She gives me a hopeful look.
