Page 65 of Filthy and the Beast

“You were right—boxing is fun!”I exclaim, my breath heavy as I follow the routine Enzo taught me earlier. Late in the afternoon, we’re in the middle of the boxing ring at his gym, and I’m punching the air and skipping my feet, excelling at my first lesson.

“This isn’t boxing,” Enzo says. “I’m teaching you how to fight.”

“Right.” I stop skipping to catch my breath, my sweaty shirt sticking to my chest. “So I can defend myself.”

Whenever my mind flicks back to the mugging, I shiver. I’ve never had something like that happen before, and the anxiety is healing slower than the cuts and bruises.

Learning to fight isn’t just a good idea for my future safety. The second Enzo started talking me through the basics, confidence grew in my body. Countless times, I’ve overheard people at the community center calling self-defense class “empowering.” I guess I shouldn’t be surprised.

I throw a few more punches in the air, my body humming with strength.

Yeah. This definitely feels better than sitting in my room, feeling scared.

“Watch your center.” One heavy eyebrow lifted, he studies me. “Where’s your weight?”

“There’s so much to remember.” I study my pink sneakers.

Enzo laughs. “Says the guy with the complicated bird board game.”

I grin. “You’re only grumpy because you lost.”

He points at me, just his top two knuckles. I don’t understand why, but it’s super hot.

“Have all the fun training you want. But this isn’t a game. Don’t forget. Never fight unless you have to.”

“Yeah. That’s me. I’ll be cruising for a bruising at the biker bars later.”

He snorts. “Smartass. We can skip ahead to the part where I teach you how to take a fall.”

I grin. “You going to throw me around the ring?”

Generally, I try not to flirt during the day. Enzo is a perfect gentleman, and I don’t want to muddle the expectations.

Sometimes, though, biting my tongue is awfully hard. He looks so fucking cute, all serious in order to teach me. Flustered, he’s even cuter.

“Whatever,” he grumbles, wiping his face with a towel, and I laugh. When he looks at me, I jump backward and land on my shoulder, rolling with the momentum. Ioofagainst the springy platform, but just as quickly, I’m back on my feet and facing him.

Surprised, Enzo snorts. “All right. We can skip the falling lessons.”

“Stage combat class,” I tell him. “Community theater.”

“But they didn’t teach you how to throw a punch?”

“Not a real one. I can swashbuckle a little.”

He sighs. “Come on. I think you’re ready for the punching bag.” As we climb down from the ring, Enzo talks over his shoulder. “I’m not surprised you enjoy this, by the way.”

“Oh? Why’s that?”

“You’re self-reliant. Talk about it all the time. When you’re planning your career, you know? I like my independence, too. It’s always been important to me, and fighting is good for that.”

I jump to the gym floor. I can’t believe I thought he wasn’t listening when I first got here. He hears and remembers basically everything.

“It sounds like you had to be independent from a young age,” I tell him. “I feel like I’m still stumbling my way there.”

“You’re young.” In a flash, he spins and punches the bag, his heavy body flying, his weight crushing it. Just as fast, he’s at it from the other side, then again. Enzo grabs the bag to stop it suddenly and turns to me. “At your age, everyone feels like they’re stumbling.”

My jaw drops. “That is very good advice, but can we recognize that you just turned into a superhero when you punched that bag?”

---