Strong (Stage Dive 4.50)

“Sorry, sorry. I’m totally minding my own business.”

“That’ll be the day,” said Ben. “Can we get back to work now?”

Sam planted a kiss on top of my head. In front of everyone. I could feel curious eyes on us. But they could all be ignored. Talk about a situation getting out of hand. And it hadn’t even been twenty-four hours since we’d had our pseudo relationship whatever discussion. Things were happening too fast. All I’d wanted was to crawl all over him and use him as my very own personal sex toy. God, talk about complicated. Maybe we should slow things down.

“We’re fine, right?” I asked. “I mean, we’re still friends?”

“Of course we are. You even know which bedroom’s mine now when you’re feeling in the mood.” His thumb brushed over Gib’s artwork. Then he gave my fading black eye a quick grimace. “I’ve got to get back to work. Will I see you later?”

Ziggy came in then and called him away on some business. Just as well. I didn’t have an answer.

CHAPTER SIX

The first problem with Sam was that every time I got even close to pondering the possibility of there perhaps being an “us,” he did something to freak me out. The second was how he refused to play by the rules. My rules.

“We agreed I’d be in charge. But I don’t feel like I’m in charge,” I panted, hitting the boxing bag thingy with my carefully wrapped hands. Liz and Ben had taken Gib out to see the latest kid’s movie. Even Adam had taken himself out for the night. We had the house to ourselves and Sam had decided we should spend our time in the gym. “If I chip a nail, I will not be happy.”

Standing behind the bag, Sam held it steady. “Your nails will be fine. Wouldn’t make much sense you being in charge during your self-defense classes though, would it?”

“’spose not.”

“Don’t pout. You can be in charge after.”

“I’m not pouting.” I half-heartedly flung my fists in a one-two type motion at the bag. “Will this be the same as when I was supposedly in charge, yet you dragged me out of my room to come do this?”

“I didn’t drag you out of your room. After all, it’s not like you were in there hiding from me, is it?”

“No,” I lied. “My arms are tired. My shoulders hurt too.”

“You’ve done very well.” He smiled, turning me around so he could massage my back. Something he was exceptionally good at. “What are the three attack points again?”

“Eyes, throat, and groin.”

“And what do you do with the handbag?”

“Let the mugger take it without a fight.”

“Good girl.”

With my back to him, he couldn’t see my scowl. “It wasn’t that I valued the handbag more than my life, you know. It’s just that it was mine. You have to fight to protect what’s yours in this world, or people will walk all over you.”

“Fair point.” Followed with silence.

“But?”

More silence. Then, “You ever read anything by Miyamoto Musashi?”

“Should I have?”

“Seventeenth century warrior poet. Samurai.”

“Oh, that Miyamoto Musashi. Sure, of course. I have his collected works upstairs in my suitcase.”

He ignored my sarcasm, and continued on with the massage. And, apparently, the history lesson. “There’s some debate about whether Musashi was the greatest swordsman of all time. But what nobody questions was his judgment. He studied his rivals for years, only challenging them when he was good and ready, and never letting his ambition cloud his choice. Because one wrong decision of opponent or timing and he would die.”

“There’s a lesson here, I just know it.”

“If one of the greatest warriors of all time needed to learn to pick his fights, then maybe you can too.”