Strike (Sphere of Irony 2)
“Good for you. So far, all I’ve seen you do is study and practice. That’s not much of a life. This is college. Time to figure out who you are and what you want.”
“Yeah,” I respond quietly.
Too bad what I want isn’t ever going to be mine.
Dax
“Dude! You’re a machine!”
I ignore the kid who walks up next to where I’m working with the heavy bag. I hit it over and over in the exact same routine my dad had me do back home. Going through the familiar motions gives me peace. It lets my mind focus solely on the power in my body as it comes into contact with the thick, padded surface. Each strike serves as a reminder of who I really am.
My father’s son. A violent, unfeeling bastard.
I continue pummeling the bag, kicking and punching over and over again. Sweat is pouring off of me, dripping off my body and onto the mat. Concentrating on making each strike perfect is supposed to keep my mind from wandering. Keep out the unwelcome emotions that surge forward when I think of Kate.
Yet she creeps in constantly. Between each flying kick I remember her bright green eyes. Between each punch I remember the way her face lights up when she smiles. Between each jab, I remember how she tasted when I kissed her. Between each front kick, I remember how I fucked it all up.
I stop, my hands hanging at my sides as my chest heaves up and down. Frustration and anger eat away at me, boiling up like acid inside. Yanking off my gloves, I throw them on the floor, disgusted.
I have total control over my body. It pisses me off that I can’t exert that same control over my mind. I don’t let anything bother me. Ever. I don’t allow emotions to control me. This powerlessness over my own thoughts has turned me into raging lunatic.
A male voice snaps me out of the dark place I’m in, bringing my attention back to the gym.
“Hey man, that was awesome! Do you fight professionally?”
After wiping off with a towel, I glance over at the enthusiastic kid standing in front of me. “Who are you?” I’ve been here dozens of times, but don’t recognize this overly excited bloke.
Eager as shit, the kid bounces on the balls of his toes. “Zane. Zane Denninger.”
“Dax Davies.” I eye him up and down as we shake hands. “You’re a fighter?” Kid’s way too small to be much good in the cage. Maybe flyweight, but even then I’d have a hard time believing it.
His cheeks turn pink. “Nah. I work the desk here. I do some kickboxing, but only for exercise.”
“I see. And the answer to your question is no, I don’t fight professionally.” I don’t see the point in discussing my past with a stranger so I make no mention of my days in Hackney.
“You should,” he says. “You’re really good.”
I stare at Zane curiously. Why is he talking so much? “Nah, I can’t. Musician.” I hold up my hands. “If I injure them, I’m out of work.”
He nods rapidly, up and down, up and down. Christ, the kid has more energy than anyone I’ve ever seen. He makes me feel old, and he can’t be but a year or two younger than me.
“Gotcha. Music, cool. I always wanted to work in the entertainment industry. It’s why I moved out here.” Zane shrugs. “No talent though.” He grins. “Well, I better get back to work. See you around.”
With that, he turns on his heel and walks back to the front desk.
People in L.A. are so fucking weird. At least his blathering made me forget about Kate for a whole minute and a half. Now I understand why Adam drinks—to numb the mind, shut it off, have a bit of peace—if only for a little while. Unlike Adam, I’m not willing to sit back and let my life go on without me.
Since I can’t stop thinking about Kate, I need to accept that I fucked up and take charge of the situation. If I have to see her and beg for her forgiveness to move on and get this shit out of my head, then that’s what I’ll do. I’ll be damned if I let something as pointless as emotions torture me for weeks, months, or fuck, even years.
Dax Davies doesn’t sit back and let shit happen. I grab it, control it, and make that shit mine.
CHAPTER 5
Kate
“I’m glad you agreed to go out with me tonight. I had fun.” Mateo flashes me one of his brilliant white grins, the dimple in his left cheek visible. It looks good on him. He really is a good-looking bloke.
“Me too,” I reply automatically, giving him what I hope is a convincing smile.