Quake: #8 The Beat and The Pulse Page 6

  I blew out a heavy breath and closed my eyes.

  “Try again,” Caleb said. “Whenever you’re ready.”

  Trying to get the vision of his sweaty body out of my mind, I pictured something a little darker. Remembering the night I passed by the crime scene on Sydney Road and the terrible night’s sleep in the bathtub clutching a kitchen knife, I trembled. It was that fear, that helplessness, that had driven me here in the first place. I was sick and tired of being a victim.

  Opening my eyes, I felt a surge of anger well inside me, and I struck out at Caleb. I didn’t know what I was doing, but my fist slammed into his cheek, my knuckles colliding with bone. A smack echoed through the empty studio, and I gasped as he stumbled back a step.

  “Holy fuck,” he said, slapping his hand against his cheek.

  “Oh, my God!” I exclaimed, covering my mouth with my hand. “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be sorry,” he said. He bent over at the waist, his hands resting on his knees, and began to laugh. “Man, I wasn’t expecting that.”

  I smiled, not feeling so bad about hitting him in the face. I’d never hit anyone before, and man, when I pictured it the way I did…it felt good.

  “I think that was a stellar start,” he said when he finally straightened up. “Top marks for effort.”

  I saw the red mark on his cheek and began to feel bad all over again.

  “Did I…” I started, my gaze returning to his.

  “Nah, don’t worry about it,” he said, waving me off. “I’ve had worse believe me.”

  “Have you ever been knocked out before?”

  He nodded. “Once or twice.”

  Ouch. I smiled, liking how easy it was to talk to him now…and all it took was a punch in the face to break the ice.

  “So you’re coming back?” he asked.

  He looked hopeful, and I wondered if it was more about me than the money. Not wanting to get my hopes up, I shoved away all thoughts of hooking up with the guy and focused on the actual reason I’d come here.

  “Yeah,” I said, my walls crumbling just that little bit more. “I’ll come back.”

  8

  Caleb

  After a week or so of training Juliette—Saturday, Monday, Wednesday, and Saturday again—I began to look forward to our sessions together more than anything.

  I was supposed to put my all into training Gaz, Mitch, and Franklin—three pro boxers looking to pick up some fights in the next few months—but I found myself drifting and thinking about the one person I shouldn’t be thinking about.

  Juliette.

  She’d opened up significantly in those few short days and confiding the fact she felt intimidated by Beat and me had a great deal to do with it. Once that hurdle was jumped, we could then work on the things she needed to address. Her right hook was on point once she managed to gather enough confidence, but the challenge was getting it up there all the time. She was still flighty, nervous and frightened, but something was changing. Something good.

  Leaning against the wall, I watched as Gaz slammed his fists into a shoulder bag held by Franklin. Looked to me like the fucker was holding back for some reason. He was a natural puncher, so I didn’t know why.

  “You’re not impressing me, Gaz,” I drawled. “You’re hitting like a girl today.”

  “I’m hitting just fine,” he shot back between sets.

  “The fuck you are.”

  “He’s landing pretty heavy, Caleb,” Franklin said, shouldering another lot of blows.

  “Not convinced,” I said, pushing off the wall. “Give me the bag.”

  He glanced at Gaz, who frowned and rolled his head back and forth.

  “Give it to me,” I said again, yanking it from Franklin’s hands.

  “You sure?” he asked, looking at me like I was a pansy ass.

  “Get the fuck away from me,” I snapped, hooking my arm through the straps. “Don’t hold back,” I said to Gaz. “Give it your all.”

  “But…” he began to complain.

  I knew he was hesitating because he didn’t want me to overdo it. They all knew about my injury, anyone in the boxing game did, but I didn’t want to be treated differently because I was one bad hit away from a wheelchair. I still knew my shit.

  I needed to feel the weight of his punch to make an accurate assessment, not rely on another guy to do it for me.

  “Gaz, just fuckin’ punch the bag, okay?” I shouldered it and pressed my weight down firmly on the balls of my feet.

  “Okay…”

  He took his stance and began another set, this time, putting his all into each blow. Jab. Jab. Left hook. Jab. Jab. Left hook. He increased the power behind each set, causing me to put more strength into bracing, my heel digging into the mat.

  He had good form and the power behind his blows was improving. Good.

  “That’s much better,” I called out. “Keep up the momentum.”

  Jab. Jab. Left hook.

  The last punch landed too far to the left, and I was knocked off balance, my back jarring as I stumbled. It was instant. One second I was fine, the next I felt pain sear through my lower back muscles and into my nerve endings at the base of my spine.

  I dropped the bag and turned, my breath catching. “Fuck.”

  Leaning against the wall, I grimaced, the spasm in my back feeling as if I’d been twisted right around ten times.

  “Shit,” Gaz cursed. “Are you okay, mate?”

  I waved him off, trying to keep my temper in check. I was so pissed at myself I wanted to smash something, but what would that solve? My back had been feeling good for months now, but I knew better than anyone that it only took one tiny movement the wrong way to fuck it all up.

  I’d been taking on too much, I knew I was, but I didn’t want to slow down. The doctors had told me specifically to keep training limited. I was watching out for these cretins six days a week, and then I’d taken on Juliette and her self-defense for another three nights. What I was doing with her was basic, but it was physical… Dammit. Giving up time with her was not something I wanted to do.

  I felt good, but it was all a mind game. It was just a case of too much too soon.

  “Keep going,” I said, gritting my teeth. “I just need a sec.”

  “Can I—”

  “No,” I snapped, my temper flaring.

  “Just leave him,” Gaz said, taking the heat off me. “Your turn for reps, Frankie.”

  Thankful Gaz got the fact my pride had just taken a major dent, I pushed off the wall and eased my way across the studio and upstairs to the office. Rummaging around in my bag, I pulled out some pills and downed one, cursing the fucker who’d put me here in the first place.

  Fuck him to hell.

  I didn’t have the heart to call and cancel on Juliette, so when she came in at six, it was business as usual.

  I’d downed my pills, and I was numbed just enough to get on with it. I didn’t want to miss any time with her. On an otherwise shit day, I hoped she was the bright spark that would pick me up.

  “Hey,” she said, wandering into the studio.

  She was smiling tonight, her cheeks pink and her hair pulled back into a long plait that sat perfectly in line with her spine. She looked good, and my shit day began to fade into the background.

  “Hey,” I said, padding across the mats to meet her. “How’re things?”

  She rolled her eyes and tossed her bag onto the bench.

  “That good, huh?” I asked with a smirk. Must be going around.

  “There’s an expo coming up next month, and my boss has me running all these crazy errands all over the city,” she said.

  “What do you do exactly?” I asked, waiting for her to take her shoes off.

  “I’m an assistant to the Head of Marketing for Slattery Press,” she said, glancing up at me. “Publishing. Genre fiction mostly.”

  “What’s that mean?” I asked with a frown.

  She laughed softly and shook her head. “I gather you don’
t read many books.”

  I shrugged. “Nope. Not really my thing. I’m more of a visual guy.” I winked, and she immediately flushed red, her cheeks heating with embarrassment. Fuck, I loved it when she was all flustered.

  “Well,” she went on, her voice shaking slightly. “Genre fiction is things like romance, crime, thriller, fantasy.”

  “Ah, I see. So you get to fetch coffee? Is that what assistants do these days? I’ve never worked in an office so I wouldn’t know.”

  “Yeah.” She rolled her eyes again. “Lots of coffee, but I have to start somewhere.”

  She rose to her feet and clapped her hands together, ready and raring to go. The change in her demeanor was stunning. I knew I’d been right when I picked her for one-on-one training. She’d flourished with a little extra attention, but I hadn’t counted on liking her so much. Not the way she looked, because she was stunning in an understated way I found fucking hot, but in the way she spoke to me.

  She was just…Juliette. She didn’t come from my world, and I didn’t come from hers. There were no pitying looks or expectations with her. It was just easy. Harmony. In the space of a week, our sessions had become a time out from the world. I wondered if it was the same for her, but I didn’t think it was appropriate to ask. Technically, it was still a business transaction at the end of the day.

  “What about you?” she asked, blindsiding me. “Is this a step to something else?”

  “Beat?” I asked, raising my eyebrows. “Ah, it’s more like a full stop right now.”

  Juliette’s brows knitted together, and I could see she wanted to ask why, but she didn’t press. That was another thing about our relationship I liked. It wasn’t overcomplicated with too many ‘whys.’

  “Shall we get into it then?” I asked, gesturing to the mat.

  She smiled and took her position on the mat facing me.

  Our usual routine had smoothed out to include some simple warm-ups, followed by a refresher on the basics I’d already taught her, and then the last half an hour we would focus on something new. I’d also gotten her into doing some strengthening exercises with dumbbells and a medicine ball to build some upper body strength. We had no trouble filling our hour together, and honestly, I could’ve easily found shit for her to do to fill two, but she seemed keen to get out of here right on seven each night.

  Warm-up was fine, and it allowed me to work my back without stressing the inflamed nerve endings. Easy shit like stretching out quads and loosening the arms. Good for flexibility…and wandering eyes.

  Next, we role-played some basic attack and defense, which was the whole reason she was at Beat in the first place. I would come at her from different angles, and she would try to react as quickly and effectively as she could. She was still a little slow, but her confidence was way up. Anyway, this kind of shit took time.

  We were still working on distance defense, so it should’ve been low impact, but I’d underestimated the force she had hidden away in that little body of hers. I came at her from the side, and she struck, twisting at the waist and jamming the palm of her hand up into the base of my lungs in a really fucking good attempt at winding me. Unfortunately for me, the blow sent a pulse of pain through my back, and I winced.

  “Are you okay?” she asked.

  “I’m fine,” I replied, rubbing my back.

  “Have you hurt yourself?” She looked so concerned, my mood began to simmer down.

  “Just an old injury,” I replied absently. “Nothing special.”

  “If you’re not well…” she began, looking distraught.

  “It’s fine,” I snapped, my temper getting the better of me.

  She flinched as my words hit her square in the chest, and her arms wrapped around her waist like armor.

  “Shit…” I ran my hand over my face. “I didn’t mean…”

  Her concern was kinda hot, but she didn’t need to worry about me. I’d adapted pretty well since getting out of the hospital.

  She didn’t seem to hear me, though. “We can call it a night, and maybe you can let me know about Wednesday…”

  I grasped her shoulders, the pain in my back subsiding to a dull throb. “Juliette, it’s fine.”

  Her eyes sparkled as she stared up at me, a little of the woman who’d first walked into Beat showing. Concern, fear, panic. It was all there. She was becoming attached to me—she felt safe here now—but I felt the same way about her. Could this actually be a thing between us? A more kind of thing?

  “You don’t have to worry about me,” I murmured, knowing our relationship had already crossed a line I hadn’t realized we’d stepped over. “Injury is part of the sport. Every boxer has something they need to manage. Don’t worry about it.”

  She stared at me for a moment, her gaze searching mine, likely to see if I was telling her the truth, then she looked away.

  “We’ve still got half an hour,” I said, not ready to let her go before her hour was up. “Do you want to work on the upper body? Get some strength going?”

  Her lips parted with a sigh, and she nodded. “Sure.”

  Placing my hand on the small of her back, I guided her to the weight room, completely aware when she shivered.

  She didn’t want to go either, and there was no way in hell I was letting my back get between us. It may have ended my career, but it wouldn’t end anything else.

  I’d make sure of it.

  9

  Juliette

  February nineteen.

  I came home early that night, heartbroken that I’d just been stood up by the guy I’d fallen madly in lust with. We were meant to go out and have dinner—takeout from the fish ‘n’ chip shop on the beach—then go to the eight thirty session of Ghostbusters at the Moonlight Cinema. Him, me, a beanbag for two, the ocean at our backs, the big screen before us, and a tub of popcorn to fight over. Then he’d walk me home and kiss me on the porch.

  But he never showed.

  I’d walked home in tears, my heart smashed into a thousand pieces. I’d opened the front door, oblivious to the fact that down the hall, Melanie was lying in her bed, taking her last breaths.

  Later, the police detective assigned to the case told me I’d disturbed the perpetrator before he could finish…but he had. Finished, that was. She was past saving. We all knew it even though no one wanted to say it. Nobody ever did.

  The press, the vultures. They circled for scraps, they wrote stories, and when they couldn’t find anything, they made it up. All for money. Money. They sensationalized my sister’s murder.

  I did what I had to. I had no choice.

  Thankful today of all days was a Sunday, I hid inside my tiny flat, not feeling up to facing the world.

  Every year, without fail, the papers would report on the cold case, dredging up the details of my sister’s murder. Over and over again. Then there were the news reports.

  As the years went by, they’d become less and less until they only reported on the anniversary. To a certain degree, I could understand that the police were still looking for leads, but to my parents and me? It just felt like rubbing salt into an open wound.

  Perhaps we would just have to come to terms with the fact that they would never catch the guy. Either way, Mel was gone, and she wasn’t coming back. That was something we definitely needed to come to terms with. Me especially. She was my twin, my constant all those years, and now I was alone.

  Taking the manuscript of The Fighter out of my bag, I sat on the couch and opened to the first page. It’d been a few weeks since I snuck it from the office, my quest for the next great, undiscovered novel falling to the wayside. I’d allowed my fear to overcome me, and I’d slipped back into bad habits. Not anymore.

  Today, on the anniversary of Mel’s death, I would renew my battle. I reckon she would be all over that.

  My phone started ringing, the sound startling me in the calm Sunday morning‬ silence. The unit block was quiet, everyone still sleeping in or having lazy breakfasts.‬‬‬‬

&nbs
p; Glancing at the screen, I rolled my eyes and bit my tongue. It was my mother. Knowing she would only panic and be more difficult to deal with the longer I ignored her, I answered the call, my burst of positive energy fizzling out.

  “Honey,” she said. “It’s so good to hear your voice.”

  She was crying again.

  “Hey, Mum,” I replied, settling in on the couch. I would be here for a while unless I said something to inadvertently piss her off. It was a high possibility.

  “You should be here,” she began, scolding me. “You should be here to put flowers on your sister’s grave.”

  Our yearly bonding over Mel’s death usually saw me spending the day with Mum because Dad couldn’t handle her anymore. We would spend a few hours tending to Mel’s grave, placing new flowers, making sure the headstone was clean and the grass was being cared for. I wasn’t there this year, and I was relieved. Mum always made a scene at the cemetery.

  “Mum,” I said, trying to keep my annoyance down to absolute minimum. “You need to get out a little more. Stop dwelling.”

  “Get out?” she asked, sounding offended. “How can I get out on today of all days?”

  It wasn’t that I didn’t love her. It was just…she’d held onto her grief for far too long, and now it was all she could feel. Pain had become familiar to her. I didn’t want to be like that. I didn’t think Mel would like it, either. That was one of the biggest reasons why I’d moved two states away.

  No matter what any of us did, Mel’s murder still haunted us. Some more than others.

  “I don’t like you living in that city,” she went on, her disappointment in me crystal clear. “You should be here with us.”

  “You know why I moved,” I said, almost snapping at her. “I…”

  “You had to get away from us,” she scolded. “We were just too much for you.”

  Pretty much, but I wasn’t going to tell her that. I wasn’t cruel—at least, I didn’t want to be—but the longer I stayed in Queensland, the more of myself I lost. To grief, to regret, to memories, to the constant barrage of media attention. I couldn’t tell Mum that was the reason I wanted to move. To get away from her and everything that reminded me of that horrible night.