48. Blaine

Chapter 48

Blaine

A fter the clinic, I thought I could handle more touch.

I was looking forward to giving Resa more skills she can use to defend herself and, maybe, set her on a path of recovery from her past abuse.

Until now.

Garrison has a breakfast meeting with the prosecutor, and Vaughn has a call with the Ever Safe staff to find out if there's been any more trouble. So it's just me, Resa, and the tight gray leggings and tank top set she's wearing.

As she crosses the black mat toward me, her long dark hair, held back in a ponytail, brushes her bare shoulders. And her scent… shit. This was a mistake.

She stops a foot away and flashes me a smile. "Sorry I'm late. Lex bought me more clothes and my drawer exploded when I opened it. Where do you want me?"

I have all the wrong thoughts. Every single one of them would get my mouth washed out with soap by my mother if she were still alive.

Since these self-defense lessons started, I've been having increasing difficulties controlling one particular body part.

It's been five years since I had sex, and it was with Lia, a beta woman that Vaughn, Garrison, and I shared. Even though I'm almost positive Violet had a crush on Garrison when she first arrived, she was more of a sister to us than a potential lover.

Lia was a sweet redheaded beta. She was pretty, appealed to us, but she didn't want permanent. Neither did we. She didn't mind having fun with us until her forever and ever love appeared. Which made her perfect. We wanted the same thing.

Then Lia met the love of her life. We broke things off with no hard feelings and then the car crash happened.

Since then, we've spent the last several years fracturing.

Some of those fractures are slowly healing, and it has everything to do with this beautiful woman standing in front of me.

A woman who must be getting fed up with me silently staring at her. "You look nice."

I want to shrivel up into a ball at how pathetic I sound. Nice ? What happened to my ability to talk to a woman?

Resa glances down at herself, her cheeks turning pink. "Uh, thanks. It's just another overpriced outfit. I'm never sure if it's Lex or Garrison who has the expensive taste."

"Garrison," I say, relieved she's not laughing at my awkwardness. "He doesn't believe in false economy. Buy the best you can first time rather than buying cheap twice. He doesn't like shopping, so…"

What the fuck are you rambling about? Tell her she's the most beautiful woman you've ever seen and then spend the rest of the day researching how to talk to a woman without sounding like an idiot.

Her cheeks get even more pink, and I'm not sure why. "Uh. I guess that makes sense."

I study her bent head, pondering the source of her embarrassment as she shuffles from foot to foot.

Then I shake my head. "Are you ready to start?"

She stands taller, cheeks still pink, and waits. Presumably for the instructions I'm not giving her.

Those instructions are going to involve putting my hands on her when my pants are already tight. I recall the state I was in after the last self-defense lesson and how useless a cold shower was. With no Vaughn to serve as a buffer, how long can I hide her effect on me?

"You look like you don't want to do this," Resa says.

"I do," I assure her, making no move to start this lesson I promised her.

She doesn't look convinced. "I can wait for Vaughn to show me if it's uncomfortable for you. Maybe we could just talk."

My eyebrows must touch my hairline. "You want to talk to me?"

"About as much as you want to go through with this self-defense lesson," she sighs, folding her arms. "But I think we need to."

I point my chin at the black punching bag hanging from the ceiling in the room's corner. "How about a boxing lesson instead?"

Her expression brightens. "I get to punch the bag?"

I smile, nudging my glasses up when they slide down and wondering at the intensity of her stare. "You do. Come on. I'll wrap you up."

When she doesn't move, I realize how that must sound. "The gloves. Not you."

Her eyes narrow.

I walk over to the large black basket beside the punching bag and pull out a pair of boxing gloves and a roll of black fabric hand wraps to show her. The only reason none of it is dusty from years of disuse is because of the cleaner who comes early once a week. "See?"

She slowly wanders over. "Why do you have to do it?"

"It's hard to do them tight enough on your own, and they need to be tight to protect your hands. Try hitting the punching bag. Not hard though," I warn her.

She hits it harder than she should and winces, rubbing her knuckles on her thigh. " Ow . What's it made out of?"

"Grain. But you can get others with sand." I toss the gloves back into the basket until I need them and lift a roll of fabric. "You ready for me to wrap your hands?"

She eyes the punching bag with interest.

It wasn't long ago she wouldn't even sit at the same table as me. Now here I am asking her if she's okay with me wrapping her hands. Does her trust extend that far, or will she walk out of here?

She turns to me and offers her hands, surprising the hell out of me. "Okay. This looks like it might be fun."

I wrap her left hand. "Because you get to imagine you're punching an alpha?"

"How did you guess?" Her voice is dry.

I smile as I continue my task.

"What's that?" she asks, watching me wrap the soft, stretchy black material with Velcro ends around her hand and wrist.

"A hand wrap. It helps protect all the important things: knuckles, thumb, your wrists. Means you can hit harder without worrying about breaking something."

I spent years doing this in the boxing gym my dad used to own. I sparred constantly, and when I wasn't sparring, I was helping new members.

"How did you learn this?" she asks.

"My dad owned a gym."

"He doesn't still have it?"

I shake my head. "The cost of renting a space in the building went up and he couldn't afford it. The business folded, but it was fun while it lasted. For me and him."

He found a new job training a promising young boxer on the other side of the country until he retired. I spoke to him more before the car crash, but after Mom died when I was in high school, we were never as close. That's on me though. I don't make it easy for anyone to get close.

A career in security felt like a natural next step, since I wasn't interested in boxing professionally. I liked working out though, and I got to pass on the skills I'd learned, something I didn't realize how much I missed until I started Resa's self-defense lessons.

Years of experience means I can wrap someone's hands half-asleep with my eyes closed. At this point, it's muscle memory, barely requiring any thought.

I pick up the boxing gloves and place them on her, one at a time, using the Velcro straps to secure them. They're a little too big for her, but the Velcro means they'll stay put.

I lift my gaze from her hands to her face. "You ready?"

She's studying the gloves with fascination. "This is so weird."

"Bad weird?"

She shakes her head, her smile wry. "I wonder what thing you'll teach me tomorrow. Maybe how to take someone out with a poisoned dart?"

She looks so hopeful that I laugh and point at the bag. "No poisoned dart lessons coming up. What did you want to talk about?"

She gives the punching bag a tap. Her face is tense, as if she's bracing herself for it to hurt. When it doesn't, she punches it even harder.

"The trial," she says simply. "No one is telling me it's a stupid idea for me to speak at it, and you should."

I hesitate.

Resa knows we tried to make the courtroom as safe for her as we could. She saw the maps, the photographs, and heard Garrison chew the prosecutor out for a leak that had to have come from him.

There had been something off about one of the courthouse cops. I hadn't realized what it was until he looked right at us for one split second. I closed up the two-inch gap between me and Resa, because that must have been what he was waiting for. His one chance to shoot.

It was only when we were pulling away from the courthouse that I realized what it was about him that had seemed wrong: his shoes. Black laced up combat boots when the other cop was in shiny office style shoes.

Garrison said the shooter got away, and there's an investigation to get to the bottom of how someone penetrated their security.

This is important to her. Garrison told us what she'd said to him about needing to change things in the city. We're all determined to ensure that happens.

"Why would anyone tell you it's a stupid idea?" I ask.

"Because you got shot." She punches the bag again. "All easily avoided if you'd told me how dangerous this was."

"It was more of a graze."

She raises her brow in disbelief. I'd have stood a greater chance of convincing her if she hadn't been in the room as Sadie stitched me up.

"Maybe it was a little more than that, but it's healing fine and I'm not in pain." Before she can ask to see the still painful wound that is definitely not a scratch, I focus on the punching bag. "Swing your hip and let your arm follow when you punch."

"Swing my hip?"

I angle my body to the side, form a fist, and show her how to use your hip to add force to a punch. The motion pulls on my wound, but it's nothing compared to being pinned in a burning car. "Like that. Your fist is there to deliver the blow. The power comes from your body."

I repeat the motion twice more and she nods, attempting it herself.

"Excellent." I nod in approval. "Now you just need to practice that fifty more times."

Her eyes pop. " Fifty ?"

"At least."

A strand of hair falls from her ponytail into her face as she stares at me and it's killing me not to tuck it behind her ear.

There's no need to angle the punching bag so the manufacturer's label is facing forward, but it's better than putting my hands on Resa.

It's a relief when she blows the distracting piece of hair out of her face.

Her concerned expression relaxes. "You're joking."

"I might be joking," I concede. "A little."

My dad wouldn't have been joking. I learned how to fight through endless hours of practice. I pushed past pain, boredom, and exhaustion. The car crash taught me there are some things I couldn't push through, but for the first time, I want to.

The hair falls back into her face and she goes cross-eyed blowing it up again. I try not to laugh as she blows and blows, but that stubborn bit of hair is determined to stay put.

I'm having another of those flash-forward moments or Resa staying, so I'm not paying attention when I should be. Suddenly, the thing I'm leaning my weight on is gone.

My back thumps to the ground, fortunately black rubber matting and not hard flooring, but it still steals the breath from my lungs.

My head is ringing when Resa's face appears above me.

She's on her knees beside me, dark eyes full of concern. "Shit. Are you okay? Should I get Vaughn or Garrison?"

"I'm okay." I assure her. "That was a good hit. I didn't see it coming."

And I try, once again, to ignore that strand of silky looking hair I want to tuck behind her ear.

"Oh." Her eyes dart to my mouth.

"I'm going to sit up now," I say, not wanting to startle her by moving too fast.

I don't kiss, and I don't touch.

But since Resa appeared, I don't want to be in my room, hiding my scars from the world. I want to be the man I was before the car crash made a wreckage of my life.

"You're not sitting up," she says, her eyes fused to my lips.

"I'm thinking."

"About?" she breathes, rocking slightly toward me.

I squeeze my right hand, flexing my fingers, and I swear I feel the softness of her cheek in the second before I brush the strand of hair from her face.

She freezes.

I pull my hand back. "Sorry."

"No…" Her soft voice trails off. "It's okay."

Okay, like she wants me to touch her again or okay like she wants me to kiss her?

Her scent drifts toward me. Sweet peach, rich and?—

Slam.

The door thumps into the wall and Resa jumps as Vaughn shouts, "Hey! What are… oh , am I interrupting?"

Resa scrambles to her feet and bolts.

She's across the room, ducking past Vaughn, who yanks the door open for her and disappears in a flurry of dark hair and, unless I'm mistaken, aroused omega pheromones.

Vaughn stands just inside the doorway, blue eyes sparkling as a slow satisfied smile pulls on his lips. "Ah, I did interrupt something."

I flop my head on the mat and stare up at the ceiling, ruing missed opportunities that might never come again. "No."

For the first time since the car crash, the voice in my head reminding me that touch equals pain wasn't the loudest voice. I wanted to pull Resa's head down and kiss her, and I thought she wanted the same. For the first time, I was the one doing the reaching.

And Resa ran away.

"It was nothing." I push myself to my feet as I dodge Vaughn's gaze. "Just a misunderstanding."