need action. I need a distraction or something to draw this toxic energy away from me. Do I really want to feel nothing? The voice in my head breaths “yesssssssss” at me like a snake hissing at it’s prey.
“Millie, calm down. Try to take a breath.”
I continue to stare at him watching his eyes for the slightest glimpse of pity. He attempts again to touch me and again I slap his hand away.
“Did I say you could touch me?” I ask curtly.
“Ok,” he says just as abrupt and steps away annoyed. “Is this what you want?” Connor replies, cracking his neck.
He opens his arms as if to offer an embrace but his countenance turns hard. His voice is relaxed but I recognize the spark in his eyes. The sight of him reminds me of the calmness before a thunderstorm. Alarms sound off in my brain, warning me I should run.
“Is that how you mourn, with anger?” I glower at his smugness. “I can take it. I can take anything you want to give,” he states, drawing nearer. “You want a distraction? Okay Red, give it your best shot.”
Never breaking eye contact, Connor roughly kicks a large rock near his foot, clearing the ground of anything he may trip on. He stands with his arms up ready to attack or defend.
“You can run if you want. You seem pretty good at that,” he taunts. A smirk plays on his lips. “or not,” he continues in a low threatening voice.
He motions for me to come forward with his left hand.
Without thinking, I lunge for him with a right handed punch. He deflects the onslaught and shifts to the side.
“Whoa girl, try to study your opponent a little before you throw yourself into the fight,” he scolds.
“Who are you my teacher?” I sneer, burying the memory of Tom lecturing me on the importance of clean socks.
I lash out again but again Connor diverts my advance.
“Not with your form, Red. Who trained you?” He asks with a steady breath.
Pain from his block shoots up my arm and settles in the muscle.
”Don’t call me Red!” I roar, ignoring his question.
I decide to aim a toe kick to the inside of his thigh, but he lifts his leg blocking me with his knee.
“Good, but I can see your intent coming a mile away.”
Annoyance pulses through my body and releases itself with a combination of punches. I strike out at his stomach, his chest, waist, and even his face, but all of my advances are blocked with a smooth combat grace. He’s unbelievably frustrating which I express in a loud growl. It’s as if he senses where I’m going to strike before I do. My breath comes heavier with each intake.
“Combinations are decent but you are drawing back with every punch,” Connor informs, switching into an instructor instead of an opponent. He blocks my advancement again, holding up one finger as if to say “Wait.” He surveys me with a stern appearance. I breathe heavily.
“Come straight out and use your hip for power,” he demonstrates a punch as I watch bemused.
Connor drops his pretenses and reaches out for my fist. Grabbing it, he extends my arm out showing me just how to throw the punch. I blink at him in shock. What the hell is he doing? I kick out my leg and sweep his legs out from underneath him. He flies back onto the dirt covered ground breaking his fall with his forearms. Connor lays motionless for a moment staring at the tops of the trees. A squirrel rustles somewhere among the leaves and I realize some of the pressure on my chest has lifted slightly.
“I can throw a punch, idiot.” I say in a sharp tone.
My irritation ebbs a small faction. I’m about to take a step toward him when he groans out.
“My mistake,” he glances at me as I take position in a fighting stance Mrs. Emerson had drilled into me. “Also, never let your guard down, some people take advantage,” he instructs, picking up my discarded hat and waving it like a peace flag in the air above him.
Connor then does something I never thought I would witness. He laughs. The deep sultry sound like
“Millie, calm down. Try to take a breath.”
I continue to stare at him watching his eyes for the slightest glimpse of pity. He attempts again to touch me and again I slap his hand away.
“Did I say you could touch me?” I ask curtly.
“Ok,” he says just as abrupt and steps away annoyed. “Is this what you want?” Connor replies, cracking his neck.
He opens his arms as if to offer an embrace but his countenance turns hard. His voice is relaxed but I recognize the spark in his eyes. The sight of him reminds me of the calmness before a thunderstorm. Alarms sound off in my brain, warning me I should run.
“Is that how you mourn, with anger?” I glower at his smugness. “I can take it. I can take anything you want to give,” he states, drawing nearer. “You want a distraction? Okay Red, give it your best shot.”
Never breaking eye contact, Connor roughly kicks a large rock near his foot, clearing the ground of anything he may trip on. He stands with his arms up ready to attack or defend.
“You can run if you want. You seem pretty good at that,” he taunts. A smirk plays on his lips. “or not,” he continues in a low threatening voice.
He motions for me to come forward with his left hand.
Without thinking, I lunge for him with a right handed punch. He deflects the onslaught and shifts to the side.
“Whoa girl, try to study your opponent a little before you throw yourself into the fight,” he scolds.
“Who are you my teacher?” I sneer, burying the memory of Tom lecturing me on the importance of clean socks.
I lash out again but again Connor diverts my advance.
“Not with your form, Red. Who trained you?” He asks with a steady breath.
Pain from his block shoots up my arm and settles in the muscle.
”Don’t call me Red!” I roar, ignoring his question.
I decide to aim a toe kick to the inside of his thigh, but he lifts his leg blocking me with his knee.
“Good, but I can see your intent coming a mile away.”
Annoyance pulses through my body and releases itself with a combination of punches. I strike out at his stomach, his chest, waist, and even his face, but all of my advances are blocked with a smooth combat grace. He’s unbelievably frustrating which I express in a loud growl. It’s as if he senses where I’m going to strike before I do. My breath comes heavier with each intake.
“Combinations are decent but you are drawing back with every punch,” Connor informs, switching into an instructor instead of an opponent. He blocks my advancement again, holding up one finger as if to say “Wait.” He surveys me with a stern appearance. I breathe heavily.
“Come straight out and use your hip for power,” he demonstrates a punch as I watch bemused.
Connor drops his pretenses and reaches out for my fist. Grabbing it, he extends my arm out showing me just how to throw the punch. I blink at him in shock. What the hell is he doing? I kick out my leg and sweep his legs out from underneath him. He flies back onto the dirt covered ground breaking his fall with his forearms. Connor lays motionless for a moment staring at the tops of the trees. A squirrel rustles somewhere among the leaves and I realize some of the pressure on my chest has lifted slightly.
“I can throw a punch, idiot.” I say in a sharp tone.
My irritation ebbs a small faction. I’m about to take a step toward him when he groans out.
“My mistake,” he glances at me as I take position in a fighting stance Mrs. Emerson had drilled into me. “Also, never let your guard down, some people take advantage,” he instructs, picking up my discarded hat and waving it like a peace flag in the air above him.
Connor then does something I never thought I would witness. He laughs. The deep sultry sound like
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