going to need those.”
Frowning, I stuff them back in the bag. “Why not?”
“Because you’re not going to be able to lay a hand on me,” he replies smugly. “I’m simply too fast.”
I tip my head, eyes narrowed slightly. “Oh yeah? I’ll have you know I’ve managed to land many strikes against Titus.”
“Titus can’t touch me either,” Carrick replies smoothly.
I wrinkle my nose as I straighten, not sure if that’s true or not. But I know Carrick is setting me up to defy the expectations he just laid down. He knows I work best when I’m a little mad and riled up.
“You might want the headgear, though,” Carrick taunts. “I’m not going to hold back.”
“I’ll pass.” I give him a saucy smirk before moving to the end of the gym to start my dynamic stretches.
Carrick doesn’t join me, but I’m guessing demi-gods don’t need to stretch. He surfs his cell phone while I take about ten minutes to warm up, and when I’m done, I walk over to the water cooler and fill my bottle up.
“I’m ready,” I say as I twist on the cap and set it on the floor.
Carrick looks up, puts his phone on an incline bench, and moves to the middle of the gym with about a thirty-by-thirty-foot area of free space where we do hand-to-hand and set up my dummies for whip practice. They’re currently all stored along the wall, several with chunks missing from the plastic where I’ve perfected my striking.
I jump nimbly from foot to foot, a tactic Duane always taught me to prevent myself from getting flat-footed, which makes people slow. Carrick merely walks slowly—completely flat-footed but still a million times faster than me—attempting to circle me, but I never give him my back.
I move along the same path, facing him with my arms up, hands fisted loosely, and in the prime spot to protect my face.
On the other hand, Carrick has his arms hanging down at his sides, his face, torso, and gonads completely open to my attack.
So I take it, launching into a jump front kick, and I go for the shot that will take him out. I aim right for his jewels, part of me hating to hurt him in that way, but also falling back on Titus’ training that I should never show an ounce of mercy, and if I have a kill shot or a shot to take someone out of action permanently, I must take it.
I push off hard from the floor with my right foot, left knee rising to give me an extra lift, and when I’m at my apex of flight, I snap out my right leg, aiming the bottom heel of my foot right at his balls.
Carrick doesn’t try to step back or turn his body to evade me. His arm merely flashes so fast I can’t see it, but all I know is he has my ankle in his hand, and he shoves me backward. It’s not hard enough to throw me straight to the ground, but it’s forceful enough that I stumble back several feet before the momentum takes me down to my ass in a humiliating conclusion to that attack.
“Get up,” Carrick says, palms up and flapping his fingers toward himself in a taunt.
I growl and push myself up, now engaging my brain a bit more. If this is how Carrick wants to play at hand-to-hand, I’m going to have to be more wily than him because I’ll never be as fast.
It takes only a moment to consider my options, and I rush him to attack. There’s a brief flash of surprise on his face and his hands come up, suspecting I’ll go with a flurry of punches. Instead, a mere two feet from him, I go into a baseball slide across the floor, made possible only by the fact I’m wearing full-length leggings because, otherwise, I’d be leaving strips of skin on the floor, and glide right by Carrick’s left leg.
As he’s turning to see where I went, I pop up, make a mad dash to my duffel bag, and have my whip out in mere seconds. I don’t know where Carrick is—if he’s just watching or rushing to attack me—but I don’t take any chances.
I whirl counterclockwise, fluidly bringing my whip, which has the thong coming across the front of my legs in a gentle whoosh. I then lift my hand above my head, the rest of the whip following almost gracefully. I helicopter it once over my head,