"I think," I told Zee, "that I'll go to the dojo tonight after I get done with work." I'd already missed Saturday's early-morning session.
"It should be interesting to watch," Zee said, which was as close as he could come to lying.
He had no desire to watch a bunch of people working themselves up into a noxious puddle of sweat and fatigue (his words).
He must have been elected to be my bodyguard for a little longer than just the workday.
SOMEONE HAD TALKED TO THEM ALL.
I COULD SEE IT IN the casual way they greeted me as I walked into the dojo.
Muscles in Sensei Johanson's jaw twitched when he first saw me, but he led us through the opening exercises and stretches with his usual sadistic thoroughness.
By the time we started sparring, the muscles in my lower back, which had been tense for the last week, were loose and moving well.
After the first two bouts, I was relaxed and settled into my usual love-hate relationship with my third opponent, the devastatingly powerful brown belt who was the bully of the dojo.
He was careful, oh so careful that Sensei never saw him do it, but he liked to hurt people ...
women.
In addition to the full-contact part of Sensei's chosen form, Lee Holland was the other reason I was the only woman in the advanced class.
Lee wasn't married, for which I was glad.
No woman deserved to have to live with him.
I actually liked to spar with him because I never felt guilty about leaving bruises behind.
I also enjoyed the frustrated look in his eyes as his skilled moves (his brown belt justly outranked my own purple) constantly failed to connect as well as they should.
Today there was something else in his eyes when he looked at the stitches on my chin, a hot edge of desire that seriously creeped me out.
He was turned on that I had been raped.
Either that or that I'd killed someone.
I preferred the latter but, knowing Lee, it was probably the former.
"You are weak," he told me, whispering so no one else could hear.
I'd been right about what had excited his interest.
"I killed the last person who thought that," I said, and front kicked him hard in the chest.
Usually, I tempered my speed to something more humanly possible.
But his eyes made me quit playing human.
I'm not supernaturally strong, but in the martial arts, speed counts, too.
I was moving at full tilt when I stepped around him while he was still off balance.
Tournament martial arts have two opponents facing each other, but our style encourages us to strike from the back or the side-- keeping the enemies' weapons facing the wrong way.
I stepped hard on the back of his knee, forcing him to drop to the floor.
Before he could respond, I hopped back three feet to give him a chance to get up, this being only sparring and not a death match.