SICK HEART by Huss, JA (nice books to read TXT) 📗

little building, then lead her into the clinic. I point to a stool in the kitchen and she sits. Then I hunt down a roll of wrap, a mostly used tube of antibacterial ointment, a bowl of hot water, and a clean rag. I place it all on the counter, grab another stool from the other room, slide it over to her, and then start washing the blood off. I’m about halfway done wrapping her second hand when I feel a soft tap on my shoulder. I look up, surprised.

She motions with her hand. It’s not a sign. She’s making shit up. But I’ve gotten good at interpreting made-up hand signals. She’s asking me why.

Why what? I sign back. And even my signs are irritated. Because she draws back at their quick sharpness.

She points up.

I point to her. You tell me.

She sighs, then lowers her eyes and doesn’t look at me again until I’m done with her hands.

But when I get up and put the wrap stuff away, I find myself smiling.

She talked to me.

She didn’t use her voice and those weren’t really words.

But she talked to me.

Me.

CHAPTER ELEVEN - ANYA

 

 

His care in tending to my wounded knuckles doesn’t continue back out on the training floor. I don’t know this man very well, but here’s something I’ve picked up on. Sick Heart is a control freak. Also, he likes a tight schedule. In other words, he’s not very flexible. His world revolves around things he can predict.

I continue fighting with the heavy bag as I ponder this. It’s not surprising. The world he lives in can’t be much different than mine. I mean, he’s got a lot more than I ever did. And he could do a lot worse than this abandoned oil rig as far as time-out space goes.

When Lazar was unhappy with me—back when he cared about such things—he would leave me in a dark, windowless room until I was so weak from hunger and thirst, he had to either let me die or bring me back.

But this place. I pause my punching and stare out across the ocean. It’s peaceful today. No wind, either, which makes the endless flat, blue surface of the water appear deceptively innocent. Of course, under the smooth water there is a whole world of natural-law violence.

But this rig. It’s not fancy, but it has food, and water, and it’s safe. As long as Udulf stays away. And I don’t know what Cort promised him to make him leave, but he didn’t stay long. I got the feeling that there is no love lost between the two of them.

I could get used to life on this rig.

A hand slaps the bag in front of me, pulling me out of my introspection. And when I jerk my gaze to Cort’s face, I realize he’s telling me, without words, that we are not done here and I need to keep going.

I sigh, but continue punching and kicking the bag.

I expect Cort to go back to his training, but he lingers, watching me. Then his hand reaches out, just as I’m about to hit the bag again, and he grabs my fist. Blood is seeping through the wrapping over my knuckles. Cort frowns at it, like I’ve just disappointed him. Then he sucks in a deep breath and slowly exhales as he points to the center of the platform.

I follow him across the mats and then he turns to face me. He does a couple of punches, moving his feet, and then he pauses and points to me.

I scoff and shake my head. Not because I’m trying to be difficult, but there is just no way I can imitate what he just did. His movements are fluid, like a dancer. Even if I had known that there was a pop quiz coming, I would not be able to do what he’s asking. It’s all blurry. I need a slow-motion step-by-step.

He sighs again, maybe frustrated, maybe tired, or maybe he’s thinking, Why didn’t I just let my father take her away earlier?

That gets me moving. I don’t want to be here, but I don’t want to be sent to his father. That man is scarier than Lazar. So I make an attempt, punching the air with my fist and hopping a little with my feet.

His laugh is loud and immediate. And when I look over my shoulder at him, he’s scowling and shaking his head at me.

I drop my fists and frown back. It’s not my fault he’s asking me to do things I can’t.

He demonstrates again. But it’s still too fast and while I can see that he’s punching with his left hand and taking a step forward—and this seems like a very simple thing—when I try it, none of it works. My punch is late, my feet are in the wrong place, and I actually lose my balance and his grip on my upper arm is the only reason I don’t fall over.

He shows me again, this time breaking the movement into six unique parts. He holds up a single finger.

One. Got it.

He does it and points at me, but when I try it’s… not good. He stops and shows me again. And this time I break this move down into three parts. A baby step forward, a punch, and a bounce back.

I say that over in my mind as I try and when I look up at Cort, he’s smiling.

I suck in a deep breath of air and turn my head away so he can’t see me smile back.

I do that again, and again. Baby step forward, punch, step back. And he corrects me each time, adjusting my hips, or my chin, or my fist.

Then he moves on to the second move. This time it’s a step back with a punch using the opposite hand. Like I’m retreating from an approaching opponent.

This one takes me longer because the opposite arm and leg are doing different things. I don’t get it down