Page 47 of A Love Most Fatal
“He’s defenseless. Couldn’t hurt a fly, much less betray Boston’s most powerful families. Why don’t you come meet him sometime?”
“Ness—”
“Goodbye, Cillian.” I hang up before he can bother me anymore. I’m not much one for friends, but if I was, Cillian might be my closest one. Though he acts like my fucking father sometimes which pisses me off.
The rest of the afternoon is as expected, if not bloodier. I don’t know how Mary stomachs the unsavory sides of enforcement, but she’s the one who asked for this job. If I had it my way, I’d put her in charge of something else. Maybe we’d expand more into casinos or something. But no, she wants to punch people. One way to get her wiggles out, I guess.
One of our club owners decided to stop paying back our generous and gracious loan and thought we wouldn’t notice. He proceeded to make a poor-taste comment about Mary’s outfit, which ended about as well as anyone would expect: multiple broken bones in his face and hands.
He did pay up, though, and his blood on Mary’s bare legs was enough to make the next guy comply without argument or preamble.
By the time we get home, it’s half past 5 PM and Nate is pacing around the kitchen wearing sneakers, a massive T-shirt, and blue basketball shorts. The man loves to pace almost as much as he loves wearing clothes two sizes too big for his body.
“Nervous?” Mary asks. When he catches a glimpse of the dried blood on her legs and face, he really does look nervous.
“No, you guys are just late.” He shifts on his feet. Leo pats Nate’s shoulder as he walks past him to get changed and Mary and I go up the stairs to do the same.
“Go downstairs and start stretching,” I call from the second story. He looks warily at the basement door like whatever is down there might bite him.
“Should we go easy on him?” Mary asks, but her smirk belies her intention. She couldn’t go easy on him even if she wanted to, which she most definitely does not.
“Start on the treadmill,”I point to the machine next to the one Leo is already running on. “Three miles. No more than ten minutes each.”
“I can’t do that,” he says immediately. “How about one mile?”
“How about five?” Mary bites back.
“Do what you can for thirty minutes,” I reason. “Just don’t stop running.”
Mary and I do our stretches before going through our weight training circuit together on the rack in the corner. At some point, Mary turns up the music loud enough to drown out Nate’s panting. After about fifteen minutes, Leo leans over and hits some buttons on Nate’s treadmill while giving him advice that I’m unable to hear. He slows down substantially, though, and looks moderately less miserable for the second half of the run. He’s still quite sweaty by the end of it.
The drills go about as well as I expect. Nate is generally fit; I am certain he could lift a good amount of weight and can stay energized enough for a sports game, but he’s not a fighter.
Leo demonstrates the drills and critiques Nate’s form in a way that is nicer and more patient than Mary could ever be. Nate doesn’t have much power behind his punches yet, but he will after enough practice. No concerns. It’s the sparring that does him in.
He starts with Leo, who is instructive and gentle on him. Then it’s my turn.
“Keep your hands up,” Mary yells again from the side of the mat. He overcompensates and isn’t fast enough to block when I land a hit to his stomach. It’s a light hit, but he still grunts.
“Why aren’t you hitting her? Hit her!” Leo repeats the direction again and I think Nate might be sick.
I slow my feet and lower my gloves.
“He’s right,” I say. “You have to hit me.”
“But what if I hurt you?” He drops his arms to his sides, and I press my lips together to not smile. I pop a quick hit to his face, not too hard, but enough to startle him.
“What the fuck?”
“Did that hurt?” I ask, and hit him again, then one more time, until he puts his hands back up. “See, you’re fine. Puffy gloves. I’ll be fine.”
Nate glares at me but leaves his hands up.
“Here.” I drop all fighting stance and come up beside him. He tenses like I’m going to get him again, which is a good impulse. I lightly tap my glove to his stomach, then his sides. “Tighten here, and here.”
I use one of my feet to nudge his stance open. “Wider. Like this.” I demonstrate, bent knees, arms loose, core tight. “Good. Now hit me.”
I make my way in front of him again and lower my gloves enough that he has a clear shot. He’s miserable about it, but his stance looks better, and after a few seconds, he hits me.