appointments. She was going to have to do the same for me. Tomorrow we’d go to my gym. Apart from shooting, there is no finer way to get the urge to kill
somebody out of your system.
I rolled my neck and settled the Kevlar vest more comfortably into place as the instructor squared up to me on the mat. It hadn’t been easy to persuade Tori to come. But
what she had seen in her flat convinced her that the violence wasn’t over. I’d shamelessly used that to my advantage. The prospect of sitting on her hands alone, or risking the streets
without me, convinced her a trip to my world wasn’t the worst thing that could happen.
Unlike your usual gym, this one has no exercise equipment, no weights to lift, no aerobics classes, step or otherwise. What it did have was a bunch of very determined people wearing their
workday clothes – which in our case meant Kevlar vests and suits – and the occasional padded mat.
It is important that a bodyguard be able to take a certain amount of punishment as well as dish it out. So along with martial arts classes, this place employs a selection of pugilists to beat
the shit out of us. I know what you’re going to say: she lets herself get hit but she can’t watch somebody have her legs waxed? It’s different somehow. Believe me.
“Ready?” my opponent inquired.
“Ready.”
For the next hour I endured a gruelling regimen that made Tori wince, grimace, gasp and swear, before she finally clapped her hand over her mouth and endured in silence.
I felt better about running out of her waxing session at the end of it.
“Was that really necessary?” she asked afterwards in the changing rooms.
“Yes. I’ll be less likely to fold if someone takes a punch at somebody I’m guarding. If someone does floor me I can get back up. It takes the fear out of falling, means you can
do it properly.” I peeled out of my body armour and sodden T-shirt.
“It all looked very painful,” she said doubtfully, relieving me of my towel to rub my back dry before I got into a fresh T-shirt.
“Not as much as you’d think. It hurts the guy smacking the Kevlar more than me.”
“What’s next?”
“Now I get to fight back.”
“I like the sound of that much better.”
I grinned. “Don’t be so sure. He won’t just stand still and let me hit him.”
“I knew there had to be a catch.”
“Always.” I kissed her and strapped the Kevlar back on.
“Isn’t that an unfair advantage?” she asked as we walked through to the next room.
“Only if the other guy isn’t wearing any.”
They all were and they were all men. About a dozen or so had already collected in the room; a few other stragglers drifted in behind me, falling into conversation about techniques, shadow-boxing
with themselves, half-heartedly sparring or checking out one another’s moves.
“Brought some fresh flesh this week?”
I gave the speaker what Dean calls The Look.
“She’s my Principal.” Tori, to her credit, did no more than blink.
“You know the rules, no one but fighters,” someone else complained.
“I have nowhere else to stash her. Where could be safer than a room full of bouncers and bodyguards? She’ll keep clear.”
I settled her against a wall, on one of those plastic and stainless steel stacker chairs you see everywhere from village hall meetings to doctors’ waiting rooms, amid a chorus of
complaints and cat calls. And one moan that he’d planned to use the chair to hit his opponent with. I ignored them all.
“Does that mean I’m your client?”
“Yes, unless you want to fight one of these idiots.”
“No! I sort of like the idea of being your client.” She touched my face. I swallowed hard and firmly put her hand back into her lap. “What? There’s a no touching
rule?”
“In a way. It is considered very unprofessional to get involved with your Principal.”
“What if you were already involved before they became your client?”
“Doesn’t happen. You’d be advised
somebody out of your system.
I rolled my neck and settled the Kevlar vest more comfortably into place as the instructor squared up to me on the mat. It hadn’t been easy to persuade Tori to come. But
what she had seen in her flat convinced her that the violence wasn’t over. I’d shamelessly used that to my advantage. The prospect of sitting on her hands alone, or risking the streets
without me, convinced her a trip to my world wasn’t the worst thing that could happen.
Unlike your usual gym, this one has no exercise equipment, no weights to lift, no aerobics classes, step or otherwise. What it did have was a bunch of very determined people wearing their
workday clothes – which in our case meant Kevlar vests and suits – and the occasional padded mat.
It is important that a bodyguard be able to take a certain amount of punishment as well as dish it out. So along with martial arts classes, this place employs a selection of pugilists to beat
the shit out of us. I know what you’re going to say: she lets herself get hit but she can’t watch somebody have her legs waxed? It’s different somehow. Believe me.
“Ready?” my opponent inquired.
“Ready.”
For the next hour I endured a gruelling regimen that made Tori wince, grimace, gasp and swear, before she finally clapped her hand over her mouth and endured in silence.
I felt better about running out of her waxing session at the end of it.
“Was that really necessary?” she asked afterwards in the changing rooms.
“Yes. I’ll be less likely to fold if someone takes a punch at somebody I’m guarding. If someone does floor me I can get back up. It takes the fear out of falling, means you can
do it properly.” I peeled out of my body armour and sodden T-shirt.
“It all looked very painful,” she said doubtfully, relieving me of my towel to rub my back dry before I got into a fresh T-shirt.
“Not as much as you’d think. It hurts the guy smacking the Kevlar more than me.”
“What’s next?”
“Now I get to fight back.”
“I like the sound of that much better.”
I grinned. “Don’t be so sure. He won’t just stand still and let me hit him.”
“I knew there had to be a catch.”
“Always.” I kissed her and strapped the Kevlar back on.
“Isn’t that an unfair advantage?” she asked as we walked through to the next room.
“Only if the other guy isn’t wearing any.”
They all were and they were all men. About a dozen or so had already collected in the room; a few other stragglers drifted in behind me, falling into conversation about techniques, shadow-boxing
with themselves, half-heartedly sparring or checking out one another’s moves.
“Brought some fresh flesh this week?”
I gave the speaker what Dean calls The Look.
“She’s my Principal.” Tori, to her credit, did no more than blink.
“You know the rules, no one but fighters,” someone else complained.
“I have nowhere else to stash her. Where could be safer than a room full of bouncers and bodyguards? She’ll keep clear.”
I settled her against a wall, on one of those plastic and stainless steel stacker chairs you see everywhere from village hall meetings to doctors’ waiting rooms, amid a chorus of
complaints and cat calls. And one moan that he’d planned to use the chair to hit his opponent with. I ignored them all.
“Does that mean I’m your client?”
“Yes, unless you want to fight one of these idiots.”
“No! I sort of like the idea of being your client.” She touched my face. I swallowed hard and firmly put her hand back into her lap. “What? There’s a no touching
rule?”
“In a way. It is considered very unprofessional to get involved with your Principal.”
“What if you were already involved before they became your client?”
“Doesn’t happen. You’d be advised
Similar Books
