Vulnerable by Bonita Thompson

for her awareness of the breath; likewise, her balance.
    She traveled for a year until she met someone, and she fell deep; so much so she lost all sense of her self. When they broke up, it was both devastating and heartrending. Imani was not sure she could trust herself again. While visiting a close friend, Jean-Pierre’s wife, Carmen, on Crescent Island, her spirit felt renewed and whole and she decided to move to Washington. The Pilates studio was Carmen’sidea. Imani, who customarily waited until she stopped overanalyzing the pros and cons of a decision, enrolled in a Pilates teaching course in Vancouver, B.C. two days later. She dared not ask her father, Dante, for one red cent. As an alternative—and it was potentially risky—Imani took every dime she saved while dancing and opened the first Pilates studio on Crescent Island, and purchased a fixer-upper in Seattle.
    â€œIt’s not like you to be impulsive,” her father said.
    â€œThis one, Dante. Feels very right.”
    â€œAnd it has nothing to do with Blaine?” her father, Dante, asked.
    â€œOf course not,” Imani snapped. Blaine had everything to do with it.
    â€œKenya?”
    â€œWhere have you been, Im?”
    â€œWell, hello to you, too.”
    â€œI don’t have time for this. You need to get to New York. Papa’s in the hospital.”
    â€œWhy? What?…”
    â€œYou need to get to New York as soon as humanly possible. I’m leaving Toronto in two hours!”
    â€œKenya, you’re scaring me.”
    â€œHave you watched the news? I know you don’t have cable, but you do listen to the radio. It’s all over the news, Im.”
    Imani reached for her chair and pulled it close, then sat. “Kenya, you have to tell me what’s happened to Dante.”
    â€œIm,” Kenya sighed. “It’s serious…he—he may not make it.”
    â€œWhat the hell are you talking about?” she yelled into the receiver. Mechanically, she stood and planted a hand on her hip.
    â€œGet your ass on a plane!”
    Stunned, Imani looked at the receiver. “No she didn’t hang up on me.”

CHAPTER SIX
    K ickboxing never let D’Becca down. When she put in a workout she felt such freedom, and any angst was released. Whatever stress claimed her spirit, kickboxing took care of it. Troy, her dear friend and personal trainer, could detect her aggression with each kick and punch. When the fifty-pound heavy bag scarcely missed his groin, he said, “Whoa, hey!”
    â€œSorry!”
    â€œLook,” Troy said, “let’s call it a day, all right?”
    D’Becca, hyped and sweaty, felt better at that moment than in weeks. “I needed that, thanks.” She tried to control her breathing.
    Troy helped her take off her striking pads. “You want to talk about it?”
    Wiping sweat from her forehead with the back of her hand, D’Becca said, “What do you mean?”
    â€œCome on, it’s me, Becca.”
    She reached over and gently caressed Troy’s cheek with her lips. “I’m fine, really.”
    His eyes lingered on her face for a brief moment. “Tonight?”
    â€œTonight.”
    â€œYou know I leave for South Beach first thing, and I won’t be back before the New Year.”
    â€œI hate that you’re opening up a gym in South Beach. Not only am I losing my trainer, I’m losing one of my dearest friends.”
    â€œCome to Miami. Hang out. My place is more than big enough for the both of us.” Troy studied his friend, trying to decide where her head was.“The climate’s about to change here. Soon it’ll be raining every single day. You’ll get really moody—that winter blues thing you go through every year since I’ve known you. You love South Beach.”
    â€œI used to love South Beach. I’m not in that frame of mind anymore.”
    â€œBut a hiatus will do you