Blow after blow lands on my body and face until I see nothing but fog billowing my path. Staggering, I shake my head swiftly; my sight clears. Again I set my fist in motion, throwing another punch. My attacker easily dodges; in return, he bends down into me and shoves a head onto my tummy. Before I register my next move, I'm up in the air, and then off to the floor with a loud, aching thud.

"Fuuuuck!" I grunt.

Pain soaks throughout my body, a fucking nine on a scale of ten on my tailbone bone and the back of my head. I seethe and coil, my hair matted in sweat—hopefully not blood. I can taste it in my mouth. Crouched on the blue mat, no relief ensnares me as a kick delves into my groin. I cough, grouching, arms curled in my tummy; my knees buckle up in a fetal position to meet my chest.

"Is that it?' Faintly, as if the world is moving agonizingly slowly, I hear Jimmy yelling. Eyes shut, I feel my heartless instructor's feet move stealthily around me as he adds, "Are you gonna give up already, girly? Is that all you can do?"

He's taunting me, but I can't bring myself to move. I'm in too much pain.

After a long year of recess, I decided to get back into the "game" as a part of my "normal" routine. I'm not sure if it's for the sake of physical fitness, as I did for the last four years, or if it is now simply my mental escape from the deep pain inside me that is beginning to feel like a slow death.

There is something about combat sports I always admired ever since I was a kid simply because my dad boxed sometimes.

But growing up as I did; working at casinos and nightclubs and all places with hormonal bastards and other dangers bestowed upon a big city like Las Vegas had me seek my protection. Josh's uncle has a small academy so I joined it and began boxing until last year when life got busy and priorities changed.

Either way, I'm back and more focused now even if it's a pile of pain and more pain every new day. Jimmy, my Brazilian instructor, is one savage of the beast. He's been brutal with me since day one when I joined his Krav Maga classes. The bastard beat the crap out of me until I cried like a baby, begging to be spared.

He's excellent in mixed martial arts; he never stops bragging about his service in Israel and Iraq before he went rogue and abandoned the army.

You don't beg for your life in my class, you defend it! This is not boxing! No rules here! You fall, you're half as dead! You submit you die! Consider this a real fucking life fight! He'd shout whenever I'd plea to surrender during Jiu-Jitsu technique in which he'd usually pin my neck using his corded arms from behind me, or simply rake the back of his knee across my neck to no escape.

But it makes me feel alive.

Too worn out to move, I still force my body to get up. But the second I wallow up, another hard kick joins my ribs. I fall flat on my tummy.

Swamped in agony, I draw everything out of sight, and the image of Adrian's face resurrects from my subconscious.

I see his mocking gaze skating me tauntingly as he says, "See? You're too weak, little rebel. You don't belong in my world."

And I do nothing but breathe ever-slowly as if it's my last breath, watching his pitying yet burning brown eyes until he fades as he always does. Whether I'm daydreaming or simply dreaming. I've never stopped thinking of him despite my marred emotions.

He's always there. Always.

Ever since that eerie afternoon in NYC when spring rain poured on my way to the Airport, it hasn't stopped raining in my heart. It's as if my whole world is mourning and living has become a dull chore, which is, even if I deny it, the reason why I'm here.

Physical pain doesn't beat the emotional one he's encased me in, however. More than my ribs and every battered bone in my anatomy, it's my heart that bleeds so heavily I may die.

With my cheek against the soft mat, my arms sprawled to my side just above my head, warm tears well in my eyes.

I lay still for no telling how long until a splash of cold water snaps my senses and jolts me to life.

"Quit that academy or I'm gonna burn it down myself," I hear Josh complaining as I grab the extra helmet to hop onto his bike about an hour later.

I grimace in pain while smiling at him because no one can change my mind.

"Seriously, Linc, what's wrong with you lately?" he goes on, deeply worried. "No one in their right mind goes to my uncle's dojo for training! Not a single sane parent in Summerlin brings their kids to learn discipline and self-defense and yadda here because they're just a bunch of insane trainers!"

Well, perhaps I'm not as sane either. I bite the comment to myself while buckling the helmet with a stirrup adjoined beneath my chin, carefully avoiding my bruised parts.

"Alright, I know you're trying to get yourself killed and all, but before you die, at least tell me what's going on with you," he says; he's not one to give up easily. "Linc, you're spiraling. I'm scared for you. I remember seeing you like this when your mom left, and that was a long time ago. What's the reason this time?" He prunes his voice into a gentle tone, and I hate it that knows me too much.

I glance at him and his eyes are glowing curiously with so much confusion that won't be cleared yet because I don't know what's going on with me either.

"Nothing is wrong." My hands fall off to my sides as I pull in a cleansing breath. "I have a date, and thanks for playing my chauffeur even if it was a last-minute call. You're a lifesaver." I grin illusively at him.

"A date?" His fuller eyebrows pull each other into a scowl. "With who? Is Adrian back? Please tell me he's back and maybe he can stop you from self-destruction."

I let my stirred breath wash over his last remark by saying, "No one can stop me now. I love training here."

He huffs, rolling his eyes aside before straying them back with a sigh. "Don't get cocky; are you two still together?"

"Yeah," I lie flatly, and his frown deepens. "But he's not here. You know I wouldn't be meeting him covered with bruises hidden beneath this heavy makeup and bold lipstick, right? Smarty you!"

"Classic Lincoln. Always deflating." He shoves his helmet back to his head.

"I'll...take that as a compliment!" I mount the bike.

And yeah, truth be told, I haven't spilled to anyone about what precisely happened in New York. Breaking up with Adrian, which makes me the queen of being dumped, and even getting shot, is still one of many secrets I'm still holding in my clandestine jar of lies.

To everyone, I'm still with Adrian and I began to believe myself in some made-up stories as to why he hasn't shown up here in almost three months now.

Does that make me insane? Probably yes, and that's why the academy, although full of unlicensed instructors and maybe outlaws, is still where I go to unwind.

Josh veers his red Honda through the strip and coasts outside a building harboring a posh outdoor restaurant. It's perched upon the rooftop, overlooking the waterworks of Bellagio fountains. I drop off, and he quizzes me again about my date, and, at last, I tell him the truth about meeting Camilla here.

He leaves it at that, hardly knowing who Camilla is.

My body aches like hell, every lift of my ankle boots resonates with a pungent pain in my hip and back simultaneously. But I walk chin high spruced in tight blue jeans and a black leather jacket, with a white top underneath accented by the gold coin pendant of my dangling necklace.

I guess I'm gonna sleep in a warm bathtub tonight or else I'll die.

Camilla waves slowly when she sees me. A smile sweeps over my face as I follow her. As gorgeous as ever, she stands and sets her arms around me for a very tight hug. I shriek, hinting to her of my discomfort that has nothing to do with her cordial display of affection whatsoever.

"Uh, sorry. I'm just so happy to see you," she chimes in once I'm free of her grip.

"It's okay. I'm kinda sore; been working out crazily," I quip.

"Damn right, I can tell." Her eyes scan me up and down. "You're more toned than I recall and... different?" A wrinkle forms on her forehead.

Maybe I look like a freak, especially with the tiny band-aid at the edge of my right eyebrow, or maybe, if less insulting, I may look like a rebellious teen playing the bad girl.

Slowly we take seats, a gentle breeze cutting through the air as traffic noise and people and all the ordinary city buzz progress outside. I order myself bottled water as she tells me of her travels and work and any telltale she could possibly share.

"It's been dark days after everything that happened in that party," she rumbles on, her long manicured fingers with red nails tapping restlessly against the wall of her coffee mug next to her little Channel bag.

She sighs again, guilty clung tightly to the films of her black irises even though she doesn't say it out loud. Actually, it's our first meeting since that day, but we kept in touch on the phone and she's here for business and maybe the favor I asked her to do for me.

The tap of her fingers halts as she says awkwardly, "I'm talking too much, right? Goodness!" She sits upright, zooming her white blazer holding the seemingly strapless red jumpsuit she's wearing inside, her straight hair tied back neatly to a horsetail.

"No, it's alright." I pull out a piquant smile. "Did you see the place?" I urge her, for this is far more important than the pangs of my bullied heart.

"Oh, yeah, I did." Her mood shifts alongside her gentle smile. She takes a sip of her coffee and places the mug back on the table, but her fingers remain curled around its handle. "It's a posh space I can vouch for. I'll send you pictures later: I left them in my other phone."

"Great!" I return cheerfully. "Any luck meeting the owner?"

"Hey. I'm Camilla Alves, sweetheart. I got my ways and yes, you have yourself the chance to negotiate your price should you wish to proceed," she says rather comically.

A breath of relief escapes me and I glance away to rejoice. My tongue runs over the swell of my bottom lip, and I can taste the cherries from the scent of my red lipstick.

"Thanks. I need that coffee shop," I mutter.

Camilla reads me for a while before asking, "Because it's in New York?"

"Yes," I reply automatically, "because it's in New York and it's the perfect location to franchise."

She smiles a little. "Can't argue on that."

Silence engulfs us and I feel like I'm supposed to ask or say something to her given the way she steals expecting glances at me at every chance she gets.

But what else is there to say?

I'm like a soul lost in darkness whenever I'm not talking about business nowadays.

"Aren't you going to ask me about Adrian?" Camilla inquires after another sip of her coffee. "Not even once have you mentioned his name, Ara, and—"

"No, I won't ask you anything about him," I interrupt her. My breath shakes at the mere thought of him leading his life perfectly without me. Because I'll see to it myself once I go to New York. "Thanks for the favor, Camilla, and stop feeling guilty about what happened. What's done is done." I smile tightly at her, meaning everything I've just said.

_________

A/N: Am I the only one who thinks this girl is losing her mind? Adrian needs to be punished for this 😂.