He bends my body so my head is level with his hip, and it twists my arm holding onto his so painfully I have to release. His other hand goes to the back of my leg, and I know he’s going to pick me up and slam me to the floor.
My mind races for any maneuver he’s taught me to escape this hold, but I come up with nothing. And then I remember something Duane had taught me when we first started training and we were talking purely practical tips to get away from an attacker.
There were the obvious ones like ‘knee a man in the nuts’ or ‘slam your fist across the bridge of his nose’.
But there was one other he taught me, and he said it was guaranteed to make someone release their hold.
With my right arm free and currently trying to pull his arm off me, I let him go and let it dive in between his legs. Not to the nuts because I don’t want to really hurt him, but rather to the sensitive skin on the inside of his thigh. I grab a chunk with just a forefinger and the side of my thumb, squeeze tight, and twist as hard as a can. Hairs rip loose, skin is abraded, and Titus screams like a little girl as he releases his hold on me.
“Goddamn it, Finley,” he growls as he bends over and presses a palm to the area I’d just pinched. “That hurt like a motherfucker.”
I’d never heard Titus use language like that, and I can’t help but smirk. I’m free, and I won that battle. “I could have gone for your jewels, so be happy I just gave you a little pinch.”
“Little pinch?” he growls, tenderly rubbing at the spot, but then offers me a nod of admiration. “Okay… I’ll give that to you. Well done.”
“Thank you,” I reply, dipping into a deep curtsy.
“Hand-to-hand is over,” he declares, actually limping slightly as he moves to his duffel bag. He roots around and as he does so, I do a quick glance around at the gym Carrick secured in just twenty-four hours. It’s fully equipped, and it was very clearly a working membership gym as it is stuffed with multiple pieces of the same type of equipment. I suspect Carrick just used his considerable wealth to get it. He probably walked in and made a cash offer the owner couldn’t refuse.
And now, it is all mine to train in.
Titus rises, having pulled the whip out of his duffel. Carrick said I could continue training with it, and I was more than ready. Before my birthday party, Titus and I worked a solid two weeks, six days a week, and at least two hours a day on my whip skills. It was something that practice absolutely made perfect. I not only had basic strikes down, but I was learning some flourishing moves like figure eights and helicopter whirls.
Titus presents it to me, the handle laying in his hand palm up. “I’ve got a surprise for you.”
As I take the whip, my gaze lifts to meet his. “What’s that?”
Titus jerks his head to follow him, and he leads me through the main area to a back room that’s about thirty-foot-by-thirty-foot with a wooden floor. It’s completely empty except for four tall items along one wall, which are obscured by black coverings.
Giving me a mischievous grin, he moves that way and pulls the cloth off the first one. My jaw drops as I see it’s a life-sized and human-shaped target that resembles a crash-test dummy. They’re mounted on wooden posts with a cross base for stability.
Titus sweeps a hand. “Your enemies.”
“I can make actual strikes,” I murmur in appreciation. So far, I’ve only been learning how to whirl and crack my whip, which, at most, would keep someone at bay. I’ve never struck anything—except my shoulder and my calf—but now I need to learn timing and distance to make this a weapon of attack.
“Carrick bought a bunch more of these as he fully anticipates you’ll demolish them, but we’ll start with these four.”
A rush of elation and a tiny hint of fondness for Carrick makes its way through me, but I quickly push it aside. Grinning eagerly, I nod at the dummy closest to him. “Let’s get started.”
Laughing, Titus easily moves the first mounted dummy to the middle of the room and then enters a closet I hadn’t noticed. From within it, he pulls out large sandbags to put on the base to hold the entire target upright. I doubt I could even drag one of those bags across the floor by myself, but Titus grabs one in each hand, and he easily carries them as if they were no heavier than jugs of milk.
After my target is set up, Titus takes some time to explain judging distance in relation to what my goal is. Making a close-enough strike to slice skin is one thing, but I’d need to be closer if I want to use the whip to coil around an arm or a leg.
I’m instructed. I’m ready. The whip feels right in my hand again.
Of course, it takes me a good forty minutes before I can even land a solid strike. I’m often too close or too far away, so I’m pouring sweat when I manage to finally take a chunk of plastic off the dummy’s left shoulder.
“Excellent,” Titus praises, and he orders me to start again.
Another hour later, I can barely hold my right arm up. Although I refuse to quit, I’m grateful when Titus calls it a day.
I immediately collapse on the floor to lay on my back, feet planted to get my breath back. The whip handle is still held securely in my hand. Titus rummages through his duffel again, and I turn to watch him. He pulls out a few things I don’t recognize, then brings them over to me.
When he sits on the floor opposite me, I go ahead and hoist myself up to see what he has.
“The whip is yours to keep.” This means Carrick is gifting it to me permanently. I’m shocked.
He hands over an item, and I take it to study. It’s made of brown leather, two simple strips about three inches wide. They interloop with one another and each has a thick button snap that can be released to open one of the loops. One loop is much larger than the other.
“What is it?” I query.
“A holster,” he replies. “You can thread the small loop around a waist belt at your hip, then the other around the coiled whip. You just need to make sure you coil it in a way so your handle is situated to easily grab.”
He picks up the whip I set on the floor, loops it for me, then demonstrates the correct way to secure it so the fall and handle are secured tightly with the leather and the handle is angled in a way for me to easily reach it.
“You can also wear it cross-body style if you want, but it takes far more time to release it. Remember, seconds can be the difference between life and death. I recommend the hip holster.”
I nod, eagerly anticipating having my weapon at the ready.
But then Titus bursts my bubble. “But you can’t walk around Seattle with a whip on your hip for constant protection. I’m afraid it will only do you good going into a known battle.”
And just like that, I realize I’ve chosen the wrong weapon. I should have just gone with an iron dagger.
Picking the whip up, I hold the iron handle and rub my thumb along the raised rose carvings. It feels so damn right, like it belongs to me.
That’s when inspiration strikes. “Wait a minute,” I say as I scramble up from the floor. I dash back into the main workout room, grab my backpack, and return to Titus.
I plop down opposite him, open the bag, and dump out the contents. I don’t even think about being embarrassed when a tampon rolls out.
Titus watches as I take the leather holster loops and unsnap the smaller one to release it. I thread it through a carabiner clip on the right side of the bag that sits about level with where the shoulder strap connects to the bottom. After I coil the whip, I slip it inside the top of my backpack and don’t secure the top. Instead, I let the flap lay loosely. I pull the handle out, let it hang down the side, and secure it with the leather holster held by the carabiner.