Out of Focus (Chosen Paths #2) (6 page)

My steps are lazy and definitely unhurried as we walk down two flights of stairs and make our way to where Spencer’s blue ’68 Mustang awaits in all her glory. I hate that car. Who would ever want to possess a car that threatens permanent hearing loss every time you start the goddamn engine is beyond me. My poor auditory nerves will never be the same.

I glare at the Mustang before sliding inside and silently cursing myself for not calling dibs on the ride. After a lovely session of Spencer revving the engine every time I try to speak, which she knows I loathe, we finally make the ten-minute drive to the building my roommate has been practically living in over the past few weeks.

Crow’s Gym.

As soon as we walk inside, I breathe in the pungent scent of plastic mats and sweat, the smell oddly comforting. It’s been years since I attended self-defense classes, but I remember the feeling of empowerment they brought and suddenly I’m saddened I didn’t continue. It sure beats the regular crushing shame I feel on the mornings I wake in random people’s beds after getting wasted the night before.

While I found hard-earned relief and growth in the instruction, the voices somehow managed to divert my attention and reset my priorities.
They
offered what I craved.

Numbness.

On one very weak day, I more than willingly accepted their promise as I chose to party instead of attending class in search of a much more convenient form of escape. One night led to another, then another, until I just quit going.

But as I enter the pungent room, I find a renewed sense of resilience.

I make a mental note to find out more about this class, then find a place by Spencer on the mats. We busy ourselves by stretching until a collective silence fills the gym. I watch the back of the instructor as he confidently makes his way through his students toward the front of the class.

His hair is the first thing I notice. It’s a very light shade of brown, almost blond, shaved on the sides but a long, thick strip lines the top of his head and is fastened tightly in the back with an elastic band. My eyes graze slowly over the rest of his muscular features as he walks—the thickness of his neck, the movement of his back underneath his white shirt, the flex of his triceps with each sway of his arms, the curves of the powerful legs that carry him through the crowd.

My entire body begins to tingle with awareness. A pull I haven’t experienced in years tightens, and I suddenly find myself unable to break away, fixated on his every movement.

I’m sure Spencer is gloating next to me, but as much I want to turn to her and discuss why the hell she didn’t force me to come to this class sooner, I cannot for the life of me disengage my stare. I’m hypnotized.

I’m also in trouble, because I swear to God, the minute he turns and I’m given my first glimpse of his face, I can no longer breathe. His eyes. They’re the most beautiful I’ve ever seen. Dark blue—inviting—yet intense as he scrutinizes the crowd in front of him. I’m completely lost in them.

Somehow, through the mass of people, we lock gazes. His sapphire stare unwaveringly holds mine, and warmth floods my cheeks. Everything around me begins to slow and my normally spiraling world crawls to a standstill with my focus finding its center on him. There’s an overwhelming sense of peace in this moment of stillness, and I find myself smiling at the relief it provides. In response, his rounded, perfectly shaped lips rise at the corners and he holds my stare for a bit longer, before finally breaking the connection and redirecting his attention to the class.

Air rushes my lungs the second he looks away, and I inhale deeply.

What the hell was
that
?

Completely baffled, I shake my head from side to side, then watch as he clasps his hands in front of his chest before addressing the class.

“Welcome to Krav Maga. My name is Grady Bennett and I will be instructing you this evening. For those of you joining us for the first time this evening, thank you for coming.”

Hands now joined behind his back, Grady weaves his way through the rows of people as he speaks.

“Krav Maga, which translated from Hebrew as ‘contact combat,’ is a line of defense developed and initially only used by Israeli armed forces until the 1970s when its instruction began worldwide. The most important thing to remember in the philosophy of Krav Maga—avoid confrontation when at all possible. Only when offered no other option, do you utilize the techniques that will be taught tonight. The art of Krav Maga is not about violence but protection. We will go through various strikes and kicks then pair off to visit particular situations that may be of use, which is the reason for this open class—take what is taught and utilize it as necessary.”

Now back in position in front of us, there’s a tender quality in his tone as he adds, “Although I hope you will never be in a situation that requires the use of these defensive techniques.”

Grady’s eyes are soft and caring as he shifts his gaze to each of the females in class before dismissing us to warm up. It’s a gesture that tells me, for whatever reason, he is extremely invested in those he teaches.

I turn to Spencer, who by the way is
totally
gloating, and ignore the shit-eating grin on her face while we throw some punches and launch kicks. Just as I begin to break a sweat, Grady’s soothing voice filters through the air from across the room.

“Ladies, please pair up with someone of the opposite sex. It’s crucial for you to learn how using the energy naturally carried within your center can overpower someone larger than you and for you to understand where the vulnerabilities lie in someone who could be
perceived
as a stronger opponent.”

Immediately, I freeze and my mouth dries to the point that I’m forced to swallow what feels like pure sand. Avoiding any potential stares, my eyes are drawn to the mat below me, and I say a silent prayer that no man will be putting his hands on me during this exercise.

I hear nothing but my racing heartbeat as it whooshes through my ears; each of its rhythmic pounds borders the point of deafening. I close my eyes and draw in a deep breath, trying to calm my frantic nerves. On my second influx of much-needed air, the sound of footsteps approaching cease and warmth spreads along the entire right side of my body as someone makes their move to stand beside me. I drive the dread from my mind and force my lids open. My eyes refuse to break from the ground, remaining locked on the mat as I swallow my fear. After releasing a long, calming breath, I finally manage to tear them away, only to find myself once again lost in a captivating shade of blue.

“Hi.”

Grady Bennett stands in front of me and as he offers that simple hello in introduction, the tenderness of his tone unleashes a floodgate of calm. It rushes through me, washing away my apprehension, and I have no choice but to breathe in a sigh of relief and grin at its effect. It’s funny how the intonation of one tiny word has the power to invoke a feeling so paramount.

Is it me?

Or is that how every single female he comes into contact with responds to his voice?

“Hi,” I respond, suddenly unable to speak above a whisper. My cheeks warm as the side of his mouth lifts, forming a crooked grin. His bright eyes are relentless as they hold my stare, their intensity a bit overwhelming. I clear my throat and extend my arm. “Cassie.”

Grady’s hand wraps around mine, and as his fingers curl and graze my skin, a shiver races through my entire body. The feeling morphs into one of comfort and my earlier grin stretches into a wide smile, thankful for the absence of nausea that typically accompanies having someone touch me.

“Grady,” he answers, then squeezes my hand. Still holding it within his firm grasp, his eyes finally break from mine, dipping downward. His lips twitch as he adds, “Nice shirt.”

I glance down, then back at him, goofy smile still present on my face. “Thanks. It’s Star Wars.”

“I can see that.”

Then, he smiles. Like, full-on, breathtakingly beautiful smile.

It’s shameful really. Very rarely will you find me being a girly-girl, but standing here, in front of this handsome stranger with the warmest of touches, whose strength
doesn’t
overwhelm, and who also seems to have impeccable taste in clothing and quite possibly the most beautiful smile ever, I’m about two seconds from melting into a puddle right here on this mat. It’s when my knees actually begin to buckle that I take action and force myself back to reality. Although, I will admit, this visit to
Never-Gonna-Happen
has been a nice, brief reprieve.

Stepping backward, I extract my hand and gesture toward the mats. “I guess it’s time to teach me about the energy naturally carried within my center.”

And that’s when it happens.

An unfamiliar, nervous energy replaces the calm, and all of a sudden I’m the equivalent of a twelve-year-old boy.

I’d like to teach him about the energy in
my
center.

I bet if
my center
and
his center
got together, we’d definitely have plenty of
natural
energy. For days.

I’ve got your energy right here, blue eyes . . .

I can’t help it.

Evidently ill-equipped to handle Grady Bennett and his smile, my brain completely shuts down and I go full-on stupid.

And giddy.

I am now, much to my mortification,
stupid-giddy
.

I give him my back to hide my laughter, but I’m fairly certain he heard the snort right before I turned. I try to choke back the amusement with
myself,
which only makes me want to laugh harder.

My body protests and tears begin to fill my eyes just as he steps closer behind me. The mat dips with his weight and his breaths tickle the back of my neck, and I’m so consumed by my own hilarity, my defenses have shut down right along with my brain. Strong hands wrap themselves around my hips, and caught completely off-guard, my entire body goes ramrod straight. My laughter ceases and my breathing stalls while all focus homes in on the fingers gripping my waist.

He’s too close.

Too. Close.

Can’t. Breathe.

His head peeks over my shoulder, edging into my peripheral vision. Breathing shallow breaths, I turn toward his face and my eyes latch on to his like a lifeline. Grady narrows his stare with the further stiffening of my body, and I force the biggest, broadest, smile that has ever graced my face.

Unable to speak, I continue to hold that smile while he cocks his head so minutely, most wouldn’t notice the movement. But I see it.

And he sees
me
.

His eyes are shrewd as they assess my reaction, then he finally relents, loosening his grip. I inhale deeply, but still holding his gaze, I offer him a slight dip of my head, signaling the permission for his touch to remain. All of which happens in the matter of seconds while the same fake-ass smile remains on my face.

The smile is for show, yet the language between the two of us is anything but.

Invisible to others, it’s a silent conversation of lines drawn and boundaries learned.

Without me knowing the how or why, it’s me connecting with someone who understands.

He
sees me.

Grady clears his throat, then proceeds with teaching. “Your core is here. Your strength. You can use it to draw upon if and when a threatening situation presents itself.”

My eyes are locked with his as I give him another indiscernible nod. One hand leaves my waist, latching onto my wrist, while the remaining hand tightens and draws my hip backward into the security of his frame. I face forward and rely on his strength to hold me as he masterfully twists both our bodies, guiding my arm into throwing a perfect right hook.

I feel like a puppet, and fuck me, I actually
like
it.

He. Sees. Me.

I bypass the need to revoke my own kick-ass woman card and sink into him. My entire body relaxes and melts into his frame. Something about him speaks to me. I can’t put my finger on it, but I know I haven’t felt this level of trust with another man since, well, since Rat.

Yet, as much as the memory of his loss pains me, I cannot stop this feeling of much-needed relief from overriding my naturally guarded intuition for self-protection. I’m no longer in control, and the knowledge of that fact scares the absolute shit out of me.

So in response, I do what I do best.

I reinforce my protective walls and pretend, because
that
at least, I can command.

My reaction to Grady Bennett . . . not so much.

But I manage to mask it, and I do so masterfully.

For the remainder of class, I plaster the same bogus grin on my face. I fulfill my duty as the quirky friend for this class in which I’m thankfully unknown, because that’s what I need to do to get through it without experiencing a full-fledged anxiety attack.

I squelch the feeling Grady’s touch rouses as he guides me through more defensive exercises.

I hide my anxiety when he later pulls me in front of the entire class to demonstrate how to disarm a threat with a gun, which I manage with ease, much to his surprise.

I evade the situation at hand, catching Spencer’s eyes and making inappropriate innuendos as Grady stands behind me. And when she giggles, I find myself laughing too.

My anxiety lessens as class continues, because once I’m able to shove my fears into the abyss where all avoidance is stored, I find my new focus.

Grady continues his instruction, but I totally zone out, watching Spencer with her partner. I’m lost in their interaction, intrigued by the peculiar awareness shared between them. He’s huge, more of a bulky musculature to Grady’s lean. His hair is long, the color of coffee, and gathered into a man-bun snug against the back of his head. His keen eyes are a shade darker than that of his hair on his head, as well as the beard that
almost
conceals his full smile in reaction to something Spencer says. I very much like the way he watches her closely as they spar. There seems to be an air of protectiveness in the way he touches her, very reminiscent of . . .