Words With Fiends Page 5

  Darla gave a commiserating nod. Hal and Hank seemed to delight in tormenting the students. Their favorite pastime was piling on the warm-up exercises, whether it was running laps around the mat or doing sit-ups and push-ups. By mutual agreement, however, the class had found a way to undermine the twins’ petty tyranny. After the first dozen or so of each set, they’d begin “accidentally” accelerating the shouted count by skipping a number every so often, which ended up knocking down the total by a significant number of reps. So far, Hank and Hal did not appear to have caught on to the subterfuge.

  Darla snarkily attributed the plot’s ongoing success to the fact that the men simply didn’t know how to count past ten.

  If someone in the class hadn’t told her, Darla never would have guessed that the brothers were fraternal twins, for they looked about as much alike as she and Robert did. Hal was close to six feet tall and rocked the bald head, tattooed neck look. In flagrant violation of dojo rules, he’d lopped off the sleeves of his black gi jacket to better display an impressive set of tattooed biceps. Hank was shorter and stockier than his brother, and had chosen to let his black hair grow long enough to wear in a ponytail, rather like his stepfather had worn in his younger days. Hank, too, went in for the sleeveless look, with arms even bigger than his brother’s, but minus the tattoo ink.

  Though now in their early twenties, the pair apparently had been part of the dojo since their grade school days. A good portion of the trophies and ribbons on display in the front case belonged to them.

  “All right, people, line up,” Hal called, despite the fact that the students had already arranged themselves into two lines in order of rank, meaning that Robert and Darla were in the back.

  Hank chimed in, “Now, bow to the flag, bow to the instructors, bow to each other. Oh, yeah,” he added in a bored tone when the bows were completed, “don’t forget to repeat the creed.”

  “Run when you can, fight if you must, never give up, and never let injustice go unpunished,” Darla obediently chorused, preparing herself for a dose of Hal and Hank boot camp.

  The twins must have been in a better mood than usual, however, for the warm-up was relatively short and comparatively painless. By then Master Tomlinson, accompanied by Roma, had returned to his usual spot in front of the class.

  “Let’s run through a couple of katas, and then I have some new self-defense techniques to show you,” he began.

  The hour-long class flew by, the students rotating partners as they moved through the various drills under the sensei’s direction. Darla suffered a momentary bit of angst when she found herself paired up with Chris during one technique, but apparently the lesson of being banned from the tournament had sunk in, for the teen was remarkably subdued. As the drill commenced, he was careful to pull his punches and even offered Darla a grudging compliment on her progress. She was so shocked by his unexpected praise, however, she forgot to block his next attack—and for that momentary inattention, promptly found herself on her rump on the mat.

  Unfortunately for her ego, Master Tomlinson had turned his attention to her just in time to witness her ungainly landing. But barely had she hit the ground when a panicking Chris was grabbing her hand and dragging her upright again.

  “Sorry, Master Tomlinson, it was an accident. I thought she was blocking me, honest,” he sputtered, blue eyes wide beneath his curtain of bangs as he shot Darla a frantic look that said, Dude, back me up here!

  Though fleetingly tempted to indulge in a bit of payback, Darla’s sense of fair play kicked in. “It was my fault, Sensei,” she agreed. “I let myself be distracted and forgot to block him.”

  “That doesn’t matter,” was his stern reply. Turning to the teen, he went on, “Chris, you’re the senior-ranking student. You should have been able to avoid hitting her. Now, go to the back of the room and do push-ups until the rest of the students finish the drill.”

  “Yes, Master Tomlinson.”

  His tone sullen, the youth made his bow to the sensei. Then, with a resentful glare in Darla’s direction, he stomped off to the far corner. Feeling guilty now, Darla opened her mouth to protest what she considered to be an unfair punishment. Just in time, however, she glimpsed Robert standing behind the instructor and anxiously pantomiming lips being zipped. She prudently shut her mouth again. She might be boss of her bookstore, she reminded herself, but the sensei was boss of his dojo. How he ran it was his business.

  Tomlinson’s stern visage relaxed into amusement, and Darla realized in embarrassment that the man had probably seen Robert’s performance reflected in the mirror behind her. All he said, however, was, “Since you lost your partner, you can finish the drill with me.”

  For the next few minutes, she practiced blocking techniques with him, silently marveling at the difference between working with him and working with Chris. She’d often heard her father quote the old saw about old age and treachery overcoming youth and skill. Here was an actual example of the concept . . . at least, the old age part of it. Compared with Chris’s flashy if uncontrolled athleticism, the aging sensei seemed slow and out of shape. But Darla swiftly found that appearances were deceiving.

  Despite his gouty legs and arthritic hands, Tomlinson was able to move effortlessly from her path at every attack and defend against her fledgling efforts with a silent economy of motion that came only from a lifetime of dedicated practice. Forget the wild flying through the air and punching through boards, Darla thought in awe. This was the real deal. In fact, she suspected that even his stepsons would be hard-pressed to best him in a fair fight . . . six-pack abs and impressive guns notwithstanding.

  With a final “good job” for Darla, Tomlinson called a halt to the drill. Hank and Hal, who’d been assisting some of the other students, sauntered back up to the front of the training area.

  “All right, people, line up,” Hal called again.

  Chris, who’d been gamely carrying out his punishment in the corner, rushed to claim his spot at the front of the class. Sweat now drenched the Bieber bangs, but from the sour look he shot in her direction, Darla could see that enforced exercise had done nothing to quench his resentment. A glance toward the sidelines convinced her that, unless someone had installed twin lasers in the waiting area, Grace Valentine was equally peeved at her.

  Maybe she’d take a rain check on watching the sparring class, after all. The last thing she wanted to do was sit beside Chris’s mother for the next hour while the woman chewed off her red lipstick and stared holes in her.

  After a quick cool down and a moment of meditation, Hal dismissed the class. Darla and Robert bowed their way off the mat to find Master Tomlinson waiting for them.

  “So, are you two looking forward to your belt test?” the sensei asked with a smile.

  Robert’s nod was eager. “I practice, like, every night at home. I know I can ace the test. I just wish we didn’t have to wait until next month.”

  “Maybe you don’t have to wait.” When Darla and Robert gave him a quizzical look, the man said, “I have to be here at the dojo on Sunday morning. If you two want, you can come in and I’ll give you your own private belt test.”

  “If you’re sure it’s not too much trouble,” Darla began, only to have Robert cut her off.

  “Sweet! We’ll be here,” he agreed, his grin as broad as Darla had ever seen it. “What time?”

  “How about eleven?”

  Robert hesitated, his enthusiasm obviously dimming as he looked at Darla for confirmation. Both of them were scheduled to open the store at noon on Sunday, which would be cutting it pretty darn close. But seeing how much this meant to Robert—and looking forward herself to trading her beginner’s white belt for a yellow one—Darla gave him an answering smile and then turned to Tomlinson.

  “Eleven would be fine . . . and if the store opens a few minutes late, I’m sure everyone will survive it.”

  “Sweet,” Robert happ
ily repeated. He gave a few air punches to punctuate the sentiment, while Roma enthusiastically bounded up and down at his feet. “Thanks, Master Tomlinson.”

  “Thank you. Nothing is better than finding students who truly want to learn. So come ready to show me your best.”

  “We will,” Darla promised.

  “We will,” Robert echoed, and then bent to tussle a moment with Roma, who promptly grabbed hold of his gi sleeve with tiny sharp teeth and began play growling as she tugged at it.

  Tomlinson smiled a little even as he assumed a stern tone. “Leave it, Roma. You know better than that.”

  The small canine obediently let go of Robert’s sleeve, but her bright brown eyes still flashed with mischief as she sat beside the instructor. Hank, meanwhile, strolled past them on his way to the equipment area, pausing a moment to give Roma a disapproving look.

  “We’re about to start the sparring class,” he announced. “That rat’s gonna get stepped on. Why don’t you stick it in its cage?”

  By way of answer, Tomlinson abruptly clapped his beefy hands. With a graceful vertical leap, Roma landed in the older man’s arms. From the safety of her owner’s arms, she gave Hank what Darla could only interpret as a smug look before snuggling with her long snout tucked beneath the lapel of his gi.

  Tomlinson, meanwhile, gave his stepson a cold look. “Roma knows how to behave in the dojo, which is more than I can say for some other people.”

  “Well,” Darla brightly broke in, “I think it’s time for Robert and me to head out so we’re not in the way of the next group. We’ll see you Sunday morning, Sensei.”

  She made her quick bow to Tomlinson and Hank; then, grabbing Robert by his gi sleeve, she dragged him toward the changing area.

  “But I wanted to watch the sparring class,” he complained as he stumbled after her.

  She halted and let go of his sleeve. “Sorry, I just wanted to get us out of fist range in case something happened. This isn’t the first night I’ve seen those two do a little verbal sparring, and it always makes me nervous.”

  She glanced over her shoulder and saw in relief that the two men had apparently parted with nothing worse than the few harsh words already exchanged. Even so, she wasn’t going to hang around. “Stay if you want,” she told the teen, “but I’m going to leave before—”

  Before Mark shows up, was what she intended to say. But she made it only halfway through her sentence when she caught a whiff of stale cigarette smoke, and a familiar nasal voice chimed in behind her, “Hi, Darla.”

  Too late.

  Wincing a little, Darla turned back around to see Mark Poole and his overstuffed gear bag wandering in from the training area. “Long time, no see,” he trotted out the old cliché, and then grinned in appreciation of his perceived wit. “You staying to watch me spar tonight, maybe give me a little encouragement?” He dropped his gear bag at his feet and opened his skinny arms in what was a blatant invitation to a hug.

  Appalled, Darla took a reflexive step back. Nothing set off her redhead’s temper like some guy trying to coerce a woman into a “harmless” embrace. Maybe she should demonstrate on him the little stomp-and-shove technique they’d learned tonight.

  Just in time, however, she recalled that the man was a customer, and so she managed a tight smile instead.

  “Hi, Mark. Actually, I’m going to change and then run back to the store before it closes so I can help out James. But good luck with class tonight.”

  “Uh, sure.”

  Taking the hint, he awkwardly let his arms fall to his sides again, looking so downcast that Darla almost felt sorry for him. Almost. Then he gave Robert a quizzical look. “You’re the kid who works for Darla at the bookstore, right? You gonna watch tonight?”

  “Only if there’s, you know, blood,” was Robert’s exaggeratedly cheerful reply. Only Darla noticed that he followed that declaration with the silently mouthed word, creepoid.

  Buoyed by her employee’s reaction, Darla now suppressed a grin. Out of the mouth of babes . . . or, rather Gen Y-ers. Robert would probably spend the class cheering on every opponent Mark sparred against. She only hoped that he wouldn’t be too blatant about it.

  Mark looked as though he was struggling to reply with something clever, and not having much success. He was saved from total humiliation, however, when his cell phone abruptly rang from the recesses of his gym bag. He gave a guilty look around—dojo rules said all cell phones off in the training area—and quickly dug the phone out from under his sparring gloves. Then, with a glance at the caller ID, he pressed the “Talk” button.

  “Gotta take this,” he told Darla. “Don’t say anything to Sensei.”

  Darla gave a silent sigh of relief. “Don’t worry, I won’t tattle.” To Robert, she added, “I’ll see you later,” before heading off to the changing room.

  This had not been the best of evenings, despite the sensei’s offer to give them their belt test early. First there had been that secondhand stress from witnessing the altercations between Master Tomlinson and Mrs. Valentine, and then Master Tomlinson and his stepsons. Then there had been that incident with Chris. And Mark’s unalluring presence was the cherry on a not-so-tasty sundae. All in all, she wasn’t in the mood tonight to hang around the dojo. She’d check in with James at the store, and then spend some quality time with Hamlet in advance of the cat whisperer guy’s arrival Saturday morning.

  A few minutes later, she slipped out the front door, leaving behind the faint echoes of shouting fighters and the inevitable whiff of gym sweat. Unfortunately, she found Grace Valentine outside, leaning against the building a short distance from the door, her short blond mink jacket leaving her fishnet-clad legs exposed to the cold night air.

  She seemed not to notice the chill, however, for she had her cell phone pressed to her ear and appeared to be intently listening to someone on the other end. In her free hand, she dangled one of those long, skinny cigarettes that gave off a surprising amount of toxic smoke for all its dainty size. Grace’s red lips were bright beneath the light from the studio window and still twisted into an angry line. Whether that emotion was directed at the person on the phone, or was simply a holdover from her earlier verbal fisticuffs with Master Tomlinson, Darla couldn’t guess.

  As for Chris, he stood on the sidewalk a few steps from her, hunched so low into his blue, down-filled coat that Darla could see only his sweat-darkened bangs as he fumbled with his own cell phone. Apparently, he still was in trouble with the sensei since he wasn’t inside sparring with the rest of the advanced students.

  She didn’t know if Chris noticed her, but his mother certainly did. Catching Darla’s eye, Grace shot her a look that made Darla hope the woman’s mob connections were limited to her wardrobe.

  “Yeah, hold on, wouldja?” she abruptly barked into her cell. Then, pressing the phone against her surgicallyenhanced bust, she turned her attention to Darla.

  “Hey! Yeah, Cherry Top, I’m talking to you,” she called, pointing in Darla’s direction with her cigarette. “Don’t think I didn’t see what happened tonight. If you’d have been paying attention, you wouldn’t have walked into Chris’s fist, and then Tom wouldn’t have banned him from sparring tonight.”

  “I know . . . sorry,” was the safest response that came to Darla’s mind. She’d long ago learned not to engage the crazy, and Mama Valentine definitely fell into that camp. Defending herself would only make matters worse.

  Grace, however, was not appeased by her apology.

  “I know your type,” she persisted, cigarette waving wildly. “Ladies like you come to class, thinking it’ll be fun, or maybe you’ll find a guy. Well, let me tell you, it ain’t like that. It’s hard work. You ladies”—she made the word sound like an insult—“you never last. So just don’t screw things up any worse for my kid before you get bored and quit. I don’t care what Tom says, Chris is gonna be in that tournamen
t, or else.”

  Definitely a “run when you can” moment, Darla swiftly decided as the woman took a threatening step in her direction. She was pretty sure that Grace could take her in a fight, even wearing leopard print pumps and a mini skirt. The sooner she beat it, the better.

  Determined not to let Grace have the last word, however, Darla managed a bright smile in return. “Well, nice chatting with you. ’Bye, Chris,” she added in the youth’s direction and gave him a friendly wave. “See you next class.”

  Chris glanced up from his phone, appearing startled before promptly returning his attention to his phone. Grace looked a bit surprised, too, Darla saw in satisfaction. With a final sneer in Darla’s direction, the woman stuck her phone back up to her ear and resumed her conversation.

  Darla gave a mental shrug. I tried, she reassured herself as she started back in the direction of the store. True, she might have given up a bit easily in the face of Grace’s outrage, but that didn’t mean she was intimidated. It simply was that she had plenty on her plate to contend with without worrying about being on a high schooler’s mom’s bad list. Hamlet was her priority for the moment. She could only hope that this so-called cat whisperer she’d hired would find a way into the clever feline’s psyche and discover what it would take to return Hamlet to his ornery self once more.

  Darla pulled out her phone—her usual safety precaution when walking alone in the evening—and the now-familiar xylophone sound chimed, indicating an opponent had just played a word in one of her dozen open games. Swiftly, she pulled up the screen for a look.

  This player was an anonymous competitor with the user name fightingwords (Darla’s was pettibooks123). And he—she?—had lived up to that moniker, Darla thought with a smile. This was their eighth or ninth game, and the wins had been pretty evenly split thus far. Both of them usually scored high, with only a handful of points determining the victor.

  Actually, fightingwords was the only random user that Darla played anymore. She had been burned too many times by unknown, casual players who flitted from game to game, quitting halfway through whenever they were behind on points. Worse, however, were the cheaters. These were the ones who had installed a sneaky little app to their game that allowed them to play all seven letters at once for an outrageous score, no matter that the word formed was nothing but a jumble. The minute someone slapped up a word like ypeortn and gained a cool seventy or eighty points because they were on triple word and triple letter spots—plus a bonus for using all their letters at once—it was Darla who swiftly resigned!