“Waylon, get your battle clothes on.”
He hesitates. “I… thought… I was going to play a video game or something?”
“You thought wrong. You are going to learn the fine art of kicking asses so if Sophia has secretly trained her son to be an assassin, you will out-assassin him. Do you understand? My son needs to be the better assassin.”
Waylon looks a bit defeated, and I haven’t even sparred with him yet. “Cam’s not an assassin. In gym, he kicked at a ball and missed so hard he fell on his ass.”
“It could be a technique to make you lower your defenses,” I inform him.
For some reason, he’s locking eyes with Jackson, so I grab my child and start dragging him off with me. Once he’s in clothes he can move freely in and in the backyard, I hand him a practice knife.
“You remember what we went over last week?”
“I sure do. We go for the heart, I know where to avoid the bones. I know how to?—”
I smack the knife out of his hand, whip his arm behind his back, and pull my other arm around his neck as I hook his leg and guide him to the ground.
“You have failed me.”
“You’re so fast! I didn’t know what was happening!” he cries while he jiggles and wiggles and then pleadingly looks at Jackson as I hold him in a lock on the ground.
“We will remain here until you remove yourself from this position.”
“Can I take a nap, then?” he asks.
“Every minute you fail is one hour you will be unallowed to pet Cayenne,” I threaten.
“What did I do to deserve this?” he asks while he wiggles and thrashes. “Look how cute she is! She needs to be petted!”
“A mere infant could escape this hold,” I taunt.
“What kind of infant could escape this?” Waylon cries. “You always make this so hard!”
“On a scale of ‘I’m holding your hand as I walk you through this exercise’ to ‘You’re never getting out,’ we’re at ‘This is so easy I could do it in my sleep.’”
Waylon stops struggling for a moment and finally seems to think. Honestly, it’s about time. The kid has this big brain, and he’s forgotten how to use it.
He shifts his arm down, creating a space between us while driving his weight back into me. He tries to capture my leg, and fails, but rocks us to the side hard enough that he has backed me against the bench in the backyard.
I’m trying not to smile, proud of my protégé for finally getting what outs I’d given him. While I’m aware I could keep him from getting free, I want him to use his brain to find situations where he can use the environment or his skills to escape. With a final push, he uses the space he’s created to duck down, pressing his elbow against my throat and slipping free.
“I did it!” he exclaims, looking far too excited.
“I knew your brain was in there and good for something,” I say.
“I haven’t had to use it as much lately… it’s easier not to constantly be thinking when you have others to think for you.”
I toss him the knife, and he catches it. “Now I’m going to teach you the fine art of being… a badass motherfucker.”
“You really are bad at not cussing in front of Waylon,” Jackson says.
“Oh right… ummm… bad… butt… mother… sexer? Hmm… badbum motherfornicator? Badtush mothercoitus.”
“Why do all of those make me significantly more uncomfortable?” Waylon asks.
“It’s… a wonder,” Jackson says dryly.
“It’s how I distract my enemy,” I say as I slide in and grab him in another choke hold.
