“I’d say you should get your ass to the gym more, but it’d probably be salt in the wound.”
I snort. “Definitely. Midnight push-ups hardly count.”
Once I’m limber, I eye the heavy bag in the corner. But after a few steps, Falk gets between me and the bag. “How about we spar?”
“I’m not sure that’s fair.”
“What, because you’ve got fifty pounds on me?”
“No, because you’ve got a decade of training on me.”
He laughs, and it’s like I’m looking at a different man. “Might make it a fair fight.”
“I fought you. I lost. Brutally.”
“You won, and with a single good hand.”
“Thanks to my roommate and a bag of kitty litter.”
Another bark of laughter comes from the man. “That’s what got me? Shit. That’s embarrassing.”
We’ve wandered to the sparring mats across from each other. “No head shots?” he asks.
“And leave the junk alone, too.”
“Your dad would kill me if I went for the baby-maker,” he replies, but the joke falls flat. We both know that’d be the likely outcome.
Then, with no notice, he’s on me.
It doesn’t take too long to figure out he’s testing me, finding my strengths and weaknesses, attacking and pulling back like an adaptive fighting simulation.
Or like a coach. Not that I’ve ever had one of those.
All too soon, I’m getting sloppy from exhaustion, but at least Falk broke into a sweat too, and I’ve identified a spot on his ribs that makes his eyes water. My father is at least consistent in doling out his punishments.
We break apart, and I go grab some water, watching the security guard shake out his arms. His laugh earlier made me realize that there’s a lot I don’t know about this man. “What’s your first name?”
Falk freezes, then laughs, once again looking less like wallpaper and more like a person. “You don’t know my name?”
I shrug, wishing I didn’t feel like an ass. “Nope. You’re just Falk.”
“Shit, kid. That almost hurts. I’m Hunter, Hunter Falk. And just so we’re clear, that’s one of the most rich-kid things I’ve heard from you.”
Sadly true. “Were your parents psychics or something? That name’s a little on the nose.”
“It’d be better if my mom was. No, she was just really into astrology. December meant I was a Hunter. I’m just glad I wasn’t born in July. I don’t think ‘Crab’ suits me.”
Turning away with a huff, the joke’s so unexpected that I debate letting him in. But without knowing what my father has on him, I can’t guess how far out on a limb he’d go for me and mine.
Not yet. I’ll have to find a way to tell RJ to look into him. “Thanks for sparring,” I say instead.
He stretches, starting his cool-down. “You’ve got potential.”
“Potential doesn’t take your ass down.”
He smirks, once again looking like a different man. “Sure as hell doesn’t.”
The walk back to the white room is one of the most comfortable I’ve had in a while.
