Chapter 36: solace (rated T); safest hiding place (rated T)

Please note: In the Works Cited portion of Chapter 1 there are suggested music pieces to accompany this and other Chapters to enhance your experience of reading. I hope you enjoy them...

Flushing, Queens, December, 2014

The smell of the rain outside drifted through open doors upstairs, down the hall and down the stairs, right to where she stood. A little chill from the damp air. Here at the doorway looking in, this was the room where she and Reese were held.

There was the rope hanging down, tangled tonight, like a fight. When Reese was there the other night, it hung down straight. She remembered him trying to catch her eye, hanging from that rope, cutting skin, and then the sound of wood cracking bone. In his eyes, hurt and pain, but no giving in.

And then the table there, on the right, her own rope in a heap.

She remembered the sound of tires ticking over metal in the street, the swerve, a blur from the left and crashing, rolling, rolling, glass breaking, metal straining, head striking. And then the quiet.

Just falling glass.

Voices, doors, hands on her, and blackness.

With every move, ticking sounds, tiny shapes of glass dropping from her hair, bouncing, skidding on the table. Even before her eyes could see, the sounds of ticking on the table, first.

Then voices, foreign voices, and cold water from a bucket on her back. Awake then – but struggling to come up to speed, make sense.

Where was this place?

She'd turned to hear the sound and saw her partner hanging on the ropes.

Defiant, she spoke out loud.

Great, Reese, you always bring me to the best places. Then that first strike, a warning on her legs – a wooden stick, like a Kali stick. He hadn't held back much. The strike was plenty hard.

What made her challenge him like that, again: Let the fun begin.

And another strike across the legs. Reese tried to make her stop but she wouldn't let him tell her what to do.

She would take it. Whatever they dished out, she would take it.

But then, they went for Reese instead. They bared his skin, and then the stick again – on bare skin, so they could see where they would aim. They were pros at this – more pain with every strike.

These same points – she had learned them years before. From her master, her sifu, her teacher.

This one and only steady rock, when she was young.

He'd guided her, molded her, given her an outlet for the pain of her disorder. When she fit in nowhere else, he gave her room to be herself.

Solace.

Shaw turned away. Enough. There was work to do. But still, that room demanded. There was more for her to face.

They had pulled her down the table, hands and feet bound and tied. The skinny one metered out her rope, while the other pulled her to him. Over fallen glass, he dragged her down the tabletop.

She swallowed hard, remembering what came next.

Reese had seen the look, the smile, and swung his frame; back, then forward on the ropes, lashing with his leg, and downed him like a ragdoll at her feet. But then, the strikes, from all the wood batons, on Reese, and the sound of wood on bone and flesh. Moaning. Silence.

Then heavy breathing from their efforts at their striking. They poked him, hanging, with their wood batons. Nothing.

Then one hurried, to refill his bucket. Water, cold water, tossed on Reese's face and chest. Nothing for a moment. And then a gasp. More poking from their wood batons, and Reese struggling to lift his head.

She could see it in his eyes; he wasn't there yet, all the way. They kept poking, poking, and then she heard him call her name.

"Shaw." The three turned to see her there. In Mandarin, the woman in the shadows gave commands.

Shaw closed her eyes. Reese opened his. The three approached her; one grabbed her hair. Another, the ropes, and the last, her shirt.

"Don't touch her!" Reese blurted, groggy and panting in his pain. One stepped in close, his arms around her, pinning hers. She wriggled free, fighting, broke his hold. Then a head-butt to his face behind her.

She went down to the floor. There was kicking and lashing with batons, while they dragged her to the table. Reese's voice was in the background, hoarse, then softer, and softer, as blackness overtook her.

"Are you okay?" Fusco said at her side. Her eyes opened, and her face was stern.

"Yeah. Fine."

"I found something you should see," he said. And he waited for her to turn around and follow him back to the stairs. She took a last look around at the rope hanging in a tangle, and at the table on the right with the rope in a heap.

"Shaw?"

She turned around and followed him. Near the bottom of the stairs, opposite the wall with the tunnel, Fusco showed her another hidden door. They ducked in, and there, inside, was a small room with a bed, a small window, and on one wall, some equipment mounted.

She had seen that before.

She walked to the wall, with Fusco right behind.

'What is all this?" he asked.

"Training gear for iron palm." She reached to the squares of canvas on the wall. Inside, below the canvas, she could feel the small, hard shapes. And on the table, a jar of brown elixir. She sniffed its herbal smell. Jow.

"Iron palm? What's that?"

"A kind of training for your hands. You punch into bags filled with harder and harder stuff – sand, pebbles, rocks - until your hands are hardened, like iron."

"How long does that take?" Fusco asked, his head shaking like he couldn't imagine anyone doing it.

"Years," she said. She felt the bags with her hand, and took a punch into one, softly, to try it out.

It brought back memories of her master in class, when she was young. He was tough with her, training her like all the men in class. No coddling. But then, sometimes, he would watch her strikes, or see her practicing her form, and there would be a silent nod to her, so only she could see. And she would know that he was pleased.

"Look at this."

Fusco had left her side, and wandered to a backpack on the floor. Inside the flap, right on top, he pulled a photo from the bag. He turned it up toward Shaw. Reese. It was an 8x10 of Reese.

Midtown Manhattan, December, 2014

His thumb moved slowly on her skin. So warm and soft beneath it.

She'd stretched out long against his body, head against his shoulder, resting.

Mooring him from drifting.

She felt his hands on her and stirred. Kissed his chest, his shoulder, and then raised her head to his. In her blue blue eyes, her look had settled him, soothed him, wrapped him like the comfort in her arms.

He liked the weight of her body next to his. Her chest on his, her belly on his, her thigh on his. She was careful not to press against his knee. So tender with him now. Her lips on his.

Stretched out long against his body, skin to skin.

She kissed his neck, so softly, and her breath was warm against his ear.

She felt his heartbeat at her breast; a slow and steady rhythm tapping there.

So warm against him, like a blanket; soft like summer on his skin.

With every breath, more and more at peace, protected. At last, he was melted to submission.

Her heart, his safest hiding place.