Ch 36

My throat went dry, every nerve and muscle drawn to Florine and my undeniable desire for her.

Truth be told, I had never stopped wanting her. Time had not dulled the ache for her affection, for the moments we had spent tangled in each other's arms.

Her hand still rested on my arm, the heat of her body up against mine nothing short of intoxicating. She was a need that would never truly be sated, a lustful thirst I could not quench.

She extinguished all of my senses and truly turned me into a poetic, lovesick teen who would spew romantic verses at anyone who would listen.

"Come back with me," she suggested.

"I am required to stay for another thirty-three minutes."

She stared up at me, her chest noticeably heaving with each breath. "I'll wait."

The offer was more than temptation, it was a craving I'd experienced since we had last parted ways. Florine was familiar to me in ways that were never replicated by anyone else, a road I could have traveled blindfolded, a book memorized word-for-word, a melody so sweet it was always in the back of my mind. Intoxicated by the prospect, I succumbed to the greatest sickness of all: infatuation.

"I assume Marco will be home."

"In his bedroom," she said. "Sketching with the door locked. You needn't worry."

"I am not concerned that he will be there. I was hoping you would introduce us as you had previously promised," I replied.

Florine eyed me briefly. "Marco will be asleep by the time I return home. He has to be awake early for his art lesson."

"Then perhaps I should pay a visit tomorrow after breakfast when he has returned home."

Florine's jaw tightened with annoyance. "I have no idea when he will return home."

"Supper?" I asked, noting the desperation in my tone. With each word I made a bigger fool of myself, yet I continued to speak. "Surely by tomorrow evening he will be free."

Florine offered a close-lipped smile. "I will be attending a play tomorrow night." She squeezed my wrist. "And besides, I was more interested in your exclusive attention, which I thought would be mutual."

"I appreciate the offer."

Florine scoffed. "The offer indeed."

Before she walked away, I held fast to her elbow. "You know how I have always felt for you," I said, keeping my voice low. "And you know how greatly I wish to meet Marco."

"Phelan," she said. "Marco is in a place where he needs stability. I am afraid at this time, introducing you would not be beneficial."

I searched her face for a long moment. "Because you have what you wanted," I said. "A letter from the university. This was nothing more than a ploy."

"No, it was not my intention. We shall discuss this later in private."

"I would prefer knowing now."

"Why?" she snapped, her face an inch from mine. "What do I owe to you, Phelan Kimmer, in regards to the child I raised alone? I made several attempts to bring you into my son's life and you made your excuses. What makes you think for a moment you can be the person Marco needs?"

I took a step back. "You do not owe me anything," I said quietly. "But I owe it to Marco. I merely wish to speak to him. If after an introduction he is not interested in pursuing a relationship, I will not ask it of you or him."

Florine frowned at me. "Would one conversation be enough?"

My lips parted, but I had no reply. There would never be enough considering all I had missed in seventeen years.

"You were my youthful rebellion," she said. "And I was your addiction at a time when we were different people. There are moments when I would do anything to return to those blissful days, when we had no cares in the world aside from pleasure. What could we possibly be now?"

"Meaningless lovers," I answered.

Florine frowned at me. "You've certainly had your share of them." She paused and searched my face. "I have always wanted more for you, even if it was not with me. Whatever it is you need, I hope one day you find it."

I looked away first, wounded by the truth in her words.

"Good night, Phelan," Florine said at last, squeezing my arm before she turned. "We will speak soon."

Once she walked away, my gaze was drawn to the gallery door where Theo Van Gogh walked in with another man closely behind him.

"Swiftly, now, gentleman, the gallery closes in nineteen minutes," Theo said.

"Theo!" Stefan shouted as he briskly made his way toward my broker. "I have excellent news for you."

My night, which seemingly could not get any worse, plummeted quite dramatically as a third man walked through the door.

He looked like an ape in a suit with his hunched shoulders, oversized cauliflower ears, and the scowl permanently attached to his face.

"Ah! There he is!" Theo said once he spotted me.

"Damn it," I said under my breath, my frustration with the night growing exponentially.

Bernard Montlaur's voice carried across the gallery, as did his rude remarks that left the people still attending the show gasping in horror at his colorful language.

The fact that their murmurs and glares had no effect on the pugilist whatsoever made me chuckle to myself as I watched the three men congregate near the door momentarily. Theo attempted to hand Montlaur a program, but the boxer swatted it out of his grasp and stepped over it.

"I ain't interested in art," Montlaur grumbled.

"Tonight you are," the man I didn't recognize sternly assured him. "Remember what I said?"

"I don't give a–"

"Bernard!" the man snapped. "Keep your mouth closed and have a look around. Do not speak to anyone unless I am there."

Montlaur scratched the back of his egg-shaped head. I assumed he had either lice or fleas, possibly both, as he was clearly more of a primate than a man.

"Don't you worry. I ain't saying a word to no one," he grumbled.

Almost immediately his eyes met mine and the scowl on his face deepened. He shook his head in disgust and walked in the opposite direction, making a lap around the gallery without bothering to look at a single painting, basket, or sculpture on display.

"Congratulations," Theo said as he approached me. "First and only sale of the night. What an absolute honor to represent you, Monsieur Kimmer." He gestured to the man at his side with blonde hair and a reddish mustache. "And may I have the pleasure of introducing you to Karl Seger, one of the best managers in athletics."

Monsieur Seger shook my hand with a great deal of enthusiasm. "How wonderful to meet you, Monsieur…Kimmer, was it?"

"Phelan Kimmer," I answered.

"May I introduce you to my long-time client and current European champion, Monsieur–"

"No!" Bernard barked from across the gallery. "I ain't speaking with him."

I fought the overwhelming desire to roll my eyes and chuckle to myself.

"We have already met, Monsieur Seger," I replied.

Montlaur appeared livid. "Unfortunately."

The boxer's manager sputtered for the correct reply. "I apologize sincerely, Monsieur, it has been a very long day for my client." He shifted his weight. "Ah, yes, I do remember you from the other night at the university."

Theo gave the boxing manager a quizzical look. "Boxing match?"

"Nothing I wish to discuss at this time," I assured Theo.

"And I don't want to be here," Bernard said as he approached.

"One could hardly tell," I said under my breath.

Montlaur glared at me. "You have something to say?"

"I've already said it."

"Say it again," Montlaur snapped.

I inhaled. "I said one could hardly tell you have no desire to be here. For the record, that was meant sarcastically."

Montlaur eyed me for a long moment. He puffed out his chest, his arms held out slightly as if he wanted to appear larger and more intimidating.

"You're damn right I don't," he grumbled.

"Perhaps if he had a look around, he would reconsider," Theo said, making a valiant attempt to salvage the night.

"That seems doubtful," I replied. "He's already made up his mind and there will be no changing it."

Montlaur's scowl slowly faded into a look of concern. "You don't know the first thing about me."

I shrugged. "I know you don't have an eye for art."

His frown deepened. "Why would I want an eye for art? I've got two eyes for breaking skulls."

"Indeed," I said under my breath.

"You think I'm stupid or something?"

I raised a brow. "I said you don't have an eye for art. I never said you were stupid."

Montlaur shifted his weight. "But you think it, don't you? You think I'm a mindless brute."

The crowd had thinned around us, those in attendance swiftly making their way to the safety of the exit as Montlaur continued to speak quite loudly.

"I think you have developed your strengths, quite literally, while allowing underdeveloped skills to atrophy."

Montlaur snorted in disgust. "I don't care what you think."

He crossed his arms and gazed around the gallery, bottom lip jutted out in disgust. Despite his defiant words, he still examined the paintings from afar while desperately attempting to appear indifferent.

His gaze settled on a painting behind me and I turned, following his hardened eyes.

"The ducks?" I questioned, walking toward the painting that had caught his eye.

To my surprise, Montlaur followed me. "Yeah, the ducks," he said, his tone unnecessarily mocking.

"Do you hunt?"

"No, I don't hunt," he snapped. "That ain't good eating anyway. Them birds taste like mud."

With my hands clasped behind my back, I continued to study the painting in silence, appreciating the details of light glimmering on the ripple of water and moss growing on the arched bridge in the background.

"We used to feed these damned things," Montlaur said under his breath, appearing annoyed as ever. "Every Sunday I'd carry these squirmy tadpoles collected in a jar from the pond. A week's worth of tadpoles I fished out, knee deep in muck."

I kept my gaze trained on the painting.

"I had to feed them stupid ducks," he said. "No one else would have stuck their hand into a slimy jar of green water."

I smiled to myself, imagining Erik and I arguing for the opportunity to be the first to reach into thick, slimy pond water and pull out a wriggling tadpole. As children I would have relished the opportunity, but as an adult I would have turned up my nose at the thought and handed the jar to someone else.

"Damn girls, with their tiny hands that would have fit perfectly in that damn jar," Montlaur grumbled. "I'd stuff my fingers in there, gagging when I touched them, while the women were absolutely useless. Shrieking fools, scaring the damned ducks as I reached inside and pulled out some poor little tadpole that was eaten the second it hit the water. Little bastards never stood a chance."

"I suppose the mallards were happy."

From the corner of my eye, I saw Montlaur glare at me. "Are you daft? That ain't a mallard. It's a shoveler."

I turned my full attention toward the pugilist, brow arched. "Are you a bird fancier, Monsieur?"

Montlaur appeared gravely insulted by my question. "No, I don't fancy no stupid birds," he said, practically spitting out each word. "But how dense does one have to be to mistake a shoveler for a mallard?"

I sniffed. "Honestly, I doubted you'd be able to tell the difference between one duck and the next."

"Because I'm a mindless brute that don't know nothing?"

I ignored him and stepped toward the next painting in an apparent series of birds with mine being the last on the wall.

"Hoopoe," Bernard said under his breath. He sounded disgusted that he was aware of the type of bird depicted.

Again, I moved to my right, amused by his knowledge of birds, and waited for him to identify the avian on the canvas.

"Tanager."

"Flame-colored tanager," I corrected.

Bernard eyed me. "Pardon me for insulting the bird."

I smiled to myself. "This particular painting is mine," I said. "And it sold tonight."

"To a blind person?" Montlaur asked.

"Yes," I said dryly. "I'm very popular with those who have lost their sight."

The pugilist's eyes narrowed and he scowled, head turned to the side. "You must have had a lot of yellow paint on hand," he grumbled.

I chuckled. "Yes, that's why I painted daffodils. I had an abundance of yellow paint on hand and put it to use."

Bernard crossed his arms. "This is what you teach people how to do?"

"Use a lot of yellow?" I questioned.

"Paint silly birds and flowers."

"By the time students reach my studio, they already know how to paint. First year students have more specific assignments, but the second year class has more freedom in their work."

"Then you get paid to do what, then?"

I inhaled. "Guide them toward their full potential," I answered. "Encourage them to strengthen the skills that have atrophied so that they are more well-rounded when they have left my class."

Bernard continued to stare at me. "And they listen to you?"

"On occasion."

He grunted. "I wouldn't listen to you."

"How fortunate for you that I am not accepting additional students at this time."

"This is why you wanted to take boxing lessons?" Bernard asked, gesturing around the empty gallery. He moved past me toward the opposite wall where he continued past several pieces, pausing in front of another one of mine. "To be well-rounded?"

"I am far from one-dimensional," I groused. "And despite how much you insist on being merely a boxer–"

"Merely? Ain't nothing wrong with getting paid to win."

"I suppose not," I agreed. "But are you nothing more than that?"

"What else would I want to be?"

I exhaled past my lips. "Well, I have no desire to be just an art professor or just a painter."

"That ain't enough for you?"

"No, of course not. I'm an older brother, uncle, art professor…caretaker of a bird."

"You own a bird?"

I made a face. "No one owns birds, especially not macaws. You cater to their needs and hope they don't peck your eyes out or gnaw off your finger. They're like toddlers, but more volatile."

Bernard returned the same expression to me as we moved to the next painting. "You have a macaw?"

"Elvira," I said fondly.

"Why do you have a bird?"

I shrugged. "Because she was in need of someone who wasn't a complete bastard." I smiled to myself. "I'm only ninety-six percent bastard, on average, if you were wondering."

"I was not," Bernard growled as he stepped closer to the painting in front of us and narrowed his eyes. "What's so special about this one?"

I looked from him to the painting of two girls playing outside of a thatch-roofed house while their grandmother watched them from a stool.

"Perhaps nothing at all," I answered.

"Then why did you paint it?"

"Because I found the moment quite beautiful," I answered. "Carefree children at play on an afternoon enjoying a moment of their childhood, before the imagination of their youth turns to the duties of being adults. That moment often ends and we are unaware of what has vanished from our lives. Theirs is forever on a canvas."

Bernard's hardened expression turned to remorse. He took another step toward the canvas, his gaze drawn to the girl with long, brown hair and a white dress trimmed with green.

I'd seen the girls on my way back from Conforeit when the train made its last stop before Paris. After the heaviness of watching a man I despised perish at my side, I had welcomed their laughter and shrieks of delight as they played tag and chased one another, breathlessly scampering about. The older of the two looked to be at least fourteen, but she played alongside her younger sister for what I assumed may have been one of the last times.

It was a bittersweet moment, one that I spent sketching in the shade, heart conflicted between the heaviness of a life lost and not giving a damn that Bjorn was no longer alive.

"One-dimensional," Bernard said under his breath. "I don't give a damn if I am one-dimensional."

"You are surely more than a boxer," I said. "Husband, father–"

Immediately he whipped around to face me, mouth twisted and nostrils flared. "You want to say something about my family."

"No, I'm referring to the tattoo on your shoulder," I said. "Your daughter's name, if I am not mistaken. Beatrix, yes?"

Bernard risked a glance around the gallery. Only Theo and Karl remained at a distance with the owner, Stefan, who stood near the door.

"Don't you dare speak of her," he snarled, his knobby finger in my face.

"Monsieur Montlaur, I was not aware that Beatrix was no longer with you," I said. "If I had known this morning, I would not have made a remark."

"She's gone," Bernard snapped. "They're both gone."

My lips parted. "You have my most sincere sympathies–"

"You ever lost a child?" Bernard questioned.

I looked away from him and swallowed. Marco still lived, but he was not mine. Erik was not my son, but he had belonged to me all the same.

"That's what I thought," Bernard snarled. "Don't act like you know what I've been through. Your sympathy don't mean a damned thing."

"I do know what it is like to lose someone," I said quietly before he walked away.

Bernard paused, his head turned to the side. "I don't care about you or your life, do you understand?"

He stormed off before I replied, and I sighed to myself as I watched him leave the gallery with his manager on his heels.

oOo

After an unnecessarily long conversation with Theo, I was home by eleven and awake at four in the morning on Saturday. Elvira screeched in protest when I uncovered her cage, forcing me to place the blanket back over her so that she could sleep a while longer.

Once I dressed, I walked down the stairs and across the street, finding that the Danish bakery had not yet opened. Annoyed that I was awake and without coffee, I ventured further down the street, wandering across town before dawn broke.

The birds were already starting their day, chirping in the treetops as I yawned and briskly continued on my way toward the university gymnasium to strengthen my muscles before Bernard arrived and instructed Celeste on how to best practice pummeling me.

The campus itself was quite beautiful in the early morning light, the stone exterior of the building illuminated by the rising sun. The trees lining the various paved walkways rustled in the breeze, the fountain outside of the main building bubbling with clear water that sprayed far enough to dampen my face. I walked through the vacant grounds, thumbs in my trouser pocket, enjoying the tranquility of the city before the rest of Paris rose from their beds and filled the streets.

I walked into the gymnasium minutes before five, the long windows near the domed roof allowing light into the otherwise dark building. The air was quite stagnant, a mix of hundreds of different drops of perspiration left behind, the human equivalent of dogs marking their territory.

With a towel slung over my shoulder, I made my way toward the racks of iron plates and barbells stacked against the wall, cracking the joints in my fingers one by one.

I almost didn't see the man seated on the floor, knees bent and bare feet touching, palms up and fingers loosely curled.

The usual scowl I associated with Bernard Montlaur had been wiped clean, replaced by a foreign expression of tranquility as he sat with his eyes closed, breathing in and out, completely unaware that I was not ten paces away.

Like a deer wandering into the path of a hunter, I paused, fascinated by the pugilists overall stillness. He looked as though he had fallen asleep sitting upright, save for the deep, even breaths that he held for a moment before exhaling.

"I said six, didn't I?" he questioned without opening his eyes.

"My apologies, I wasn't expecting you in the building before five."

My voice wiped the tranquility clear off his face. One eye popped open. He stared at me for several seconds, then took another breath, closed his eye, and resumed his stillness. The calm to his features returned, his lips twitching several times until his face looked like he was an emotionless corpse.

I counted the seconds he breathed in and out: six seconds inhaling, three held, six exhaling, and found myself breathing along with him, fascinated by his exercise.

"Sit and remove your shoes," Bernard said without opening his eyes.

I did as instructed, leaving my shoes on the mat beside me, placing the towel on the ground, and sitting in the same fashion as the boxer, my knees bent and soles of my feet aligned. The insides of my thighs were tight and the position uncomfortable at first, but I maintained the pose.

He said nothing further, and I closed my eyes, listening to the sound of his breaths as my cue of when to inhale, pause, and exhale.

It felt as though I should have focused my thoughts on something in particular or invested my time with prayer, but I was not one to seek the advice of God or sit well with my own mind left to its unchecked devices.

Naturally I thought of Erik, imagining my little brother sitting still for more than three seconds. I was always fascinated by how he could move nonstop all day long, running about, kicking his legs beneath the table when we sat to supper, squirming about as I bathed and dressed him for bed, and then, once he was comfortable up against me, his entire body shut down all at once, as if he had been wound up all day and the mechanism ticked until the gears stilled and the pendulum paused. He would exhale one long, deep breath and his muscles would relax, tiny arms around my neck practically strangling me.

The thought made breathing in and out easier as I imagined my brother sleeping. Most of the time I remained awake for at least a few minutes after Erik shut his eyes, appreciating the rare moments I had to myself without him speaking or moving.

I would have given anything to replicate the sensation of his weight on top of me, how he became a blanket made of hot breaths and long, wriggling legs still racing as he slept.

He roams the darkness.

It had been dark still when I woke and walked to the university. Perhaps if I woke at three instead of four our paths would cross.

"You stopped breathing," Montlaur said, his voice filled with more calm than annoyance.

My eyes popped open, my hands planted on the towel beneath me and feet straight out. The boxer stared back at me, body unmoving.

I started to stand, but Montlaur cleared his throat and nodded. "Feet together," he said, closing his eyes once more.

"I don't think I can sit here a moment longer."

"Feet together," he insisted. "Breathe."

I wasn't sure what the repercussions would be if I stood and walked away. Montlaur was hardly in charge of me, but I remained seated, adjusted my position on the floor, and placed my feet together as instructed.

"Now breathe," Montlaur said. "Don't move, don't think, don't open your eyes and look around the room. Exist and nothing more."

Breathing seemed suddenly impossible. Every inhale was far too short, I couldn't hold my breath for more than two seconds, and I exhaled harder than necessary as if I had become more exerted than relaxed.

And yet to my surprise, Montlaur made no remark to criticize my obvious failure. My right eye slit open and I found he had not moved. His expression was still passive, his chest rising and falling with each breath, bent legs flat against the mat, eyes closed.

I found myself focused on every tense muscle from my toes curled to my tongue against the roof of my mouth and imagined walking through my own insides with a wrench and loosening every bolt that had become too tight.

I was certain that I had been created in this fashion, a mass of overly turned screws and bolts that wished to grasp tight to everything I could control.

Breathe, I urged myself, settling my tongue in my mouth. One by one, I focused on different parts of myself from my shoulders to my forearms and down to my hands, then back up to my chest, down to my abdomen, and around to my back.

By the time I reached my toes, I had fallen into rhythm with each breath deep and even until my focus became keeping in time with Montlaur.

An invisible weight slowly lifted, and I found that my mind stilled and I appreciated the sensation that washed over me. Calm, I realized, absolute stillness inside and out, no thrum of anger, frustration, or worry. It felt as though I occupied a body that was not my own.

Before I could fully appreciate the feeling, the bolts began to tighten again, a response to the fear that everything I released would come crashing down if I didn't hold it in place.

"Focus," Bernard whispered.

My lips parted and I took a shuddering breath before I found the stillness again and sat in a place that wasn't necessarily comfortable, but tolerable, at least for a moment.

There I sat, alone with myself, with the one person I always found disappointing, who had been appointed as the guardian of his brother and failed him, whose only other living relative thought he was mad, and whose only child was a mystery. With every breath I became more agitated, more aware of myself and everything I disliked.

I regretted not simply thanking Val for appreciating my self-portrait even if I didn't want him to see it. My lack of grace on the matter left us parting ways in typical fashion where we were at odds again.

I regretted that I had not known my own son through seventeen birthdays, that I could not bring myself to be part of his life because of the person I feared I would become.

My breath hitched and I swallowed, knowing that I was once again losing the focus Bernard seemed to find so effortlessly. My tongue was lodged to the roof of my mouth, my right hand pressed to my left forearm, and eyes squeezed shut.

The pain intensified and I pulled my right hand away, breathing harder, attempting to stop myself from unraveling by applying more pressure than I could tolerate.

"I should leave," I said suddenly.

Montlaur didn't move immediately. He rolled his shoulders back slowly, lifted his chin, and opened his eyes.

"My apologies for disrupting your…" I wasn't sure what to call whatever he did.

"You ain't disturbing my meditation. I can ignore you easily enough," he answered as he stood. "Trouble is, you can't ignore yourself."

"In this context, apparently I cannot."

Bernard pulled off his shirt and walked toward the barbells. "What's a fancy artist got rumbling around in his head that he can't ignore?"

I hesitated, looking past him at the boxing ring. "Regret," I answered.

He didn't immediately reply, preferring instead to squat with the weights above his head several times, grunting like a pig without looking in my direction.

"Regret, eh?" He whistled to himself.

"Almost three decades worth."

He set the barbell on the ground and lifted it straight up for a set of three before dropping it, shaking the ground beneath us.

"Since you were fifteen?"

"Since I was seven. My God, I'm thirty-six, not forty-five," I groused.

"I ain't good with ages," Bernard said, gesturing for me to deadlift the bar while he rested.

"Clearly," I muttered, wrapping a towel around my left hand.

"What happened to your arm, anyway?" he asked.

"I thought you made yourself clear last night when you said you didn't care about me or my life."

Bernard made a face. "Yeah, I suppose I did say that. You ain't got to answer. Ain't none of my concern."

"You are quite skilled at inviting others into conversation," I dryly replied.

"Go on with it, then."

"I was burned," I said, barely lifting the bar from the ground. I struggled to stand upright, my thighs trembling as I straightened both legs and locked my knees. "As a child."

"Yeah, I think you said that now that I think about it. How was you burned?"

I lowered the bar and took a deep breath, preparing to lift the irons again while hoping that my pride was stronger than my physical abilities.

"By my father when I was three and a half."

"The hell he burn you for? Your mouth, I'd assume?"

"For," I said, struggling to remove the bar from the ground. Teeth gritted, I pulled with every ounce of energy I possessed until the bar at last moved. My stomach tightened, my breath lodged in my throat until I at last managed to fully extend myself. The bar slipped from my grasp and crashed onto the floor, bouncing twice before it rolled slightly out of my reach. "For not keeping my newborn brother quiet."

"He sounds like a bastard," Montlaur said. "Your father, not your brother."

"He was," I replied, shaking my left hand out. It wasn't necessarily painful from the burn, but the weight of the bar had cut off circulation for long enough that my fingers had gone white.

"Is that your regret?" he asked, nodding for me to step aside so that he could lift the bar with very little exertion on his part.

"No," I said. "I…"

Montlaur shrugged. "Ain't my concern."

"Again, you simply make the transition in conversation so easy," I said.

"Yeah, yeah," he grumbled. "Do whatever the hell you want."

"My brother went missing," I blurted out. "He was three and a half the last time I saw him and twelve the last time anyone saw him alive. That is my regret."

Montlaur continued to lift the bar several more times. "Were you responsible or something? When your brother went missing?"

"He wandered off when I was supposed to be watching him."

Montlaur placed his foot on the bar, took a deep breath, and stepped aside. I stared at the bar, uncertain if I would be able to lift it again after struggling the first set.

Reluctantly I stepped forward and shook out both of my hands.

"For Christ's sake, use a different bar," Montlaur said, turning away from me. He grabbed a lighter bar from the rack with one hand and placed it on the ground. "You ain't got to keep up with me. This ain't a competition."

"Aren't most instances between men in a gymnasium competition?"

"Spoken like a reckless idiot," Bernard said under his breath.

"Me?"

"Yeah, you. You've been intolerable since the first moment our paths crossed."

My mouth dropped open. "You're the one who–"

"Asked you to leave the gymnasium when there were boxing matches about to take place."

"I was in the corner of the building. No one would have noticed," I argued.

"I would have noticed," he said. "A distraction in the corner of my eye for my first match in three months. My first match in Paris in two years since…" He looked away from me and shook his head. "I was distracted enough being here in this damn builidng and as I recall, I asked you to pay six francs and take a seat, which you refused 'cause you ain't decent."

"I'm not decent?"

"You're disrespectful."

"Have you forgotten that you lost your temper and struck me in the back of the head?"

"After I asked you repeatedly to leave and you continued to be a combative pain in my ass."

"I wasn't–"

"You made a remark like I was a dog being called back to its master. I didn't say nothin' rude to you the whole damned time. You started it. I finished it."

"I…" I looked away and exhaled, attempting to reconstruct the conversation in my mind. "You are correct, I did imply that you were a canine, and for that I do apologize."

"And then you implied I would harm a helpless little girl yesterday, and when you mentioned my daughter…" His body tensed, shoulders bulging and chest heaving as he stalked toward me. "You think I'm mean as hell, don't you? Mindless idiot, thirsty for blood. One ugly son of a bitch who don't know how to do nothing."

We stood toe-to-toe, his breaths hot on my face, his mouth twisted in the snarl I had come to associate with the prize fighter.

"No, I do not think you are mindless, blood thirsty or a son of a bitch."

"I've been called a dog my whole damn life," he said, jabbing me in the neck with his finger. "An ugly, worthless mongrel, a mutt that should be put down. You want to know what my Bea would say? She'd say my Da ain't the most elegant speaker, he ain't a good-looking man either, but by God, for twelve years he loved his little girl more than anything else. That's what my Bea would say if she were…"

Montlaur took a step back from me, his gaze lowered. "Love wasn't enough, and no matter how much I adored that little girl, something awful happened to her."

I shuddered, knowing all too well that my love for Erik had not been enough to keep him safe from our father. All the affection in the world had not spared my little brother from cruelty.

"You ain't the only person who has regret," Montlaur said. "And your regret ain't heavier than anyone else's."

oOo

Celeste walked confidently into the gymnasium, her hair pulled back and covered with a kerchief and her sleeves rolled up to her elbows. She strode toward the ring and paused, waiting for Bernard to give her instructions.

"Right on time," Bernard said, pointing at the clock above the door. "Down to the minute."

His posture and tone changed dramatically when she walked in, effectively ending the conversation between us.

The girl grinned back at him, completely oblivious to what had transpired minutes earlier. "I was waiting outside for eight minutes," she confessed. "I counted to sixty a total of eight times."

The boxer appeared amused by her words. "Are you ready to kick some–"

"I don't want to kick the professor!" she blurted out. "And I don't want to kick you either."

"You're taking the fun out of this, girl."

She pursed her lips. "And I also don't want you to hurt each other."

Bernard tucked his chin and sighed. "Spoiling my whole day talking like that."

He shook his head and knelt beside the ring, retrieving a leather apron from beneath the platform.

"But," he said as he stood, "since you can't learn without kicking something, I suppose I'll volunteer. And because you're a delicate little songbird who ain't wanting to hurt no one, I assure you, this will offer protection enough."

Celeste appeared quite skeptical and looked to me for confirmation.

I shrugged in response. "Warm up. Can't go kicking people without properly stretching."

She nodded and proceeded to bounce around as we had both been instructed previously, appearing to enjoy herself as she practiced her stance.

"That's enough, you're making me tired watching you," Bernard said once he donned a pair of heavily padded leather trousers. "Now stand in the middle of the ring."

Celeste did as instructed, her chest heaving from exertion and face bright red.

"You need a moment?" Bernard asked as he waddled toward her.

She shook her head and the prize fighter shrugged. "Fine."

He took a deep breath, his stance wide due to the leather trousers, and placed his hands on his hips. "You've got two places that will immobilize a man instantly. Here and here," he said, gesturing to his eyes and groin. "Ain't no one going to expect a little thing like you to go for the groin."

Celeste pursed her lips and nodded.

"With your knee, I want you to come at me and kick straight up with her foot landing behind me. Understand?"

"Behind you?" she questioned.

"You'll see when you do it. Straight up, you hear? Not at an angle. You'll strike the inside of the thigh or bladder if you're lucky and that ain't going to do shi…ain't going to do ship."

Celeste furrowed her brow, clearly oblivious to Bernard's attempt at keeping his language more appropriate around a young lady.

"Knee to the sky. Got it?"

Celeste visibly swallowed. "You're sure I won't hurt you?"

"Positive. And even if you do, I asked you to practice on me. It's my own dam…darn fault."

Her first attempt was nothing short of timid, her knee barely touching him. Bernard scratched his forehead and Celeste whispered her apology.

"Again," he said. "Like you mean it."

Her second attempt was slightly more aggressive, but not nearly enough to benefit her or do harm to an attacker.

"Outta the way," Bernard grumbled, motioning for her to step aside. "You," he said, pointing at me. "Show her how it's done."

Wide-eyed I stared at him. "And give you reason to murder me? Absolutely not."

"Get over here and kick me in the balls," the pugilist grumbled.

"Again with your elegant invitations," I said under my breath.

Celeste clasped her hands and made a face while I took several breaths, braced myself, and kneed him between the legs, striking him squarely in the groin.

"Like that!" Montlaur praised, patting me on the back, which was not the reaction I had anticipated. "Straight up, foot landing behind me."

"You are absolutely insane," I said, chuckling at the prize fighter.

"Yeah, but I think you've been wanting to do that, haven't you?"

I shook my head at him. "I refuse to answer."

"Girl's turn," he said. "Get over here and kick me like you mean it."
Seeing as how the boxer had no reaction to me kneeing him, Celeste stepped forward, squared her shoulders, and came running full force at her target where she proceeded to slide beneath him.

"What in the hell was that?" Bernard asked, throwing his hands in the air. "You're a scrappy thing."

Celeste rolled to her feet and covered her mouth.

"Don't run. Stand in front of me and knee straight up," he said, gesturing with a jerk of his hand. "Like I just called you a terrible singer, worst voice I ever heard."

Celeste took several breaths, straightened her spine, and took a small step back before she drove her knee upward.

With quite a bit of effort, Bernard crumpled to the ground and pretended to be injured, groaning that his 'eggs were cracked'. It was far from an appropriate comment, but his student laughed and retreated to the corner of the ring, amused by his theaterics.

"Once I figure out how to get up, I want you to do it again," he said as he rolled onto his stomach and attempted to bend his legs.

"Here," I said, offering my hand.

"You want another turn?" he asked as I pulled him to his feet.

"Tempting, but I am quite satisfied with one attempt."

"Song bird!" Bernard bellowed. "Come over here and do it again. Then you're going to learn something else."

Celeste marched forward. "Yes, Pugilist."

Bernard made a sour face, if such a feat could be accomplished by someone who wore a scowl almost constantly. "You ain't gotta call me that, girl. Call me Bern," he said, growling out his name.

Celeste grinned back at him. "Bern," she said fondly, somehow making the name sound impossibly sweet.

"You got a name, girl?"

"Celeste," she answered.

"Celeste, eh?" He bent his knees, adjusting the trousers as he moved. "You got a family name?"

"Frane," she answered.

"Frane? You ain't related to Klaus and Goldie, are you?"

Celeste immediately lit up. "My parents. Do you know my parents?"

"Heard of 'em." Bernard gave no indication of whether or not this new information was good or bad. He grunted and rubbed his hands together. "Back to work. You get fifteen more minutes of kicking the hell out of me, ten minutes of learning to poke someone in the eyes, and then thirty minutes of meditation."

Celeste nodded readily, then raised her hand. "Bern, what is meditation?"

Bernard made a sucking sound and spit into the opposite corner of the ring, the act of spitting and the wetness that accompanied it repulsive. "Meditation is where you learn to put things down for a bit. Something we all need to learn. Now, kick me again, song bird. Gimme everything you got."