“I’m gonna head out. I need to fix some lights at the bed and breakfast,” Landon announces, grabbing his bag off the side.
I follow him out to the front, pulling the keys out of my back pocket. I’m going to finish up with a few things then head home myself.
“Well, guess I’m staying.”
“What?” I ask, looking up.
Charlotte is pacing outside, her lips moving a mile a minute. My lips tug into a smile as she begins to wave her hands around, like she’s arguing with herself.
Landon pushes through the door. “Charlotte?”
She jumps, whirling around to face us. She places her hand over her chest. “You scared me.”
“You came?”
She nods. “I said I would.”
I get a good look at her and nearly choke on my tongue. Her yoga leggings cling to every inch of her body, showcasing the curve of her round arse. Her top is short, showing her creamy-coloured skin, and it pushes her boobs up and together. Over it, she has on a purple fleece jacket.
And her hair. I’m not sure what the fuck it is with her hair, but I can’t pull my gaze away. It’s so bright, so full of life, just like her. It’s tied up in a messy bun, tiny strands falling down, feathering her face.
“Good, I’ll show you where to set up,” he tells her, but I put a hand on his shoulder, stopping him.
“I can’t have you here whilst I teach her.”
“Why the fuck not?”
I look to the sky before meeting his gaze. “Because you have a short temper. Because if you think I’m hurting her or she can’t handle it, you’ll snap. You’ll—”
“I’m not going anywhere.”
“Landon,” Charlotte calls out, reaching for his hand. “Go. I’ll be fine here.”
“How did you get here?”
“Harriet dropped me off.”
“The stripper?”
“Stripper?” I repeat, gawking at Charlotte. “I thought you owned a library?”
“She’s not a stripper,” Landon growls.
She shrugs one shoulder. “Yes, that Harriet. And I can walk back. It’s fine.”
“I’ll take you back,” I offer when I see Landon go to intervene once again.
He stares at Charlotte for a moment, then briefly at me before I watch him sigh in defeat. “Text me when you’re home and you can let me know how it goes.”
“I will,” she promises, and leans up, kissing him on the cheek.
He gives us a salute before heading to his car. Charlotte whirls around, her big green eyes sparkling up at me.
I gesture toward the door. “Come in.” She follows and I close the door behind us. “Have you been here before?”
“No, I haven’t. Gyms really aren’t my thing.”
“What is your thing?”
I close my eyes, inwardly groaning. Did I have to sound like I was coming onto her?
“Books. I like books.” She stops in the middle of the gym, staring at all the equipment. “What is this one?” she asks.
“That’s a seated lat pulldown. It works your waist and arms, but mostly your back muscles.”
“And will I be using these?”
She’s nervous. There’s a tremble in her voice. “Not today, but you’re more than welcome to use them once you’ve been trained to.”
She nods. “So, what are we doing?”
“I’m not sure how other instructors work but depending on the client, I use the first session to get to know them, know their limits.”
“And how do you do that?” she whispers.
“I watch them. Most survivors of any kind of traumatic event have a lot of pent-up anger. Whether they smother it down or lock it away, it’s there. And to move forward with my approach, I need them to come to terms with that feeling. I want them to embrace it and use the techniques I teach as a tool to calm themselves.”
“And you’ve done this before?”
I nod. “I have. I’ve done it with a few people who have been beaten by a spouse, or randomly while on a night out, and some who were in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
“And these women are okay now?”
I shrug. “It’s not just women who come here, Charlotte. I have men who have been beaten because of their sexual orientation, because of their spouses or just because they seemed like easy pickings,” I explain. “Are they okay? That’s a hard question for me to answer, but I know each of them are now stronger and more confident.”
“It’s so good what you are doing here,” she tells me. “But I’m not angry. I don’t really get angry. There was this one time but the guy deserved it. He was trying to hurt Faith and the muffins were there and I—” She stops as a blush rises up her cheeks. “I’m not angry. I’m disappointed I let it happen.”
“I don’t know the details of what happened. Landon has spoken a little about it but not what actually happened. I’m only putting two and two together.” I pause when I see her lip begin to tremble. “But no matter what, never be disappointed in yourself.”
“So, what do we do now if I’m not angry? Do we move onto the next step?”
I smirk because I get this a lot. It’s just adorable coming from Charlotte’s lips. I head over to the punching bags and hand her a pair of gloves.
She takes them from me, her nose twitching. “Um…”
“Put them on,” I tell her.
She does as I say. “I don’t get it. I’m not angry so I really don’t need to do this.”
“Close your eyes,” I demand, coming to stand in front of her as I slide the other glove onto her hand. “We’re going to do a little task, bring that hidden anger out.”
“Okay,” she drawls slowly.
“What do you dislike the most in the world?”
“People who hurt animals,” she replies instantly. “And tomato sauce.”
I chuckle. “Tomato sauce?”
She shudders. “Tastes like vinegar.”
“I’m going to stand behind you. Keep those eyes closed.” Her breath hitches as I move. “Trust me.”
“Okay.”
“What else do you dislike?”
“I-I don’t know.”
“I want you to bring your right leg forward a little,” I order. “Can I touch you to get you into position?”
A squeak passes through her lips. “Position?”
“Yes, to punch the bag when I say ready.” She nods and I help her into position before lifting her arm up. “This is the arm I want you to swing. Keep it at this angle and use your hips to put as much force into the punch as you can.”
She tenses as I brush my fingers down her arm. I jerk away, stepping back to put distance between us. I hadn’t realised I was doing that. I clear my throat. “Think about what makes you angry. What happened. What could have happened. Think about your cat in the hands of someone who is cruel. Think about the person who hurt you, how it felt, how you felt.”
I don’t even get to tell her to swing. She swings her arm out, hitting the bag in the centre.
I walk around, coming to stand at her side. “Take a deep breath and feel it. Really feel it. And let it out. Each time you hit that bag, I want you to tell me what you are angry about, what you dislike.”