Free Katana by Cole Gibsen Page A

lessons.
    “Whatever. Just know that if you don’t leave me alone, as of this second, I’m going to … file for a restraining order.” Brilliant. I mentally patted myself on the back.
    Kim seemed to think about this for a moment. Finally, he said, “You want me to leave you alone?”
    Seriously, did this guy ride the short bus? “I just told you that.”
    “Fine. Then I have a proposition for you. Come with me into the training room. I only want to show you something. It won’t take long. After that, you can leave and I’ll never bother you again.”
    I eyed him skeptically. It sounded too good to be true. A couple of minutes and I would never have to deal with him again? “What’s the catch?”
    “No catch,” he said. “Do we have a deal?”
    I could sacrifice a couple of minutes if it meant never having to be bothered by Kim again. “Deal.”
    He smiled and disappeared through the door without waiting for me to follow.
    So this was it. The key to being left alone and getting my life back was a room away. I trembled in anticipation—or was it fear? It was getting harder to tell the difference. All I had to do was walk through that door. The door with who-knows-what on the other side. I turned and looked longingly at the glass door through which I had entered the building.
    Two doors. Two choices. Two outcomes. I turned away from the exit, pushed my shoulders back, and stepped into the unknown.

12
    I wrinkled my nose at the smell of rubber that permeated the room. A solid wall of floor-to-ceiling mirrors projected my wide-eyed wariness back at me as I cautiously stepped onto the giant jigsaw puzzle of blue and black mats that covered the dojo floor. Four punching bags hung from the ceiling along the left-side wall of the large room, and several more bags clustered in the far corner on floor stands. Two of the floor-stand bags had the shape of actual men from the waist up, with scowls molded onto their rubber faces. I found it funny that a designer would go through the trouble of making a punching bag appear menacing.
    Above the bags, a wooden shelf stuffed with trophies of various sizes looked like a miniature city crammed with golden towers. I was about to take a closer look at their engravings when a glint of metal reflecting in the mirror captured my attention.
    Kim stood across the room staring at various sharp weapons mounted against the wall.
    My throat went dry. I didn’t like where this was going. “So this is your dojo?”
    He kept his focus on the weapons. “For two years now.”
    “But you look so young.”
    He turned to me and smiled. “I am currently eighteen years old.”
    “Currently? That’s an odd way of putting it.”
    He gave a soft laugh and returned his focus to the weapons. There were more than a dozen of them, in all different shapes and sizes. Some I recognized from the martial arts action flicks Quentin and I watched, and others, with wicked sloping angles, looked like the blades of demons. Kim stopped in front of a small, slightly curved blade about the length of my arm. He reached for the wrapped black handle, but stopped short, allowing his hand to linger inches above it, fingers still. He closed his eyes and seemed to be physically straining against—what? I had no idea, and my tongue was too thick to ask. After what felt like an eternity, he snatched it from its resting place, nodded his head in approval, and turned to me. “Please forgive me for this. There is no other way.”
    My heart knocked painfully against my chest, drawing the blood from my body and leaving me shivering. “Excuse me?”
    “Have you even seen one of these before?” he asked, gesturing with his head to the slightly curved sword still in his hands.
    I shook my head while taking a step backward. “Is this what you wanted to show me?”
    “It’s okay. You don’t need to be afraid,” Kim said. He swung the sword in a circle in front of him, then drew the blade back so that he presented the