Free More Bitter Than Death by Dana Cameron Page B

was heat, and so far seemed to be one of the only parts of the hotel that had actually been renovated. That was nice, but not nearly enough to make up for the ghastly hour and the debilitating coffee deficiency I was now forced to cope with.
    After I did fifty jumping jacks, I began to work on my shadow boxing. It’s great for keeping yourself warm, and I always need the practice, since I am terribly self-conscious about pretending to hit and kick someone who isn’t there. It’s a whole lot easier when there’s actually someone to provide the target for you.
    I felt better than I deserved, late night and emotional turmoil considered. For a while, I’d thought about letting my training with my instructor Nolan go—it took up an awful lot of time and just saying the words “martial arts” felt overdramatic—but was glad that I decided to stick it out.The workout I got with Krav Maga was great, and I realized that not only had my posture and energy improved, my attitude had changed for the better as well, and you couldn’t beat that with a stick. Plus, it was more fun than running. When I let too much time go between our sessions, I even miss how much I ache after. I didn’t know what missing pain indicated about one’s psyche, but so far, it was working for me. Go figure.
    Brad gets five more minutes, I thought grumpily. I hated returning from that happy place that distraction takes you when you’re working out. Two more minutes, just to polish my form, and then I’m out of here. He should know better than to mess with—
    “Ah, good morning, Emma!”
    I kept staring at myself in the mirror, trying to keep my stance correct. I threw a very nice left hook, followed by a rather impressive, fully loaded right uppercut. Too bad all my best moves were always made out of the sight of my instructor, Nolan. Can I help it if my native modesty keeps me from doing my best when someone is watching?
    And he knows full well that cheery crap is exactly the wrong tack to take with me, I thought, sighing. “Yeah, morning, Brad.” I glanced at the clock: six forty-eight. “You’re late. What’s up?”
    “Still not a morning person, Em.” He shook his head and slung his towel over a chair. He was wearing loose drawstring trousers and a T-shirt with a Chinese dragon on it. “I wouldn’t have asked to meet you so early if it wasn’t important.”
    I personally couldn’t think of anything important enough to warrant being out of bed at this hour. Or even in bed, not asleep. Brian and I had an agreement: I wouldn’t try anything when American Chopper was on, and he didn’t make a pass at me before ten or eleven in the morning, if we had the opportunity to sleep in. I nodded, but I also pretended that it was Brad’s head I was smashing with my knee, before I finally stopped and got a drink from the water cooler. “No. What’s up?”
    Instead of answering me, though, Brad started doing yoga stretches. He made some interesting breathing noises, but sticking his butt out in the air like that was extremely ill-advised considering my present state of mind. I’m pretty good at kicking, especially when someone offers me a target like that. I drank some of my water and tried to think past my burgeoning headache.
    A few moments later, he looked up, dreamy-faced. “Sorry, I needed to get some good, deep breathing in. Breathing is so important.”
    “Yeah, I’m fond of it myself. What’s up?” And if you don’t answer me this time, I’m leaving.
    He sat up and twisted to one side, exhaling deeply before he answered. “It’s really important, and a bit personal. I didn’t want to talk in front of the others.”
    I nodded, trying not to cross my eyes with impatience. I also attempted one of his poses, the one I recognized as “the tree.” I made it, barely getting my right foot against my left knee as I stayed balanced, but it was harder than it looked. As I sat down, I revised my opinion of Brad’s perpetual look of