Untamed (29 page)

“What if I’m not wearing anything underneath,” I say, pulling away from him.

“Aren’t you?”

“I am,” I say. I take off the robe. Beneath it I’m wearing my pajama pants and a t-shirt. “But you can’t just go taking off my clothes like that.”

From the equipment cupboard, he produces a pair of gloves. “These are a bit big.”

“What are we doing, Duncan?”

“Trust me,” he says. “Okay? Will you please trust me, Dee?”

I shrug. “Fine, okay.”

He takes my hands into his, and begins to wrap a bandage around them, delicately, but tight.

“What’s that for?”

“Prevents injuries. Keeps your fingers from bending in ways they shouldn’t. And your wrists.”

He wraps it around, precisely, methodically, in a crisscrossing pattern he’s obviously committed to memory.

When they’re tight, he motions for me to ball my fists, and so I do. He slaps each of them, grips onto them, shakes my wrists.

“Good,” he says before fixing the boxing gloves over my hands. They’re bright blue, big, cushioned, surprisingly snug on the inside. And very warm.

“You’re right handed,” he says. “So you lead with your left hand and your left foot. It may feel a little weird at first, but you want your strong arm in the back, not the front.”

He bends down and grabs onto my thigh, and I yelp as he places it in position.

“Your left foot here,” he says.

“Okay,” I say, nodding.

“Okay, like this. Jab, yeah? With your left. Yes, just extend your arm quick, straight out in front of you, then pull it right back in.”

I do it.

“Faster.”

I do it faster.

“Watch,” he says. He demonstrates it for me, lightning fast. He whacks the punching bag, his arm is out and back in an instant, like a snake striking. The thud against the bag is so loud it shocks me, and the chains rattle.

“Go on, you do it.”

I jab, and my fist hits the bag. It thuds.

“Like that?” I ask.

“Pretty much,” he says. “Do it again.”

“Why?”

“Trust me.”

I hit the bag again, listen to the thud, the chains rattle.

I hit it again.

Thud.

Rattle.

Again.

Whack.

Thud.

Rattle.

Again.

My hits become harder, faster. I become better at it in a matter of moments.

“Okay. Now, use your left foot to pivot.” He holds me by the waist, turns me. I keep my left foot in place, but rotate my right foot around until I’m facing the other way. When his hands leave me, my skin is left tingling.

“Good,” he says. “This is where you get your power from. It’s not in the arms, it’s in the hips and legs. This is a one-two. See? I jab with my left.” He extends his left arm straight out. “But it’s a fake or a test. He’ll counter, dodge or slap it. Then I cross with my right.” He throws a punch across his body with his right, at the same time pivoting on his left foot, getting his body behind the punch. “Your legs give you the power. It’s a combo. Try it.”

I do it slowly first. I jab with my left, straight out, then I pivot my weight, cross with my right with more power.

“Again,” he says.

I do it again.

“Harder,” he says.

I hit harder.

“Faster.”

I hit faster.

Again.

Again.

I hit the bag, jab, pivot, cross, pivot, jab, pivot, cross, pivot.

The chains rattle constantly. The bag thuds with each of my hits. My hits get harder, faster.

Jab, cross.

Jab, cross.

Jab, jab, jab, punch, punch punch, punch…

I wail on the bag, hitting it as hard as I can, throwing my whole weight into every punch. I hit it and I hit it and I hit it until I realize that my eyes are wet, that tears are streaming down my face.

I keep hitting it, harder and harder.

I hit it so hard it shakes the bones in my body.

I hit it so hard my hands ache.

And then I hit it some more.

And then I kick it.

I kick it, and I kick it, and I kick it, and I scream as I beat on the bag, again, again, again, again.

And then I’m spent. It’s over. I’m sweating, heaving, panting. I’m no longer crying. Somehow, I feel better.

I fall backward onto the mat, landing on my bum, and I hold onto my knees, sucking in oxygen. I glance up at the clock and see that twenty minutes have passed.

Twenty minutes!

I wipe my no-doubt red eyes, turn them on Duncan. He sits down opposite me, crosses his legs. He takes my right hand and begins to undo the glove. He takes them off one by one, then starts unwrapping the bandages around my fingers and wrists.

His fingers are so soft, so gentle with me. I just watch as he tends to me.

“You’ve bruised your knuckles a little,” he says quietly, holding my right hand and running his fingers over the knuckles. His touch sends sparklers sizzling through me.

I close my fist in his hands, squeeze, feel the pain of the bruise in my knuckles as the blood rushes there.

His hands close around mine, and then I unball my fist, and our fingers link at their tips.

“Is this what you do?”

He nods. “It works.”

“I never knew.”

“The bag is designed to be responsive. Your mind does the rest. I find it therapeutic.”

“I hate living here,” I say. It just slips out of me. “I hate everything about this place. About my life. I hate seeing all this shit. It’s not the first time I’ve watched Dad ‘teach a lesson’, and I know it won’t be the last. I can’t stand how he treats people.”

“I know,” Duncan tells me. “You’ll be able to move out soon. Once you go to college, right?”

I take in a deep breath. “Yeah. But
you
won’t.”

Chapter Eleven