With that mighty fucking punch, then, she knocked this guy on the bridge of his nose, came down on him like her fist was the Hammer of Thor.
The whole of him shuddered. His legs creaked. The gloved hand let go of her arm, and she fell, and he sat down hard on his ass.
Finally. Thank God. At least a punch worked, at least something.
She sagged down to the floor herself and closed her eyes a second, just a second. That crackling blue light was no joke, man. Wisps of smoke curled up off her arms and her shoulders; she could smell them. She took deep breaths. She willed her body to stitch itself back in place as best it could. She stood herself up and opened her eyes again only just in time to see the director’s gloved fist, or fisted fist, whatever, swinging right for her own face. She moved left. He clipped her ear, singed her hair, melted the earring she was wearing to her earlobe. She spun and kicked at him and maybe that punch had shuddered him enough to throw his head off play because he wasn’t soaring through the air this time and her boot connected with his gut. He oofed and flew backward across the room and smashed into the bookshelf against the far wall, and they swayed, and books fell from the shelves, and the shelves swayed some more and she was waiting, holding her breath, waiting for them to crash down on him, do her dirty work for her, or at least slow him down enough that she could do her own damn dirty work just a little easier, but the shelves settled and held and the director pulled himself back up.
And no more close-quarters hand-to-hand combat for him, no sir.
He flipped his wrist and lightning flashed.
31
Rose packed her bag — bag, not bags, despite her loud protests — and packed it quickly. No one was home, but she didn’t care — she didn’t think she cared — about saying good-bye. The Woman in Red and Henry waited for her in the kitchen. The three guys who’d ambushed her were out back smoking. With the Woman in Red in the house, everything looked impossibly dingier and grayer than ever before and all Rose wanted to do was leave.
After leaving her house, she had half-expected there to be a helicopter waiting for them but was too enthralled with the Woman in Red, with the idea of leaving behind her former self, to be disappointed that what they had waiting for them was, in fact, a rental car, an off-white Ford Taurus. She did her best to be not too disappointed again when where they whisked her off to turned out to be an abandoned office park just outside of Durham, and again when she discovered that not only were there other girls there, girls not much different from herself, but they had been here for months already, six girls, an even bunch, paired up as roommates, as training buddies, except for Rose, odd man out, who had a room all to herself. “Lucky you,” Henry said, as if he meant it.
There were two of everything in the room — two beds stuck out of opposite walls that could double as uncomfortable-looking couches, two sinks attached to the same wall on opposite sides of the door, two dressers and two closets next to those. In one of the dressers there were clothes for her, all the same black V-neck T-shirts, the same metal-gray cargo pants.
“Those are for training,” he told her. “You’ll get a uniform soon enough, and then when you’re not training, you can wear whatever you like.”
She didn’t have much else to wear. The Woman in Red hadn’t given her much time to pack. All she had with her, other than the clothes she’d been wearing when they’d come for her, was a yellow sundress — her favorite, though here, now, it seemed wildly out of place — and a pair of shorts and a T-shirt, her flip-flops, and a pair of wedge sandals.
Christ, what a spaz.
She pretended to look around the room. Henry handed her a folder.
It was strange being alone with him. She had been alone with him for an entire day, practically, and then he’d been truly a stranger, but that hadn’t felt strange at all. That had felt natural, and she wondered if he had been putting on some kind of act or if he had felt that, too. Later he would tell her, Both, and she would believe him. But now that she’d kissed him, and that he’d kissed her back, it seemed that neither of them knew what to do but to stand awkwardly in her small dorm room and talk about anything but what had happened before. He was focused on trying to make her feel special about the fact that she didn’t have a roommate and that she’d come there late, and she was focused on trying to figure out how to say something to him about that kiss, about the spur-of-the-moment quality of it, about the first-time-ever quality of it, and she was trying to figure out how to apologize for having done it but also make it clear that she wasn’t exactly sorry that it had happened and that she wouldn’t be opposed to a second, less spontaneous go-around, and how old was he anyway, and did he make it part of his business to kiss people almost immediately after jumping them and trying to strangle them to death, or was it just her, and sorry, too, about how she’d kicked him in the ribs all those times.
It was all too much, the things she wanted to say, and while she knew now the jumping and the strangling had all been part of some plan, some kind of test, it had scared the shit out of her and she felt torn between these two feelings — scared shitless by this guy and urgently attracted to him — and she felt that saying something, saying anything, might help even all of this out, but where did she start?
So. He handed her a folder and she took it and opened it and pretended to read it. Inside was a set of schedules and rules and guidelines. They were straightforward and basic but he went over them anyway, pointed out breakfast and lunch and dinner. Lights out at ten o’clock.
“Usually,” he said, “everyone’s up by five thirty for a quick five-mile run together, but…” He paused, ran his hand through his hair. “Considering how much catching up you’re going to have to do, uh, we’re going to have to skip the run. And the midmorning yoga class.” He said this as if he felt a little sorry for her, as if she were missing out on something, which, she would realize later, she was, missing out. Not on the yoga class. Not on the morning run.
Missing out on the team, on being a part of the team.
Then he said, “Well. Okay. That’s the nickel tour.” He said this as if it were time for him to leave her to herself, to organize her room, which didn’t need organizing, or gather her thoughts, which he must have known wouldn’t have been gathered any time soon. But then he didn’t leave. He stood there. She stood there. She rocked herself forward. She remembered to say, “Thanks. For the tour.”
He rocked himself back, just slightly back. “Training starts tomorrow,” he said. “You might notice people packing things away,” he said. “We’re moving into phase two and we’re shutting down this specific operation, and so we’re all a little distracted,” he said. “Don’t take it personally,” he said. “We’re really glad you’re here.” He said this, Rose knew, to make her feel better. She pretended, for his sake and for hers, that it worked.
She waited. He waited. Then he said, “About before,” and that was all she needed, it seemed, before she rushed into her own, I know, I know, I’m totally, well, not sorry, sorry isn’t, anyway, I’m just, I just wanted you, I didn’t want you to think, and she moved closer, and he moved farther back until he had the door open and had stepped out of the room, had crossed the threshold to the other side, and then he interrupted her.