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one.
PREPARING TO KICK
YOUR SISTER'S ASS
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A DULL BURST OF PAIN travels across Tatum's knuckles as her gloved fist strikes the punching bag, sending it rearing back a few inches before it swings forward in retaliation and she punches it again. She doesn't waste any time spinning toward the wall and bending her knees. Her foot sends a powerful kick to the bag, pushing it even more off-balance, but a hand catches it before she can hit it once more.
"Slow down there, Black Widow," her trainer and friend, Ronan Hughes, says.
Tate glares at him, panting hard. "I wasn't done." She raises her boxing gloves and resumes a ready position. "Get out of my way."
"You're going to split the seams on this thing. What's with all the aggression?"
"I had a bad day at work."
Ronan switches his grip on the punching bag so his elbow is perched on top of it, leaning his weight onto the bag. One of his brows arches in disbelief. "You have Wednesdays off."
Damn him. Tate mentally curses Ronan for doing the bare minimum as a friend and listening to her when she rants about her job. Of course he knows that she doesn't work on Wednesdays— it's why she schedules their gym appointments then. She has to climb over the mid-week hurdle somehow, and beating something or someone up in kickboxing is the perfect way to do that.
Sometimes, they spar with each other, but this evening, Tate had wanted to use the punching bag instead. It's easier to picture her target that way. The side is where her foot connects to a rib cage. Her fist flies into a face near the top. Each satisfying smack! of her limbs into the bag had spurred her on, sending her into a frenzy, half-wild with adrenaline before Ronan had stopped her.
Because he's been doing nothing but observing and calling out tips for the past thirty minutes, Ronan looks impeccable. Tate isn't short, but he towers over her and the top of his head nearly clears the bag. His white tank top shows off his biceps (which are literally the size of Tate's face), and since he's built like some god, he gets a fair share of looks from both men and women during their sessions.
In contrast, Tate is dripping with sweat. Her hair, which had once been neatly secured with an elastic behind her head, is half falling out. Static-filled flyaways frame her gleaming face and stick to any bit of damp skin they can reach. If Ronan could easily make the cover of Men's Health, Tate would only make the front page of a newspaper for being mistaken for a corpse who'd recently been discovered in the Hudson River.
She wipes a forearm across her forehead and sighs. "My sister is back in town."
Ronan's arched brow immediately furrows, his lips puckering into a frown. "I didn't know you had a sister."
I wish I didn't, Tate's mind grumbles, but she forces herself to appear nonchalant. "We're estranged."
It's an easy way of putting it. The last time Tate had seen her older sister, Jo, she had been staring at the barrel of a gun. She'd pleaded for Jo to stop, to avoid the dark path she was choosing, to please put the gun down and just listen. Thinking of her sister means gunfire echoing in her ears and blood slick against her skin. It means fiery agony and the thought, I'm going to die alone here. It means passing out and being certain she would be greeted by the cold hands of death.
Tate absentmindedly rubs her elbow against one of the scars on her abdomen from when the surgeons had removed the bullets. She should have died where Jo left her to bleed out, but she'd survived out of pure spite. Her sister wasn't getting away with that as she had with everything else in her life.
"Personal stuff, then," Ronan says, snapping Tate back into the present. "I won't pry."
"Thanks." She gives him a small grin as she unstraps her boxing gloves and reaches for the water bottle on the ground beside the base of the bag. Her hands are slippery with blood that makes the bottle slide. Tate's eyes snap down to her palms, but no, it must be sweat, for her brown skin isn't tainted with red.
This is why she prefers to take out her frustrations in teeth-rattling punches and kicks instead of thinking about her sister. The memories of Jo never bring anything good. Tate thought she'd been getting better at staying in the present, but Jo's return to New York has jumbled her years of therapy up into a ball and chucked it down the drain.
Promise me you won't go looking for Jo, her therapist had said. You've gone no-contact. Seeing her will only make things worse and will destroy the progress you've made.
I promise, Tate had said.
She'd lied.
Not only is she going to look for Jo, but she's also going to crush her hopes and dreams.
That means she needs to get her ass in gear and brush up on her hand-to-hand combat skills. And every other skill she possesses. Tate has always stayed physically fit, partially because she likes the adrenaline rush it gives her, but mostly in preparation for a time just like this— when she knows exactly what Jo wants and is planning how to take it from her.
"Does this have anything to do with how you wanted to go axe throwing the other day?" Ronan questions as he helps Tate fasten her glove.
She resumes her ready stance and gives him a teasing smirk. "You mean the thing you chickened out on?"
"I didn't chicken, I had to watch my niece. And besides, we both know I'd hit more targets than you."
He crosses his humongous arms over his chest as if proving a point. Tate rolls her eyes at his attempt to look intimidating. Ronan may have the physique of Thor, but she knows enough about her college friend and roommate to call his bluff. She's seen him cry over Mufasa's death scene in The Lion King multiple times and wear a sparkly tutu and plastic tiara while babysitting his niece. When it comes to the people he cares about, there's not a cruel bone in his body.
As far as Ronan knows, though, this is the only type of training that Tate does. He doesn't know about her martial arts background or the fact that she can shoot a gun with terrifying accuracy. And she prefers it to stay that way— her dynamic with Ronan is a part of her normal life. Everything else is the darker side of her that's black with years' worth of vengeance, pushing her to be better, stronger, faster.
Tate's fist pounds into the punching bag again, and as the slight shock travels up her arm, she thinks about how all of this is about to pay off.
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Something is comforting about familiarity. Though Tate is an adrenaline junkie for sure, she also seeks the soothing reassurance of experiencing something conventional. Something she's done a million times.
Well, she hasn't done this precisely a million times, but when she opens the door to her favorite bar and immediately inhales the scent of alcohol, she feels her aching muscles relax. Her feet carry her to her usual spot at the counter without her realizing it.
All the extra training she's been doing lately has amped up her nerves. She's in desperate need of a little buzz to help her loosen up and yank out the rod that's been stuck in her spine ever since she'd caught wind of Jo's latest scheme. Being constantly on edge is exhausting, and though she'd wanted nothing more than to crash into her bed after her workout, she'd forced herself to get dressed up and go to the bar by herself.
"I had a feeling you'd stop by today," one of the bartenders, Nathan, says when she slides into the seat at the polished wooden counter. He'd caught her eye the moment she'd walked in and had quickly finished one order before swaggering over to her typical spot.
"That's what you said last time I saw you," Tate replies. "Maybe you're psychic."
"Nah. I saw it on the weather forecast: slightly cloudy with a chance of a girl with an unhealthy love for martinis coming into your work zone."
Tate rolls her eyes. She'd ordered a bunch of martinis one time, and that was because she was too tired to think of another drink and they had been really hitting the spot that day. But Nathan has yet to let that go.
"Well, your forecast seems to be inaccurate, because I came here on Saturday and Frank made my drink."
"What's wrong with Frank?"
"What's not wrong with Frank?"
A small grin plays on Nathan's lips as he wipes a condensation ring from the gleaming oak countertop. He tosses the towel over his shoulder carelessly. "So what'll it be today?"
"I want something different this time," Tate says. "Make me your favorite drink."
His brown eyes flicker to hers, a crease forming between his brows. "Mine?"
Tate nods. Nathan appears to think for a moment before grabbing a glass and filling it with ice, quickly going through the motions of bartending like he was hardwired to do it. His movements are fluid and rhythmic, almost like those of a dance, and Tate pretends to stare at a nearby television while secretly watching him from the corner of her eye.
There's a reason why Nathan is her favorite bartender. He always knows what he's doing when it comes to crafting drinks, seeming to make each one better than the last. And he's a history nerd just like her.
The golden lights framing the mirror behind the bar make his chestnut hair appear to be kissed with honey at the ends. The sleeves of his white button-down have been rolled to his elbows, exposing a wristwatch that Tate doesn't remember seeing before.
"New watch?" she asks.
"Huh?" Nathan looks up from his work. "Oh, yeah."
Tate nods as his fingers fiddle with the clasp. "It's nice."
"Thanks."
Nathan pulls out a lighter and sets a sprig of thyme on fire. As the orange light of the flames dances across his pale skin, she catches sight of a set of initials monogrammed onto the watch above the face. D.V. Not his name. It can't be a family heirloom because the design is way too modern and it looks brand-new.
A few moments later, he sets a glass in front of her. The liquid is almost filled with accessories, with a lemon slice taking up most of the small glass. The thyme is no longer aflame but sticks out of the drink as a garnish. It's foamy at the top, which she hadn't expected, but finds intriguing.
"Old Thyme Sour," he says, tossing the zip lighter a few inches into the air before catching it again.
Tate takes a sip from the thin straw and immediately makes a puckered face. It's sour, alright, but also delicious, with just a hint of herbal smokiness.
"It's good," she tells him once she straightens her expression out.
"Is it?" he asks innocently. "I've never had one."
Tate's jaw falls slack in indignation. "I told you to make me your favorite!"
Nathan's smile is mischievous now, his shoulders shaking with a chuckle. "I don't have a favorite. Alcohol is my favorite. But that one is really fun to make and I've wanted to know if it was actually worth trying."
"Well, it is." Tate takes another sip and watches as he tosses the lighter again. "I hope you burn yourself."
He presses a hand to his heart in mock hurt. "You wound me, Tate. I might just have Frank make your drinks from now on."
"You wouldn't dare."
Nathan raises a challenging eyebrow. "And why is that?"
"You like me too much."
This is standard for their interactions— Nathan is easy to talk to, which is part of what makes him such a great bartender (aside from how well he can craft drinks). He can match her wit and dishes her sarcasm straight back to her. Since some people are put off by her intense personality, she's grateful that she doesn't have to tone anything down when it comes to him. He's never made her feel guilty about being herself.
"Or maybe it's because you tip too well."
Exhibit A.
Other patrons approach the bar, meaning Nathan has to actually do his job instead of squabbling with Tate, so she takes a book out of her purse and starts pouring over the text. Her sister's looming arrival has put her more on edge than she'd like to admit. She wants both her mind and body to be sharp, so she's started reading in the other languages she's fluent in.
Right now, that means reading an Italian translation of Dracula. Though it's quieter by the bar, the music pulsing from the dance floor still makes her stool rattle beneath her, shifting the vibrations through the wood and across her entire body. The orange-toned lights shining on the liquor shelves and loud chatter may make it impossible for other people to focus, but Tate can tune it out in an instant. Her mind puts a shield between herself and the outside world, blocking out everything that's not her glass of Old Thyme Sour and her novel.
She is so wrapped up in the text that she almost doesn't notice when a young man approaches her to attempt a pickup line. She notices him open his mouth from the corner of her eye.
"No," Tate says before he can utter a sound.
Confused and thrown off by her bluntness, the man blinks and then awkwardly walks away. Tate turns the page without ever looking at him.
She doesn't have time for romance. Ronan has gotten annoyed with her for it in the past, citing that she's young and she should celebrate her body being in its sexual prime before it's too late, but it hasn't swayed her in the least. Tate dabbled in flings and sex in college and none of it had interested her more than her unquenchable thirst for knowledge.
Plus, she can't afford to get distracted— especially not now that Jo is back in town. She has to don her metaphorical Sherlock Holmes hat and refuse to let her guard down.
Jo doesn't know her sister is alive, but she has enough people working for her that one of them could find her. A serious romantic partner would only fill Tate's head with fluff, and she needs to remain clear. It could literally be the difference between life and death.
Sometimes she wonders what it would be like to have a normal family.
For now, Tate will remain content with her obnoxious library that fills most of the apartment she shares with Ronan, an extensive list of unfinished podcasts, and knowing that this path she's chosen may very well lead to her dying alone.
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a/n:
tate is a little bit insane but i love her <3
ok i KNOW i said i would focus on my other books before updating this one, but i felt bad about there being only an introduction with no actual content to read. so now this chapter will sit here for a while, but at least you got to meet tate and ronan!
there will be a bit more ~buildup~ before we get into the meet of the plot and i'm excited for you guys to fall in love with tate and nathan's dynamic.
thank you for reading!!
— kristyn
( word count: 2.6k )