Her Black Belt Ex Tried to Humiliate Me at the Dojo — He Didn’t Know Who I Was
Chapter 2
Theme:
Font Size:
24px
It was a classic control tactic—the kind of petty, pathetic manipulation that made my jaw clench. "I'll go get it," I said, leaning forward.Sarah shook her head violently, spilling a few drops of hot coffee onto her jeans. "No, no, Cole. You don't understand. Brandon isn't just... he's intense. He runs the biggest mixed martial arts and karate school in the county. He's got this whole cult of personality. If you go in there, he'll make a scene. He'll try to provoke you. He feeds off that stuff.""I don't provoke easily," I said. It was the understatement of the century: I'd been screamed at by drill sergeants, shot at by insurgents in the Korengal Valley, and hunted through the streets of Sadr City. A local gym owner wasn't going to move my needle."I need to go," Sarah insisted, her voice trembling but finding a desperate sort of resolve. "I need to face him and just get my dad's watch. I can't let him hold this over me anymore." She finally looked up, her eyes bright with unshed tears. "I don't want to go alone. Will you come with me? Just be there."I reached across the small table and covered her shaking hand with mine. My hands were calloused, scarred from a decade of rough work. "I'll be right beside you. In and out. We get the watch and we leave."She exhaled a long, shaky breath, leaning into my touch. "Thank you. Just promise me, Cole... don't let him get to you. He's a third-degree black belt. He used to fight semi-pro. He likes to hurt people who challenge him."I gave her a soft, reassuring smile. "I promise, Sarah. I'm just there to carry the box."I didn't tell her that belts were for holding up pants. I didn't tell her that in my previous line of work, we didn't train to score points or submit opponents—we trained to dismantle threats with extreme prejudice. I was just Cole, the boring logistics guy, and I intended to keep it that way.We pulled up to Apex Predator Martial Arts at 6:00 on a Tuesday evening. The parking lot was packed with oversized trucks and expensive sports cars. The building itself was a converted warehouse painted matte black with an aggressive red logo of a snarling wolf plastered across the corrugated steel siding.I killed the engine of my unremarkable sedan. Beside me, Sarah was taking deep, ragged breaths, her hands clamped together in her lap."Hey," I said softly, unbuckling my seat belt and turning to her. "Look at me." She shifted her gaze. Her pupils were dilated: flight response. "Five minutes," I said. "We walk in. We ask for the watch. We walk out. You are completely safe."She nodded, forcing a tight smile. "Okay. Let's do it."We walked through the heavy glass double doors and the smell hit me immediately: stale sweat, industrial cleaning chemicals, and aerosol deodorant. The front desk was manned by a teenager scrolling through a phone who barely glanced up as we walked past. Beyond the reception area was the main floor. It was massive. To the left, a row of heavy bags dangled from the ceiling, currently being punished by a half-dozen guys in rash guards; to the right, a sprawling expanse of blue and red mats hosted a sparring class. The room was loud—grunts, the sharp smack of shin pads against heavy leather, and loud, pulsing hip-hop music echoing off the high tin ceiling.