Bitter Blood

True to her word, Monica came to the gym ready to work, which was a bit of a shocker; Claire hardly recognized her. No makeup. Dark hair tied back in a plain, thick ponytail. Okay, the tight workout gear was still name brand, and her athletic shoes had a basketball star’s name on them, but this was definitely Monica unplugged.

And she was shockingly good at punching things. Even Shane was impressed, after about two minutes of watching her hit the heavy bag with a flurry of well-placed jabs, elbows, and kicks.

“She’s not bad,” Shane admitted as Monica continued to pummel the target. “Good form. Hell of a right.”

“Yeah, she got it beating up other kids, didn’t she?”

Shane sent her a slightly embarrassed look. “I’m all for peace and love, babe, but I’m just talking technique, here.” He went back to studying Monica with calm assessment, arms folded. “She’s been working on it.”

She had, no doubt about it. When Monica finished on the heavy bag after the required five minutes, panting and sweating, she sent Shane a triumphant look as she swigged some water. “See?” she said. “Not bad, right?”

“Don’t get cocky,” he said. “Hey, Aliyah? Got a minute?” He gestured to a tall, rangy girl who was shadow punching in the corner. She turned, and her dark eyes fell on Monica, and widened. “Monica needs a sparring partner.”

“Wait,” Monica said, and turned to him. “I thought you were—”

“I’m the sensei here, and you fight who I say you’ll fight,” Shane said, with entirely too much relish.

“But she—”

“Problem, Monica?” His smile was brutal, and Monica pressed her lips into a thin line and shook her head. She walked to the roped-off sparring area as Aliyah took her place inside.

“Let me guess,” Claire said. “Monica bullied Aliyah.”

“You couldn’t throw a rock in Morganville without hitting somebody who fits that description,” Shane said. “But nobody’s bullied Aliyah in, I don’t know, at least five years—okay, let’s have a clean fight, girls!”

It wasn’t.

Aliyah took about ten seconds to lay Monica out. It was a violent ballet of fake, strike, fade—almost surgical, really. Two fast, accurate punches—face and midsection—and a leg sweep, and Monica was on her back, staring dazed at the ceiling while Aliyah danced backward without a mark on her. Aliyah dropped her defense and looked at Shane, who shrugged.

“Thanks,” he said. “Tells me what I needed to know.”

He climbed in the ring as Aliyah got out, and he crouched down next to Monica, who was making no effort at all toward getting up. “Something broken?” he asked. She shook her head. “Then stand up.”

“Help?” She held out her hand, but he straightened up and backed off. Monica groaned. “You son of a—”

“C’mon, you whiner. Up.”

She climbed clumsily back to her feet and braced herself against the ropes a moment. “That bitch sucker- punched me.” She felt her lip. “If I swell up—”

“You’ll deserve it,” Shane said, “because your defense was crap. Are you complaining, or training?”

Claire leaned against the pole and watched, mostly; Shane was a good teacher, patient but not kind, and he showed Monica with brutal and cheerful efficiency that bullying didn’t really equal fighting. It was a relatively short lesson—about an hour—but at the end of it Monica was a disheveled, staggering mess. When Shane finally said, “Okay, enough for today,” she flopped backward onto the floor as if she might never get up under her own power again.

“You,” she said between heaves for breath, “are a total ass, Collins. You enjoyed that.”

“Absolutely,” he said, and grinned, but the grin faded fast. “No bull, Monica: you’re not bad, you’ve got strength, but you’ve never been pushed. Fighting the vamps isn’t like taking Jimmy’s lunch money in fourth grade. You need to be fast, fearless, and accurate, and you need to understand that there’s no giving up, because if they even smell it on you, you’re done.”

“I can do it,” she said. But she said it flat on the floor. “I’m not quitting.”

“Good,” he said. “Because the opportunity to hit you is pretty much every Morganville kid’s dream job. Oh, and you’re paying me.”

“I’m what?” She lifted her head from the canvas and stared at him, and Claire had to choke back a laugh at the look on Monica’s face.

“Paying,” he said. “For training. What, you thought I’d do this for free? Are we friends?”

“Fine,” she said, and dropped her head again. “How much?”

“Twenty an hour.”

“You’re kidding me. You make about seven an hour on your best day!”

“That’s when I’m doing honest labor, like cleaning sewers. Working with you means charging a premium.”

She wearily lifted a hand and flipped him off, but said, “Okay, fine. Twenty an hour.”

“Twenty-five now that you were rude about it.”

Monica sent him a filthy glare, rolled over, and limped slowly off to the showers. Shane watched her go with a smile of pure satisfaction. “Gold,” he said. “Pure gold.”

Claire kissed him. “Don’t gloat too hard,” she said. “She’s going to get better.”

“I know. But I can enjoy it while she’s not.”

Claire took off after Monica for the locker room.

She found the other girl stripping off her workout clothes and examining in the full-length mirror the discolored places that were going to form bruises. Claire immediately felt a surge of awkwardness and didn’t know where to look; Monica had an almost perfect body, sculpted and waxed and tanned. Claire flashed back to her awkward early-admission high school years, where showering with the pretty girls had been an exercise in merciless mockery.

But she wasn’t even on Monica’s radar, except as a second pair of eyes. “Hey,” Monica said, without even focusing on her. “Do you think this is going to leave a mark?” She pointed to a red area on her ribs, just under her left breast.

“Probably.”

“Dammit. I was going to go to the pool. Now I have to wear a one-piece.” She made it sound like a burka. “So, pre-school, did you follow me in here to confess your gay love, or what?”

“What? No. And never you.”

“Oh yeah? You got a girl-crush on someone else?”

Claire smiled. “Well, I lost my heart to Aliyah back there when she put you on the floor….”

“Bite me, Danvers. I need a shower.” Monica grabbed her soap, shampoo, razor, and a towel, and headed for the open tiled area. Claire followed at a distance and sat out of the range of splashing on the teak bench. “Seriously, are you stalking me? Because you’re not doing it right.”

“I need to talk to you.”

“It’s not mutual.”

Monica turned the spray on and stepped into the steaming water. Claire waited until she’d foamed up her hair, rinsed it, put in the conditioner, and propped her leg up on the step to run the razor over it before she tried again. “I have a proposition for you.”

“Again with the girl love.”

“I want you to run for mayor.”

Monica jerked, yelped, and blood trickled down her leg. She hissed, rinsed it off, and glared at Claire. “Not funny.”

“Not meant to be,” Claire said. “I’m really serious. People like familiar names, and there’s no name for mayor more familiar than Morrell. Your grandfather was the mayor, your dad, your brother….”

“Look, much as I’d like to be thought of as political royalty, that’s not how it works. People have to actually like you to vote for you. I’m not stupid enough to believe they do.” But she was listening while she soaped her leg again and shaved. Claire had known she would, because there was nothing Monica craved