Chapter 2 - The Grip Breaks
Derek didn’t look at Marissa’s phone for more than half a second. To him, the glowing screen was just white noise interrupting his moment of triumph. His fingers dug deeper into my wrist, the blunt pressure grinding flesh against bone.
“Marissa, shut up,” Derek barked over his shoulder, never breaking eye contact with me. “I don’t care what kind of kickboxing fitness class she took. She needs to learn her place.”
He leaned in, his breath sour with stale beer and grilled fat. “Look at me when I’m talking to you.”
My nervous system didn’t spike. My pulse didn’t race. When you spend twelve years inside steel cages trading blows with world-class athletes, an untrained, bar-brawling bully doesn’t trigger adrenaline—he triggers muscle memory.
“Let go,” I said softly.
“Make me,” Derek sneered, tightening his grip.
I didn’t fight his fingers; I didn’t pull away. Instead, I stepped inside his reach, collapsing the distance before he could use his weight. With my free left hand, I caught his thumb and peeled it backward along its joint line, instantly compromising his grip. The sudden leverage broke his fingers wide open. Before the shock could register on his face, I spun on the ball of my back foot, threading my right arm under his extended tricep and locking his elbow against my shoulder.
An outside wrist lock flowed seamlessly into an arm drag. Derek let out a sharp gasp as his shoulder joint popped out of alignment. Gravity and leverage did the rest. With a subtle pivot of my hips, I directed all two hundred and thirty pounds of his bulk sideways.
He didn't stumble; he launched.
Derek crashed horizontally across the redwood dining table. Serving bowls shattered under his ribcage. Bowls of potato salad, barbecue sauce, and porcelain shards exploded into the air as the heavy wood groaned and splintered beneath his impact.
Silence blanketed the backyard, thick and suffocating.
Derek lay groaning on his side, his face smeared in marinade and barbecue glaze, his right arm pinned uselessly across his chest. He wheezed, the breath knocked completely out of his lungs.
Diane’s iced tea glass slipped through her trembling fingers, shattering against the concrete patio. “Derek! Oh my god, Derek!”
I didn’t shift into a combat stance. I didn’t raise my fists. I simply smoothed down the hem of my sundress, shook the drops of beer from my knuckles, and retrieved a fresh napkin from the nearby side table.
Ryan walked up behind me. He wasn’t shocked; he was breathing heavily, his split lip dripping scarlet down his chin, but his eyes were steady. He handed me a wet towel.
“You okay?” he asked in a calm, measured voice.
“I’m fine,” I replied, wiping the beer from my neck. “Your brother’s footwork is terrible.”
From the doorway, Marissa was still frozen, holding her phone outward like a religious talisman warding off a demon.
“Derek, get up!” Diane shrieked, rushing toward the fractured table, her manicured hands fluttering in panic. “Call the police! She assaulted him! She broke his arm! Ryan, control this psycho!”
Derek rolled off the table, groaning, his knees hitting the beer-soaked grass. His eyes were wide, wild, and swimming in utter humiliation. He looked up at me from the dirt, clutching his dislocated shoulder.
“What… what are you?” he choked out.
May you like
Marissa’s voice cracked across the silent lawn. “I told you to let her go, Derek. That’s Evelyn Carter. She held the bantamweight title for four consecutive years. She retired undefeated.”
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