I took a handful of aspirin to take the edge off the soreness from the fights as I hauled myself up two flights of stairs to my apartment over a Chinese restaurant. Everything smelled a little like ginger and garlic, but I'd gotten used to it. I massaged the ache in my jaw from where the bruiser tapped me, even though I knew he'd pulled his punch. If he'd used his full strength, I'd probably still be on the floor in the warehouse. He'd been sweet in a practical kind of way.
For a moment the memory of him, Atticus, had me fumbling my key in the lock. Tall and broad as a fucking semi, a nose crooked from being broken at least a couple of times, and dark eyes that held more sadness than the typical cocky bastards at the fights. I frowned at the keys in my hand. Something about him struck a chord in my memory, but the connection didn't immediately reveal itself. He felt familiar, kindred. Like family.
Weird. I shoved open the door and stepped over the envelopes someone slid under the door. A stabbing pain flared in my back as I picked them up, and I took a beer from the fridge to help the aspirin along. The first envelope, stuffed near to bursting, held more promise than the other two, so I tore it open.
A report from the private investigator in Chicago detailed the steps he'd taken to trace my past — with no results. I took a deep breath and staggered over to the couch, rubbing my forehead as I flipped on an extra lamp to read the cramped type. Another dead end.
The investigator even visited the orphanage where I'd come from, or at least where the paperwork claimed I came from. No other records indicated I'd ever been at the Chicago orphanage. A couple of nuns there said they remembered a little girl covered in mottled birthmarks, but they couldn't identify any pictures. No files, no birth certificate, nothing.
I winced and tried to stretch my back as I tossed the paperwork onto the couch and retrieved another beer. The investigator searched the records of local hospitals but couldn't connect anything to the tattered paperwork from whoever dropped me off. He'd been so damn confident he would find something, would at least connect me to a hospital or a baby smuggling scheme or something, that I'd allowed myself to hope, and yet... Nothing. A bigger disappointment because I'd believed him.
I concentrated on breathing as I opened the next envelope. My hands shook and nearly tore the paper — the bill for that particular investigator. Mr. No Help cost me a couple of grand more than expected. Travel expenses, of course. I repeated my mantra a couple of times to deter the panic welling in my stomach. No new leads, no other places to look. The closest I got to discovering my family, my past, my heritage — it all ended at that orphanage in Chicago.
Working through a series of kung fu forms in the living room stretched my muscles and joints before trying to sleep, and it gave me some calm back. I closed my eyes and focused on breathing, the thump of my heart, the gritty carpet under my bare feet, the rustle of my clothing as loud as tearing fabric in the still room. Apparently they sent me from Chicago to the orphanage I remembered outside of DC. I never belonged there, either — between the birthmarks that covered me in red-brown patches and the seizures that stole time and memory from me, I was too odd for an institution that valued blending in. And no one wanted a kid who had seizures, sleepwalked, and blacked out.
My phone rang, interrupting the peace that physical movement always brought me. When I answered, the fight organizer, John, congratulated me on the win and added, "If you're up for it, we've got another dude you can take a shot at. Pays the same - five large to get in the ring with him, three more if you can stay on your feet for the first round, and another five if you knock him out."
From his tone, John didn't think I'd get the extra five. I smiled as I paced into the bedroom and drew the curtains to block out the watery sunlight creeping through the grimy windows. "When?"
"Day after tomorrow. Starts at ten."
"Good." I hung up and flopped onto the bed, tossing the phone aside. Bigger bonuses meant paying off that investigator, maybe getting a referral to someone with better connections. If I saved up enough, I might be able to return to Chicago myself to sniff around the orphanage. There had to be medical records from treating the seizures, or school records to document what I'd done or thought or said. I couldn't have just materialized in DC at twelve, knowing how to read and write but with no other memory. With everything blank before then, any scrap of information was worth its weight in gold.
Shivers crawled up my spine as I rolled up in the sheets and tried to find a comfortable position for my aching muscles. Surviving two fights against women and then beating that giant Atticus took its toll. His face distracted me and I smiled against my pillow. I felt a little bad about knocking him out, but when his two pissed off friends jumped up out of the crowd, I couldn't ignore the opportunity.
I hugged my pillow closer and tried to put him out of my thoughts. I had about six hours before teaching, and I needed to be on my toes to deal with my Tuesday students. I didn't need Atticus's piercing, sorrowful eyes keeping me awake. They did anyway, until I dreamed about him cuddled up next to me, holding me close and warm.
He stayed with me, a comforting presence, as I got up for work at the fancy gym in the heart of downtown. I taught a couple of different classes, but the most popular were cardio kickboxing and self-defense. The self-defense classes started as an impromptu deal after someone spotted a guy loitering in the parking garage after hours and the manager learned I studied kung fu. He asked me to teach a class on staying safe, and I was happy to comply. The single class turned into weekly gatherings, which turned into three nights a week every week.
I taught classes all afternoon and ended with my seven o'clock take back the night group. Every class, one of the ladies brought a husband or boyfriend or other trusted male to be the guinea pig. After the first volunteer ended up out of commission quite a while, I always called to remind the guy to bring a cup. Groin shots could be pretty funny for observers but didn't encourage the guinea pigs to ever return.
For two hours we practiced blocks, punches, grip breaking, throws, and every other dirty technique I'd learned from formal kung fu study as well as on the street. Every bruise and bloody nose I survived was something I could teach the others to avoid, a nightmare they could escape because I'd already been through it. I'd always healed fast, too, so few of those nightmares left externals scars. On the inside was another matter. I pushed away the thought and taught them another way to break out of a chokehold. From the corner of my eye, I thought I saw Atticus, but when I looked it was just a shadow.
After class, a few of the women went out for dinner and drinks. Despite the call of the files and more research into investigators and the public health system in Illinois, I went along with them. I liked them all a great deal, even if we had next to nothing in common. My apartment waited for me, empty and cold, and I needed to get that giant bruiser out of my head so I could actually sleep. A couple of beers and some bacon cheese fries seemed like a perfectly reasonable way to end the night, even if there were a few overly-friendly guys hanging out at the bar and hitting on us. Luckily I still wore my fighting clothes. I ordered another beer to take the edge off as adrenaline surged and a protective drive rose in my chest. If I had to draw the frat boys away to keep my students safe, then that's what would happen.