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I held him with tapered eyes and he said in his Mr. Miyagi voice, “Lesson not just karate. Lesson for whole life.”

Good God, he was backpedaling behind a 1980’s movie impression.

He bit his lip, but a smile broke through anyway.

I returned the smile. I didn’t want to hear about my alleged super-human speed or some sermon about everything having purpose. “Fine. But I’m not waxing—”

Strong lips claimed mine. His fingers stretched under my rear and spread between my thighs while his other hand paddled. I clung to his chest and ground my pelvis against his. A groan erupted from his throat.

The water behind us sloshed as Eugene and Steve treaded, watching.

His lips moved over mine. “Can you fellows give us some privacy?”

When splashing sounded their exit, I relaxed my shoulders and kissed him back. I let my enthusiasm about the training build in that kiss, drowning him in licks and nibbles while he kicked his legs to keep us afloat.

Over the weeks that followed, our aphid infestation grew. We blew through at least one magazine a day to keep them at bay. With our ammunition dwindling, Eugene and Steve volunteered to gather more.

When they left, I knew they’d be gone awhile, traveling far to make the venture profitable. I also knew they might not return. I couldn’t think about the latter. Instead, I imagined the myriad of ways Joel and I could enjoy that time alone.

But he kept us on a regimen. Knife throwing for two hours. Jujitsu or Muay Thai until lunch. Kung Fu or Eskrima between lunch and dinner. My joints creaked. My muscles hurt to touch, and Joel was inexorable.

Two weeks later—Eugene and Steve still gone—I lay on my back on the basement floor, massaging a sore calf. Joel stood over me, laughing and beating me with Aristotle. “We cannot learn without pain.”

He raised an ankle to his muscled ass, stretching his quadriceps. A taunting reminder of the kick I just absorbed. My knee popped as I stood and limped to the door.

Still laughing, he said, “Evie, come on. Use your aphid speed.”

“Apparently it just works on aphids. Not assholes.” Damn, I was a poor loser. But still.

“There’s that temper, which reminds me.” I continued toward the exit to escape the impending lecture. “Forget everything I’ve ever said about your anger.”

I stopped before the stairs but didn’t turn around.

“Go ahead,” he said. “Explode. But when you do, pay close attention to it.”

I blew out a breath and faced him.

“Figure out what it was that pissed you off. Was it anxiety? Impatience?” He cleared his throat. “Humility? Take notes.”

I crossed my arms. “Why?”

He dropped his leg. “Because if you understand the foundation of your anger, you might be able to promote it in others.” A pause. “Think about it. On one side you’ve got an ill-tempered fighter blinded by her rage. On the other, an alert opponent in control of his own disposition. Who’s going to win?”

I shrugged and plastered on my best I-don’t-give-a-rat’s-ass expression.

“Just more tools for your toolbox.”

Anger made a pretty sharp tool, but… “Okay, asshat.”

We spent the next couple hours walking through Chi Sao rolling hand forms. His relentless barking gave me plenty of opportunities to note the signals of my anger.

Control your speed. Sloppy. Watch your timing. Focus. Hit me. Fook sau. Again.

Then he mounted a plank of wood marked with targets on the wall. I spun my first blade from twenty feet away. It nailed the edge of the inner ring with a thunk.

He tapped my foot with his to adjust my stance. “Good. Now alternate between no spin, half spin and multi spin. And vary your distances.”

I nodded and wiped my forehead on my arm.

“Remember. This is like all your other training. When you apply it, it has to come naturally. And you’ll only get there through repetition.” He grinned. “Hate me yet?”

I smirked and flung another blade. The silent whirl, as it flipped end-over-end toward the eye of the target, lifted my chin. Several bulls-eyes later, I said, “Really, I’ve got this.”

He unbolted the basement door and lifted his carbine. “Let’s find out.”

Under the weight of my knives and the thick midnight sky, I followed him outside. Our boots scraped over the gravel trail to the lake. A fog shrouded the surrounding grove. The ground cover stirred within.

The last time I fought aphids was on the very trail we walked. I remembered their claws on me. And the blood, dark and oleaginous, leaking from their wounds. A twinge festered in the pit of my stomach. A bird call floated through the walnut boughs. The shadows below grew louder. So did my heartbeat.

“The plan?” I whispered as we crossed the dock.

“When they hit the ramp, aim between the eyes. Since you can see them better than I can, I’ll be relying on your eyes until they’re close enough.”