Will Harker was man enough to know that he didn't know much.
What he did know was that Kassandra Troy was a bitch, and he hated her guts.
They'd met just six months ago; they were martial artists from the same style, but different dojos. Kassandra and Will had risen in the ranks through dojos (places of learning) at the opposite ends of town. When Kassandra moved out on her own, she switched dojos, planting herself firmly, and inconveniently, in his life.
They were both level one black-belts and both highly commended by the Kentokukan Karate school's higher authorities. While Will was praised for his discipline and grace in demonstrations and fighting alike, Kassandra's fiery temper and a capacity for brutality that made her one hell of a fighter.
"These demonstrations, or katas, as you call them, are useless," she'd say when the higher ranks would meet to discuss the novices' curriculum, "I'm a single woman living in Montreal . . . like a lot of the new students. These things will get them nowhere. We should focus more on fighting and self defense and less on these useless activities"
"Those
useless activities
teach discipline and grace. Your response only reveals what an animal you are!"
It was an insult that fit in fact, but not appearances. Will had only ever seen Kassandra in the bulky tunic and trousers of their martial arts school. Her features were such that her ethnicity was impossible to determine. On some days she looked Caucasian, on others she looked Asian, and others still she could pass for Native American, Polynesian, or Latina. She was skinny as a toothpick, wore thick glasses anyone would find hideous, and her long dark hair was always brutally tied to the back of her head.
"Just hope you never find out what kind of animal I am," she said slowly.
It was her eyes that gave her away. Behind her glasses, they were dark, cold, and watchful. They were the eyes of someone comfortable with violence; someone who could command it to work to their advantage. The overall effect was a cross between a schoolmarm and a serial killer; a combination unappealing enough to make hating her all the easier.
"You're a barbarian! What kind of a woman are you...if you are a woman?"
"That's enough!" The fight had ended due to Janus, their instructor's brutal interruption.
Will Harker's behavior had been exemplary for the five years Janus had known him, but since the day young Kassandra had walked in and announced that she would like to train with them, the two of them had been at each other's throats.
When Harker was leading warm-ups, Kassandra was grumbling and cursing his harsh discipline and regimented silence. While Kassandra was cracking jokes during some of the harsher exercises, Harker stood and seethed. When Janus put them together to train, they did so in silence, their eyes shooting darts at each other with a tension that every other student in the room could all but feel. Occasionally, during choreographed fight routines, one of their arms or legs would 'slip,' planting a firm blow in faces, stomachs, and in poor Harker's case, his groin. If one of them made a mistake, the other took the liberty of pointing it out, and that always resulted in a fight.
"There's something about one that seems to bring out the worst in the other," one brown belt said to another over a beer.
"Any clue how many push ups they've gotten for all the fighting they've done?"
"By my count, let's see . . . two classes a week . . . ten push ups for every offense . . . the session started three weeks ago . . . I'd say at least two hundred"
"Sounds like love to me."
"You're a hopeless romantic, Alice."
"And you are full of crap, Raph, if I were a romantic, I wouldn't pay some sadist to boss me around, exercise me and make me beat people up."
"Whatever you say . . . more beer?"
"Now you're talking."
The teachers of the Karate school were big believers in the concept of work hard, train hard, and play hard. Everyone had lives outside the school, but friendships in the otherwise austere dojo inevitably formed. People were always heading out for drinks, or movies or a meal, but you never saw Will and Kassandra at these events. When the class wanted to go out for drinks, one of them always had an excuse. It was as if they'd negotiated social time with the rest of the group in such a way as never to have deal with one another. It was an arrangement that suited them, but not the rest of the class. Half found their fights hilarious, and the other half found their fights distracting and hoped that all the penalties they got would eventually teach them to get along, or at least get them to switch martial arts schools.
Alas, the two had strong personalities and were stubborn as mules. Neither of them was going anywhere...and everyone suffered because of it, particularly the two parties involved.
***
In every respect, Will Harker was a tight ass.
In her youth, Kassandra had gone to a private school, and in the number of times she'd almost been expelled it had always been because of fault finding sticks in the mud like William Harker. He was one of those people who took himself too seriously. One of those guys who came into martial arts with the hope of regaining some sort of lost warrior spirit urban society and professional armies had taken away. The man was a tax attorney for God's sakes! He strutted about like some science fiction barbarian talking about discipline and obscure Asian philosophers hoping to convert the masses.
"You have no discipline! You have no honor! You have no control! How in the hell did you make it to the upper ranks?"
"Oh, that's easy, William Harker, by acting as a welcome contrast to dicks like you!"
"Oh that's really mature! Name calling! Another reason why you are unfit to wear that belt!"
Kassandra's reply had something to do with a biologically impossible act involving his ass, her foot, and the taste of shoe polish. The fighting continued, and they simply threw themselves onto their stomachs and took their push ups; Kassandra huffing and cursing, and Will in his usual brooding silence. Kassandra was a pragmatist at heart.
While Will bitched and moaned about honor and warrior codes, her logic was a little different. As far as she was concerned, she was paying for the teaching, and because she was paying them, they owed her a certain amount of respect. She rejected the spineless 'Lick the Ground the Teachers Walk On' policy of one Lenny May Bono, a fellow black belt who'd been promoted for her submissive cowardice. She rejected Will's warrior like stoicism. As far as Kassandra was concerned, the best policy was to follow the rules but don't alter your personality or jump through hoops, and it suited her just fine. She worked; she went to class, fought in tournaments, showered, masturbated and slept; in her free time, she picked fights with Will. She'd made a hobby of baiting anal retentive prudes like him.
Will's appearance was a shocking contrast to his anal retentive personality. He was about six feet in height, and muscled. His face exuded a sort of boyish charm; clean shaven, with nice lips, large, intense blue eyes with heavy lashes, a strong jaw and high cheekbones. His hair was dirty blondish, and cropped stylishly close to his head.
A woman would have to be dead not to appreciate him for the fine piece of ass that he was. Fortunately his personality was the biggest turn off of them all. She was convinced that if the man ever got laid it's because he knew to keep his mouth shut. In the month she'd known him, the only thing that kept her from planting her fist in his face was an obscene amount of self control.
Of course their face off was inevitable, and her self control, while powerful, was not infinite. Until six weeks into the session, they managed to avoid each other with a skill spies would find commendable . . . but they couldn't avoid each other forever.
Then their Martial Arts instructor dropped a bomb. Kassandra, Will, and a few other students were asked to represent the school in a big tournament in New York City.
"Of course,
your
invitation is conditional on your getting along. Don't embarrass your team mates, your city, and your country by going to war in front of everybody. You break into ANY fighting outside the ring, and I will personally drag you out of there by the hair . . . Do you understand?"
They sent sideways glares at one another and nodded. Both loved the sport, and were too stubborn to turn down the opportunity. Cold civility seemed to be the only solution... and it was going to work out fine . . .
Or it would have, until Kassandra's subconscious decided to have a little fun with her the night before the trip.
In her dreams she had sex.
Wild, hot, sweaty sex
. . . With Will Harker.
She woke up, flushed, her chest heaving, her body wet and aching with the need for sex.
Kassandra dismissed it as the result of a year's celibacy. It was official: she needed to get laid, and soon . . . before she started hallucinating! Apparently all the fighting she did wasn't enough to satisfy baser needs. Any chance of her getting to sleep was officially shot to hell, so she did ten push ups and busied herself with work.
***
It was a typical spring morning in Montreal; freezing cold, and snowy. At the edge of every sidewalk were knee-deep puddles of sludge that even the most expensive boots couldn't save you from. No matter which sidewalk you stood on, no matter how well you hid, a busy motorist would find you and skim the curb, splashing the wet, icy mess across your legs.
Only in Montreal, Harker thought grimly, were there three seasons, autumn, winter, and construction. He was tired, but alert, and as usual, he was the first to arrive. Next to show up at the bus station was a wreck in a ski jacket, a bulky hoodie, and torn jeans. The equipment she carried, along with the severe pony tail and ugly glasses identified her instantly.
"Rough night?"
He figured being sociable was the first step to making peace, and making peace would make this trip all the smoother.
"Screw you, Harker!"
Well, he thought, so much for that. Dumping her bags on the floor, Kassandra reached into the pouch of her hoodie and pulled out a candy bar.
"Those things will make you fat, y'know."
"What part of 'screw you' did you not understand?" she asked, focusing her serial killer eyes on him with more than a little irritation. Black eyes stared into blue for several seconds before she turned back to her chocolate bar.
"I was trying to make peace with you. You know; try and get to know you better, figure out why the hell we fight all the time?"
