Page 8 of It Must Be Love

"Come on, Ann, we said some terrible things about her." How could she not feel guilty? I definitely did.

"All true things," she said nonchalantly. "Everyone loved the party. People had a really good time. What did you think?"

Honestly? I had no fucking idea how it went. Since I realized that Naya listened in on our conversation, I was having trouble processing other shit.

Ann snuggled up to me, and her hand went straight to my dick. "How about I make you feel better?"

I was about to tell her to can it because I was tired, but she moved quickly, and before I could protest, her mouth was on me. Ann gave excellent head.

So, I leaned back, closed my eyes, and let pleasure divert me.

Chapter 3

Naya

Ihad just graduated from high school when my life irrevocably changed. On a clear, starlit night, I was driving home in my new-to-me Ford Focus, and without warning, my car was violently struck by another vehicle whose driver had lost control after veering across the road. Later on, I found out that the driver had unfortunately had a heart attack while he was driving and passed away. It was one of those no-blame accidents. I had no one to point a finger at, not even myself.

Besides the broken nose, scratches and scrapes, my lower back and my legs had been burnt due to a fire in my car. I went through several painful skin grafting surgeries. It had seemed endless then. My father had been my rock. Nolan had a job and was doing his MBA as well, so he came by but rarely. We were never close—and the accident didn't change that. I'd preferred it when Kara didn't come to see me in the hospital with him because she made a whole production out of my scars. Even now, I'd watch her looking at my legs, wondering how bad it was. I could tell her, "Spoiler alert, they look hideous."

As part of my strength training, while I recovered from the accident, a counselor suggested Krav Maga to me. I'd heard about martial arts, but I hadn't been sure if it was for me. The counselor dragged me for a training session, and I'd become hooked. I trained twice a week. Sunday afternoons and Wednesday evenings.

The training had centered me and given me strength physically and mentally. Whenever I felt emotional upheaval, Krav Maga was my meditation. After what I'd heard Ann and Amias say about me, I desperately needed inner calm to find power from within to hold me together.

I'd been coming to the Krav Maga Institute on the border of South End and Back Bay since right after the accident. My trainer Darren and I became close friends. He was one of the few people I saw socially.

"Warm up, everyone." Darren clapped his hands. He was a big black man who you wouldn't imagine could move with the grace he did. He used to be a linebacker who played for the Patriots like a million years ago and left pro ball due to an injury. He'd come to Krav Maga as I had to center himself.

The warm-up was both rigorous and invigorating, designed to prepare the body for the high-intensity training ahead. The air in the room was charged with anticipation as we jogged in place, our feet thudding softly on the mats. We transitioned into dynamic stretches and calisthenics—lunges, push-ups, and burpees—each movement executed with precision and focus.

Once the warm-up concluded, we went into a series of strikes, blocks, and counterattacks. There was a palpable shift in intensity as we paired up and began to drill the movements.

The sound of palms striking pads echoed through the room and my focus shifted from my turmoil to my movements, sharp and deliberate.

Center. Focus. Live in the now.

Soon, I was drenched in sweat. Darren locked eyes with me and nodded at me to start our one-on-one session within the class.

"Focus on your stance, Naya," he ordered, his voice firm yet encouraging. "Feet shoulder-width apart, knees slightly bent. Good. Now, remember, power comes from your hips." He demonstrated a powerful strike into the air, his body a perfect example of the technique he was teaching.

Darren kept his instructions going. "Rotate your hip more when you strike." He gently adjusted my stance.

He came at me slowly at first, allowing me to get familiar with how he was attacking, and then he increased his speed. There was a choreography to Krav Maga that I found sensual.

"Naya, work on your reaction time."

I kept at it even when my body began to scream in agony, wanting rest. But I was here to push myself, and I did, letting Darren decide if I was overdoing it.

"Come on, block my punch and counter with a knee strike," he commanded. I did as he said and managed to bring him down.

He laughed as he did whenever I bested him. And then, without warning, sprang up. The others were now around us, watching how we both moved. We'd been doing this for a long time, and we knew each other well. Our Krav Maga dance was well-honed and in tune.

I'd continued Krav Maga training while I was in the Bay Area in California—but I was glad to be working with Darren again. He was the best…at least for me.

My core tightened, and each command from Darren was a building block in my growing arsenal of strength training and self-defense.

"Quickly now, block, then strike!" Darren dictated, and I responded, my movements becoming more fluid and confident. The air around us was filled with the sound of controlled breathing and the impact of strikes meeting training pads.

For the grand finale, he moved like a predator and launched a controlled, realistic attack sequence. Daren challenged me to apply my skills under pressure. My adrenaline surged as I blocked, dodged, and countered, each move designed to protect or neutralize.