THE BLACK BELT WHO CHALLENGED THE WRONG WOMAN

THE BLACK BELT WHO CHALLENGED THE WRONG WOMAN

The first thing Logan Whitmore did was throw a pair of MMA gloves at my feet.

The second was laugh.

The third was look directly into his father’s phone and say,

“Dad, make sure you get her face when she realizes she’s in over her head.”

Everyone around the barbecue went silent.

I looked down at the gloves.

Then at Logan.

Twenty-two years old. Six-foot-two. Black belt. Three amateur MMA victories.

He had spent weeks making jokes about me.

The quiet single mother with the old pickup truck.

The woman who left before sunrise every morning.

The woman who never attended neighborhood parties without her fifteen-year-old son, Noah.

To Logan, I was an easy target.

“Come on, Claire,” he said with a grin. “You’ve been acting tough all month.”

“I haven't been acting anything.”

He laughed.

“Then prove it.”

His wealthy father, Grant Whitmore, lifted his phone higher.

“Just one round,” Grant said. “No hard feelings.”

I looked at him.

“You're recording this?”

“Absolutely.”

“Why?”

Grant smiled.

“Something tells me this is going to be entertaining.”

A few neighbors chuckled.

My son Noah stood beside the patio.

“Mom, you don't have to do this.”

I looked at him.

His eyes were worried.

“I know.”

Logan stepped closer.

“What happened, Claire? Afraid?”

I shook my head.

“No.”