by M. Leighton
When he does, the announcer pauses, like he knows the anticipation is rising to fever pitch. I can almost feel it vibrating through the bodies in the stadium like a living thing.
“And in the corner to my left, weighing in at two hundred nineteen pounds, wearing his signature black and green, the reigning UFM heavyweight champion of the world, Kieeefer ‘The Rain’ Rooooooogannnnnnn!”
Another deafening roar as Rogan bounces out, turning three hundred and sixty degrees in the center of the ring before facing off with his opponent. The guy who I’m assuming is the referee gives them some kind of “protect yourself and listen to me” speech before asking them to tap gloves.
As the fight starts, I’m recalling the research I did about this sport. I watch them dance around each other, taking shots called jabs, I think, and kicking out with their knees. Not much is connecting yet and, based on the grin Rogan is wearing, I’m guessing he’s not overly worried that any might. It seems as though he’s toying with his competitor.
I read that this guy, Daniels, will be one of the next in line to challenge Rogan for the heavyweight championship, but this particular bout doesn’t count. This is more of an exhibition type thing, just for charity. But it’s still strong in the back of my mind what Johns, his trainer, said about not wanting to see this kid eat him for breakfast. That must be why my fingers are curled into such tight, nervous fists that my knuckles ache.
My eyes are glued to Rogan when, all of a sudden, like lightning striking a tree, he steps in and punches Daniels. The blow is so hard that it whips his head viciously to the right. Obviously Daniels wasn’t expecting it. He reels backward, shaking his head to try and clear it. The crowd cheers Rogan on, but he doesn’t take the bait. He just grins at them and steps back, giving his opponent time to recover. I’m sure this isn’t the way he normally fights. The point would be to take advantage of Daniels’s addled status and take him down. But since this is for charity, I’m sure Rogan wants to give them a good show.
Daniels finds his way back to the center of the ring, his left hand raised to protect his face from Rogan’s potent right hook. They engage in their dance again, advancing and retreating, Rogan the fierce cat playing with his prey.
Daniels punches at Rogan several times, but he doesn’t land even one strike. Rogan dodges each one like he can see it coming just a fraction of a second before Daniels decides to throw it. Rogan’s muscles bunch and shift under his skin a moment before Daniels attacks, moving him out of the way as smoothly and effortlessly as water flowing over rocks. He’s quick and graceful. Fluid. Amazing to watch.
Rogan’s opponent reaches in to grab Rogan around the neck. I’m a bit puzzled at first as to why Rogan would let him, but the guy beside me yells excitedly, shouting, “That’s just where you don’t wanna be, asshole!”
I return my attention to Rogan just as the crowd starts to shout again. Bring the rain! Bring the rain!
I can see just enough of Rogan’s fierce expression to know that he isn’t playing with Daniels anymore. Things just got serious.
Both men are still in the center of the ring, Daniels gripping each side of Rogan’s neck, Rogan’s hands on Daniels’s shoulders. They hold each other like that for several long seconds. The chanting, the anticipation, the energy of the crowd—it all collides to bring my nerves to a jangling crescendo. And then, in a movement that is so perfectly executed, so blindingly fast, Rogan kicks with his knee, slides his other foot behind Daniels’s and has him on his back in the blink of an eye.
They are a writhing mass of slithering limbs and grappling hands, and I’m unable to make heads or tails of their form until Rogan pushes out with his legs. I hear the excited cries and shouts of the people surrounding me. I see them coming to their feet and cheering, so I know something significant is happening. Then I see Rogan stretch out nearly full length at an angle to Daniels’s body, his legs wrapped around his opponent’s upper body and Daniels’s arm being pulled up between them. Rogan, holding tight to his opponent’s arm, continues to stretch back, a little at a time, bending the joints in a way that makes them look deformed. Daniels’s face is bright red as he reaches toward Rogan with his free hand, punching haphazardly.
Something happens and Rogan loses his grip, Daniels’s arm slipping out of his grasp and almost free of him completely, but Rogan bends forward, smashing his fist into Daniels’s face in four rapid-fire strikes. Even from a distance, I see blood fly as Daniels’s head bounces against the mat with a thud I’m sure I could hear if the crowd wasn’t so wild.
My stomach clenches and, for a moment, I’m caught in a time and a place where I felt the impact of fists, where I was held down so that I couldn’t escape. The fear, the incapacity, the remembered pain flood my body with a sick adrenaline that causes my hands to shake and perspiration to pop out across my forehead.
I blink my lids, forcing my eyes to focus on the present, on where I am, on the fact that I’m safe. But the feelings are still there, too intense to be part of my past. It’s like they leapt out of my nightmares to become a reality to me again.
My chest feels tight as I watch Rogan regain control of Daniels and pull his arm through his legs again. “Arm bar! Arm bar!” the man in front of me yells. Rogan shows no mercy this time. He stretches back, his face a stony mask, and relentlessly contorts Daniels’s arm.
I see Daniels tap the mat with his free hand. The referee makes a gesture and says something that I can’t hear, causing Rogan to release his opponent and jump to his feet. He won.
His stance says he’s the victor. The crowd says they had no doubt.
I study Rogan’s face. Gone is the fierceness of only seconds before, replaced by the confident smile that won my heart. He never had any doubt either. He’s in his element when he’s in battle. And I’m in my own personal hell.
I’ve never been more conflicted.
THIRTY
Rogan
Victory. It surges through my blood. I can taste it on my tongue, sweet and tangy. I can smell it in the air, mingling with sweat. There is no feeling in the world like winning. It makes me feel alive when, for a lot of years growing up, I wasn’t sure I’d survive.
But I did.
Against the odds. And here I am, on top of the world.
My first conscious thought as I do a slow turn of triumph in the center of the ring is of Katie. I squint past the bright lights, scanning the sea of faces for hers, but I can’t find her. My gaze drops to the first row, to where my brother is parked in his wheelchair. I frown my question at him, nodding to the upper rows. He shrugs. He doesn’t know where she went, even though he was supposed to keep an eye on her.
I feel a thin thread of unease unraveling in my gut. I don’t know why she would leave her seat like that. My agent was supposed to bring her to me in the locker room in another ten or fifteen minutes. Now I don’t know where she is. Maybe the bathroom . . .
I pull my attention back to getting through the next hour. After all the regular post-fight shit, I can disappear back into a world where it’s just Katie and me. For as long as we’ve got left.
As usual, my trainer joins me in the ring. I’m surprised when my agent, my publicist, my benefactor and Victoria Musser show up as well. Surprised and pissed off. No one told me Victoria would be here. And why the hell is she? She has no place at my side.
I hide my irritation, putting on a polite smile for the cameras. I hate everyone touching me and posing with me, though. All they want is a photo op. Pieces of shit.
As flashes go off in every direction, I think to myself that it’s probably not that big of a mystery why they’re all here. It’s great press for my agent; my publicist; and Senator Sims, my benefactor; and his son. And, of course, it’s a great photo op for Victoria. Not to mention a convenient plug for the show on which I’ll be starring at the beginning of the season. I guess it’s even logical. For media whores, that is.
If anything, their presence only makes me more anxious to get away, to find Kat
ie. She’s like an island in a sea of sharks and suckerfish. It seems she might be the only person on the planet who wants nothing from me except . . . me. My time, my attention, my love, my touch. And I’m more than happy to give her all those. For as long as she’ll have me.
The circus continues, following me all the way to the locker room where they hover at the door, pounding me with questions. Senator Sims, who has now been joined by his wormy son, is proudly answering questions to my left when a beaming Victoria wiggles her way in at my right.
I have to make myself hold steady and not lean away when she latches on to my side. The media, always observant, doesn’t miss the way she drapes herself over me. I grit my teeth when it takes the questions in a different direction.
“Victoria, does this mean you and Rogan are back together?”
“Rogan, you were at the top of your game tonight. Did that have anything to do with Victoria’s presence?”
“Rumor has it that you two patched things up on the set of Wicked Games. Is that true?”
“Victoria, the word was that Rogan dumped you. What made you take him back?”
“How about your relationship? Is it open? Our sources say that you two have expanded to include Rayelle Parker.”
As if on cue, the corps of reporters parts and Rayelle comes slinking through, making a beeline for me. With a kiss to Victoria (on the lips, I might add), she insinuates herself between Senator Sims and me, stretching up to kiss the side of my neck. It only takes me a few seconds of both women hanging themselves on me, running their hands up my bare stomach, to realize what the hell is going on.
Publicity for the show.
This is all a publicity stunt.
That’s when I look up and see a familiar dark head. It catches my attention, bobbing at the very back of the throng of paparazzi. It’s Katie. I see her shrinking away from all the commotion, backing down the hall with my brother trailing along in her wake. Her face is as pale as a ghost.
THIRTY-ONE
Katie
I’m nauseous, paralyzed. If I thought the remembered fears of my past were incapacitating, this feeling, this horror is enough to bury me where I stand.
It’s extremely upsetting to see Victoria and Rayelle rubbing themselves all over Rogan, to hear insinuations being dispensed left and right. It’s extremely upsetting that Rogan is doing nothing to remove himself from the situation or disabuse anyone of the conclusions being drawn. But none of that is as agonizing or confusing as the presence of Senator Sims and his son at Rogan’s side.
I’ve known Senator Sims for years. I’ve hated him for almost as long. He’s responsible for the police declaring the fire that disfigured me an “accident.” Seeing him turns my blood cold, yet it’s nothing compared to how the man to his left makes me feel.
Calvin Sims.
My ex.
The guy I thought I loved. The guy who had a dark side that I didn’t see until it was too late. The guy who broke hearts and bones and spirits like some people break bread. The guy who, in a fit of rage, set me on fire. The person who has inhabited more of my nightmares than the boogeyman.
And they’re both standing beside the man I let myself trust, the man I confided in. The man I fell in love with.
My head spins. My heart shrivels.
How? Why? How could this be?
Suddenly, I feel claustrophobic. It’s as though the train of my life has flown off the tracks and all its cars of past, present and future are colliding. Everything is piling up into one big mess, a heap of twisted truths and inconceivable realities threatening to crush me under their weight.
My lungs are failing. My head is spinning. My oxygen is running out. Slowly, I back away from the fervent crowd as it encroaches on Rogan, pummeling him with questions.
Across the tops of their heads, jewel-green eyes lock on mine. He stares at me for a few intense seconds, something unfathomable darkening emerald to jade. My stomach flips over and my chest constricts. I thought I knew this man, but I knew nothing. I only saw the façade. And the unfortunate truth is that there’s nothing beneath it, no more to him than this. Lies. Cameras. Action.
When I’m far enough away that I can no longer feel the body heat of the horde, I inhale sharply, ready to bolt back down the hall. Why did Kurt come to find me at the front doors when I’d left for air? And why the hell did he bring me here? Did he want me to see the real Rogan? Or did he just want to hurt me? Maybe that’s who he is, too. Just a cruel, cruel person. Like his brother.
An internal alarm blares when I hear a short pause, a hush almost, followed by a barrage of questions.
“Who’s that, Rogan?”
“Is that the girl from the stands?”
“Is she the one you saw before the fight? Who is she, Rogan?”
Panic. That’s exactly what I feel when I see every eye turn toward me. After that, it’s just chaos. Voices raised, people clamoring, everything closing in on me.
Before I can get away and before Rogan can get to me, Victoria somehow slips through the crowd and appears at my side. She loops one arm around my shoulders and hugs me to her.
I don’t move away from her. Having someone, anyone familiar close to me is somehow comforting, like a buffer.
I shrink against her side, wishing I could disappear entirely. I feel like a deer in headlights, frozen. Terrified.
Then, as though every facet of my worst nightmares are coming to life in a single evening, Victoria reaches up with the hand on my shoulder and gently sweeps my hair away from my neck, exposing my scars for the flash of cameras, for the fodder of the media.
I’m so shocked, so completely taken aback by the gesture, I simply stand there, mortified and stunned. I can’t even lift my arm to cover my shame.
“Guess who told me all about your little secret,” Victoria hisses next to my ear, her smile never faltering as she looks into my eyes and then presses her cheek to mine to pose for the multitude of pictures being taken.
Guess who told me all about your little secret.
Agony rips through my insides. Rogan. He told her. He told her about my scars. The ultimate betrayal. How could he do that to me? Why? Why would he do that to me?
It’s like I don’t even know him. Like I never did. It was all just an act to get the girl who no one else could get. And I let him. I let him in, let him close. But I was misled, deceived. On every possible level. By the first person I’ve trusted in years. By the first person I’ve loved in forever.
Flash, flash, flash. Cameras being shoved in my face, microphones being held out to me, curious onlookers dissecting my every word and move.
“Are you affiliated with the charity?”
“Are you a representative at the benefit?”
“How do you know Rogan?”
“Are you a victim of abuse? Do you have a story to tell?”
With my mind spinning, I listen to their questions, still too stunned to move. I can only assume they’re asking about abuse because the charity is one for abused children. I’m sure that, by the look of my scars, they think I might very well be one. I can understand their rationale, and perversely, I almost wish it were the case. Somehow it doesn’t seem quite as humiliating as the truth. But still, my lips can’t form an answer, my throat can’t utter a sound.
I look up for Rogan. He’s gone. I look at Calvin. His face is contorted in a sneer that I remember all too well. I look to my side at Victoria. She’s as smug as I’ve ever seen her.
“Told you he’d be mine,” she whispers, winking at me for the reporters, even though they can’t hear what she’s saying.
I urge my numb legs into motion, taking one step back. It feels so good I take another. Then another. The closer I get to freedom, the farther away the faces get, the more my muscles cooperate. Three, four steps later, I’m running through the maze of halls behind the stadium, looking frantically for a way out. Any way out.
I see a red Exit sign up ahead and I lunge for it, pushing through and out int
o the cool, dark night like a woman possessed. I run in a straight line, aiming for the lights of the street in front of me. When I reach it, I hail a cab, a skill I’m glad I never lost, and I give the driver the airport as my destination. I don’t care that I have only the clothes on my back. I don’t care that my belongings are still in the room I shared with Rogan. I don’t care that I’m acting irrationally. I have to get out of here. I can’t be in this city anymore. For the second time in my life, it’s taken from me everything I hold dear.
Everything.
THIRTY-TWO
Rogan
I’ve felt protective before. Over Kurt. Over my comrades in Delta Five unit. I’d fight to the death for them. But even my feelings for Kurt, my damn brother, don’t hold a candle to the almost violently protective surge that’s pumping through my veins right now.
Katie.
Seeing her expression just now, seeing the sheer panic on her face when this bunch of nosey asshole reporters saw me notice her . . . God, I just wanted to tear through them like teeth through meat, ripping and tearing and killing.
But I know better. I know better than to start something that could go sideways with her caught (physically and emotionally) in the middle. She could get hurt, and I couldn’t live with myself if that happened. So, without a word, I turn and run through the locker room, heading for the door that leads into an anteroom and then out into the hallway. It should empty out somewhere behind Katie, some place that I can get her and get her the hell out of here.
But when I burst through the door, there’s no Katie. The hall is full of the same reporters, all as voraciously curious as a tank of barracudas who’ve caught the scent of blood. Besides them, there is only Victoria. No Katie. Even Kurt is gone.
Unconcerned with niceties or worrying about the damn cameras, I reach through the crush of bodies and grab Victoria’s arm. She turns a blinding smile on me that only serves to piss me off even more. I’m not playing her games right now. “Where’s Katie? Where’d she go?”
