by Sunniva Dee
“Airports are better than train stations,” I tell Keyon, smiling as the doors slide apart with their muted wooosh. My hand disappears in his. He holds it like he means it in front of all these people.
I recognize a few of the women passing by. They lift their brows, eyes flitting between the mayor’s son and the town slut. They don’t turn their noses up at me like they usually do, and I know it’s because of Keyon and the way he’s dwarfing my hand in his.
“Airports rock, actually.” Keyon turns and shoots me one of his impish grins. “All the opportunities that lie ahead, you know?”
I lean on him in the line to checkin. He could say, “Thanks for driving me here—you should go. I’d hate for you to wait around,” but he doesn’t and I’m glad. I want to be next to him for as long as I can.
The man is a wall made of granite. I push on him for fun, and he doesn’t budge at all. I remember his weight from the fight I watched on TV. Keyon is damn heavy, and there isn’t an ounce of fat on him.
He smiles down at me, while I try to ignore the heat between my legs.
“What opportunities do airports offer? To get away from clingy girls?” I suggest. He kisses the top of my head, a waft of warm air.
“That’s the opposite of an opportunity. Hey, I’ve got a bet for you.”
“I don’t do bets.”
“Bullshit. Everyone does bets. I’ll give you the thing I went downstairs for this morning if you get on the plane with me.”
“What?” I say. “That’s not a bet. It’s an exchange of favors.”
“Hmm, I’d say the favor part would be once we got on the plane and occupied the bathroom together. You’d be doing me some good, loud favors in there.”
“Oh shush!” I exclaim, embarrassed. “There are other people in this line.”
By the bob of his head, he agrees with my assessment. “The reason why it’s called ‘a line.’”
“You’re ridiculous.”
“Sir. Ready?” the woman behind the counter says, impatience oozing from her. “Do you have your boarding pass?”
“Yeah, just dropping off.” His arm remains around me as he lifts one big suitcase straight up and plops it on the luggage scale with such ease it makes me think of feathers. Once the luggage tag is strapped on, he grabs the second, a larger one, and sets it down the same way.
“You travel, um, light,” I joke. He doesn’t catch my double entendre.
“Gotta bring my gear, you know. Hold on,” he says to the lady, clicks the lock open on the bigger suitcase, and fishes something out. I’m curious, but whatever-it-is instantly disappears into a deep pocket of his jacket.
We have time for lunch before he leaves, so we settle on a seafood restaurant that serves lobster tapas and flutes—yes, flutes—of cold beer.
I’m starting to feel that he’s leaving. I don’t like it, and suddenly I think that airports suck too. I take a long sip of my beer and send him a shy glance from the side.
“I have another fight in a few weeks,” he says conversationally, eyeing me back over the rim of his glass.
“The big one in Mexico?”
“No, this one’s sort of related to what you saw on TV.”
We have a window booth. When the hostess took us here, Keyon patted the seat next to him, and I complied. A plane rolls forward in slow motion outside, but his focus remains on me. Keyon lifts my hand out of my lap and draws it to his lips. It’s like he’s this gentleman from some ancient time and I’m some lady who deserves it.
“I don’t understand,” I blurt out. We’re talking about fights, I know, but—
How can you treat me like you care? Why do you spend energy on me? You make me feel like a princess. You’re spoiling me.
“We used to be friends, Keyon, sure, but all this with you…” As I trail off, his pupils dilate, the only show of emotion on his studiously blank face. He kisses the back of my hand in one slow peck before he tugs my body closer.
“It’s my turn to tell you a few things, okay?” he says. “You stood up for me in high school, the only person who did, and to be honest, until I found my dojo, I wasn’t content doing anything but hanging with you.
“You were quiet at school. Quiet and pretty. I fell in love with you so early. If I told you how long I held back before I kissed you, you’d laugh.”
I let out a titter even though he doesn’t tell me. It’s the nicest thing I’ve heard in so long.
“Anyway, I got you something. Or I stole you something.”
“What? Stole?”
His eyes shine with mischief. “Yep, from Ma. She doesn’t need it, and it’s perfect for you. You should play with it often.”
I bite my lip. “Aww, that’s so sweet. Keyon Arias stole me a gift.”
He mirrors my move, watching my mouth as he holds out a bundle of Kleenexes. I accept, and his offering is surprisingly heavy in my hand. The Kleenexes slide off without effort on my part, a few fluttering to the floor. Inside, there’s a Faberge-style egg. Shiny enamel in midnight blue is broken into checkered squares by dozens of small crystals along soft ribbons of silver. I gasp at the beauty of it.
“Open,” he says, which sounds like guys in films when they’re about to hand out jewelry. My nails struggle with the tiny lock, but Keyon waits patiently until the egg cleaves in half in my hands. A smaller egg falls out. He saves it last second before it drops to the floor.
The new one is as intricate, as breathtaking, as the first. It’s dressed in pink enamel, and delicate, crystal-studded ribbons dance across the surface in golden trails.
“Open,” Keyon repeats, and I do. I’m prepared this time, so when a smaller egg glides into my hand, I save it from gravity and cushion it in my palm. The smaller egg owns the faded yellow of a midwinter sun, and frost roses dot its axis.
In a parade of beauty, I set each egg on the table. I’m onto this game, and I open and open until there are six. On the seventh, Keyon and I share a smile. It is the size of my pinkie nail, red as a heart and created with the unreserved perfection of its mothers. The minuscule flecks of gold mingle with blue jewels that resemble sapphires.
“Wow, you,” I finally start. “What would your mother say?”
“She’d beat me up.”
I let out a quiet laugh. “You’re going to tell her, right?”
“Haven’t decided yet. It was my grandmother’s, but it’s been in a trunk in all of our attics. But my thieving ways wasn’t what I wanted to talk about.”
“No? What then?”
Keyon lifts the big egg. “This is you. Everyone sees how beautiful you are on the outside. Agreed?”
I roll my eyes, losing interest; Keyon is about to leave, and I won’t be seeing him in God knows how long. Let’s spend our time wisely.
Only he’s taking my eye-roll as agreement. “This egg”—he tips the smaller, pink egg sideways for my attention—“is you too.”
“I am two eggs,” I joke.
“No, seven, and all are equally gorgeous. This is you on the outside.” He points to the midnight blue one he just put down. “And all of these are different facets of how beautiful you are through to your very marrow.”
He’s wrong, unreasonable, unfair. My anger swells. I want to forget his words, because I can’t have a meltdown and stain my last film clip with him.
My eyes swipe over glittering crystal and shiny enamel. Travel over a rainbow of colors lined up like obedient ballerinas on the tabletop. “I’m not the person you remember,” I growl in the end. “You really don’t know me anymore.”
“Pretty sure there’s no mud in here,” he counters, patting my chest—
Can he not listen to me?
“Stop. Keyon, the only thing that makes me feel good is to steal other women’s men and fuck them!”
He sucks in a fast breath. I’m exaggerating—maybe—I don’t know. I’ve done it though, stolen husbands, boyfriends, rocked their existence and tilted the world of their loved ones. God, this hurts!
<
br /> “I wish I were the sum of your beliefs in me. I wish, I wish. You knew me as a little girl, as someone who didn’t know how to deal with her agony. But I’ve learned, and inflicting your own pain evens shit out. It’s what I’ve done for years.”
“No, that’s not it,” he whispers. “I know it isn’t.”
“You live in a fairy tale,” I say, feeling tears prick my eyelids. “Your fairy tale decrees that little girls remain the same even when you leave them to their own device—” I cut myself off too late.
“You think I left you?” His eyes are so dark no whiskey gold surrounds his pupils. “I would never have done that. It was my parents.”
“Gah, yeah.” I press the heel of a hand into my eye to stop the tears from flowing. “I didn’t mean it.” I think. “You were so out of control, and your father got that job. It was good timing.”
Carefully, I build the egg again, starting with the tiny, red heart. Layer by layer, I pad it until it’s bulletproof within its six guardians.
“You’re weaseling the convo back on me.” Keyon’s eyes have rested on me while I reassembled my gift. “I’m not sure how that happened, but it wasn’t the plan. Come here.”
I don’t object. I slide in between his legs. Keyon forms his arms around me, pulls me close, and it’s so natural I should have been here the whole time.
With his mouth against my hair, he sighs, “Paislee. Keep fighting.”
And I wonder if I’d have been the town slut if Keyon had stayed.
KEYON
“Hand over the tortillas,” Zeke demands. Jaden dangles the bag of chips Zeke refers to in front of my face without taking his eyes off the screen. I snatch it and drop it in Zeke’s lap. “And more chicken wings,” he adds.
That snaps Jaden’s attention from the TV. “You’re next, man. Those were the last wings, and when you head out, pick up more breasts. You downed those first.”
“Chicken breast,” I correct. “Chickens don’t have breasts.”
“Did not. I only had two, and Keyon grabbed at least three.” Zeke shapes perfect boobs in front of his chest.
“Shut up, fool,” I say. He leans behind Jaden to punch me in the back.
It’s been a long day at the gym, and a few of us are feet up, watching recordings of my next opponent, Ronaldo “El Machete” Sanchez. Ever since I saw his ugly face at a match in Sacramento, I’ve hated the guy.
He’s a great, dirty fighter with a style I don’t admire, but if I’m to be honest, it’s his beady little eyes that piss me off. I’ve been dying to destroy him since Sacramento, and I’m going to do it in a first-round, epic finish.
“Standing submission,” I dream, and Jaden snorts.
“Sure, Sanchez’s gonna let you do that. Or”—he creaks out—“he’s gonna crush your nose on the second blow. ’Bout time too. You look like a douche with that straight nose.”
After I settled the last fight in Miami with a knockout, I got my first real sponsor. The timing couldn’t have been better either; I stepped down on my instructor responsibilities at Alliance Cage Warriors, and Dawson, the boss himself, began delegating duties to others at the gym so he and I could focus on Mexico.
Dawson is a tremendous grappler and was a kickboxing champion in his home country before moving to America. On top of that, the man is the best damn trainer anyone could ask for.
When I came to Tampa, I came for college. I wanted to be as far away from my father as possible, and I needed a place with a renowned gym with room for fighters in their stable.
Dawson set me up with a trial fight. I fought Jaden and left my soon-to-be best bud with rattling teeth and a broken nose.
Dawson’s comment was, “Son, you’re in. But you won’t take your shit out on the guys from now on. You’ll be saving the lethal strikes for the enemy. Here at the Cage Warriors we’re fiercely loyal, and either you get with the program or you’re out, insane talent or not.”
The insane talent part struck me the most. Until Jaden distracted me with a glare-down and some profuse cursing.
“Sorry, man. You want me to set your nose?” I asked.
Jaden’s brows drew upward, eyes suddenly big and gullible. “Oh right, let’s have the newbie fix me up. No need for the ER now that we have a little nursie with us. Aww ain’t that the sweetest thing, Dawson? You got us a nursie.”
Used to Jaden’s remarks, Dawson ignored him and waved over water. His wife unloaded a few bottles.
“I study medicine,” I said, straight-faced, “and your problem’s a piece of cake. I got you.” I blew my mouth up with air, feigning boredom while I waited for his decision. Once he’d accepted and was done howling with pain as I set his nose, I told him the truth, that I wasn’t a med student.
Turns out Jaden has a thing against being lied to. And getting his bones set by non-professionals. And said non-professionals being too fast for him to lay out afterward, especially when it makes him trip and fall on his face.
“Fuck you, asshole!”
“All right, that’s it. Go cool down, boys. Together. Or you’re both out,” Dawson said, showing us his back and walking away.
So we did. With a butt-load of beer in plain daylight at the smallest pub I’ve ever been to. I had to take Jaden to the ER before the end of the night though, because despite being sloshed out of his mind, he kept whining about his nose. I’m pretty sure it was the face-plant that did him in.
“Fucking beady-eyed son-of-a-bitch,” I mumble now over Sanchez. But then he turns, the referee lifting his arm in victory, and I watch him pop his mouthpiece out and grin. Why the hell did he pop it out?
That grin! It’s half scowl, half smirk, mouth small and lips thin with a crooked angle to the left corner. In our biz, there’s a lot of crazy-looking smiles, courtesy of other fighters’ fists, but his grin is fucking—shit!
I only half listen to my buddies after that. Red dots prickle their way across my vision, the way they used to do when I was younger and the urge to demolish someone made me see red.
I blink against the dots, the rage simmering on my biggest opponent in years. As a pro fighter, you gotta be in control if you want to stay on a winning streak, and no matter how good you are, you can’t allow yourself to float on routine. Basically, if your emotions trap you, it’ll get ugly fast. You stop calculating the danger, and the timing of your techniques trail offbeat.
I gulp down another watered-down iced coffee and try to clear my head. It doesn’t work, so I stand and stretch. Tell the guys I’m heading out. They raise a hand and grunt out a “Tomorrow, man” as I lumber out of the gym and jog the two blocks to the beach.
It’s been weeks since I left Rigita. I’ve been in contact with Paislee sporadically since then. I’ve even called my parents a few times, something I don’t often do thanks to my father. He and I, we keep having fallouts, the last one when I finished my bachelor’s and turned down law school in favor of my goal of becoming the first fighter from Alliance Cage Warriors to be signed to the EFC.
The Sanchez fight is a huge opportunity for me, and I can’t let my reaction to him mess that up. I know this, but the signs are there—I’ve had it happen more than once. I get “hotheaded” as Amy, the round-card girl I hang with sometimes, tells me. She thinks it’s hilarious when I lose my shit and maul my competitor before the fight even starts.
Dawson is quietly outraged each time and does the calculations as to how many wins I’ll need in order to repair the damage I’ve inflicted on my chances with the EFC. Because that’s where he wants me too, preferably within the year. As much as he hates to lose me, he says, it’ll be a leap up for his small fight gym. It’d get on the pro map, which would be a win-win for us. I also keep reminding him that the Cage Warriors will always be my first pick for a camp when I’m training outside of Vegas.
I drag in a lungful of lukewarm air, the salt from the ocean almost tangible. My imagination kicks ass, and right now in my head, I’m lifting my arms in the air, grinning at the audience an
d nodding, ignoring the boos of Sanchez’s fans. Yep, my next victory is palpable.
Then I recall Sanchez’s expression. What he does is more a smirk than a grin, and that crooked smirk is—goddammit. Why the fuck does he get to me like this?
If I can’t cool down, it’s going to be hard to not smash his face in, obliterate every bone and cartilage in his deformed skull. I sink to my haunches at the water’s edge. It’s late, and it’s winter, so I’ve got the place to myself. Good thing too, because I’m not okay right now.
I drop my face into my hands, accepting the way my insides churn. I could head over to Hooters for Amy. The girl knows how to deal with my tension. It might not be too late to hog her break for the night.
Gotta love how a guy’s mind jumps from one insanity to another. Now I’m stuck on something that almost happened half a decade ago. That creep on the train: I wonder if he moved right on once I split. Maybe he completed his fucked-up mission with another kid. I can’t consider that possibility for too long though. I should’ve mentioned it to someone back then. Should’ve made an effort to get the fucker off the streets.
Paislee Marie Cain, she’d been twelve years old when it happened to her, as in all-the-way happened, and I never even knew. In moments like this, the respect I have for her, for every rape victim out there, flashes traffic-light bright in my head. I mean, how do they survive? Those people must have the mental strength of ten pro fighters each, because here I am hurting like a motherfucker over something that didn’t even occur.
At this stage in my career, I need fewer distractions than ever, so I’ve kept a polite distance between Paislee and me. Partly it’s because of the way she handles her trauma from the past. The girl isn’t exactly chaste. Ironic coming from me perhaps, but I’m a self-centered prick. To get to the top, it’s a must to be self-centered.
I cup water from an almost-wave and let it rinse over my hand. It’s cold, but nothing like the ocean in Rigita.
I’ve had a girlfriend or two. My issue is I become overprotective fast. I can’t have them walk to their car after dark, and I’m not happy about them jogging on remote strips of land no matter the time of the day. The girls hate my need for what one of them called “surveillance” as much as I do.
