Dodging Trains

by Sunniva Dee

  I hope I star in his dream.

  I steal out from the sheets, not wanting to wake him. I find my dress and pull it over my head. There’s no time to locate underwear and shoes, but I pat my hair down, wanting it smoother than it must be after a night with Keyon.

  I open with the security chain still attached. “Yes?”

  Jaden’s outside. “You know what time it is?” he asks in lieu of a greeting.

  “No…”

  “It’s a quarter ’til showtime, and the child I’m babysitting needs to get out of that bed”—he tries to peer past me—“or I’ll be fighting for him.”

  “He’s in the shower,” I lie. “Really? It’s late afternoon?”

  Jaden rolls Mediterranean-blue eyes at me. “No. You think we’d let him oversleep? It’s his big day.” He clicks his tongue. “And I can’t wait to get rid of the guy. He better win so I can take over his dressing room privileges at the gym.”

  “Dressing room?” I’m so lost.

  “I’m kidding! You’re hot but not the brightest bulb. Anyway, get his ass out of bed, the shower, whatever, and meet us at the restaurant in fifteen. He’s had enough honeymoon-time. It’s back to work.”

  Keyon grunts unhappily when I wake him up. It makes me grin, because I see in him the boy with the blue raspberry lollipops. In the shower, we kiss. I soap up every stone-hard ridge, feeling suds and hair mingle along the way. I end up on my knees, lathering up his calves and ankles too, and when I stand, his member is fully awake and raised at me.

  Eyes hooded, he breathes, “And now we can’t do anything about this. I’ll be hurting all morning.” He points at himself.

  “Maybe I can help you with that after breakfast?”

  He leans in and sucks on my lips, warm water mingling with the taste of toothpaste and skin. “Or maybe I’ll keep my frustration with me through to the fight.”

  “So devious,” I say.

  Keyon chuckles. “Will you be my conspirator to this devious plan?”

  “Yes.” I draw away to give him a serious face. “I solemnly swear to do nothing about… that. Until after the fight. Then I’ll do a lot.”

  He salutes me with a cheerful twitch of his boner.

  Three men stand from their seats when we arrive. Markeston swats a waiter over, ordering coffee and milk and grapefruit juice to the table even before we’re seated.

  I feel Dawson’s gaze on me first. I know what he’s asking, but I don’t respond. It’s not my place to tell him how Keyon is doing. He can tell them himself.

  “Hey, guys!” Keyon says, chipper. My focus shifts to twinkling eyes I adore and a broad smile.

  “Good morning,” Dawson replies first. “Did you sleep well?”

  I look at my watch. Keyon got to his room around eight last night, and now it’s ten thirty. Really? We’ve been in bed for over twelve hours?

  “Like a log. Courtesy of this crazy girl,” he murmurs and lays a hand on my thigh. It makes my cheeks grow warm, so I dip my face into his shoulder.

  “Did you like what we sent up for you?” Markeston asks.

  “It was delicious. I think I ate most of it.”

  “He did,” I nod against Keyon. An arm goes around me and ropes me in. The three in front of us chuckle, and Jaden clears his throat. It’s exaggerated, which is why I start wondering.

  I frown up at Keyon, who bites his lip, gaze glittering: “What, babe?”

  “Nothing. Just, you ate a lot of steak and potatoes and chicken and stuff. Seafood,” I mumble. That does it. Everyone except Dawson bursts out laughing.

  Yeah. Suddenly I feel like part of that meal. Despite my decade-long history of being completely shameless, my face is on fire. I open my mouth for something to deflect their attention with—I’m drawing total blanks—but Keyon cuts in, rocking me close. “Shhh. You’re amazing. So amazing.”

  “Dawson, you know that no-girlfriend rule of yours? Brilliant, huh? Guess things will change from now on,” Jaden says.

  “Don’t get any ideas,” Dawson instantly replies, stare locking on the other fighter. “Keyon’s a special case. You, for instance, even if you settled with a girl, would probably not be in his category.”

  “The needy category,” Jaden misunderstands on purpose. I’m happy about the subject change. Nervous about the mention of girlfriends. Still, I enjoy the company, these men, their good-natured ribbing, the lack of judgment. And nobody, besides the most important one, knows who I used to be.

  The rest of our breakfast makes a stark difference to our breakfast in Mexico City. Instead of avoiding me at all costs, my love leans back in his seat and hooks an arm around my backrest.

  A finger touches the side of my arm whenever I move, whether to add more cream for the coffee, stir, or wave the waiter down for another biscuit. And during the entire meal, I am closer to nirvana than I have ever been.

  “Babe.” Keyon’s eyes are wide and sincere looking down on me. “I need to start prepping. I need to win this fight.”

  I stroke his cheek, wondering what it will look like in three hours. “Shoo! Do your thing. I’ll be waiting.” I won’t let the thought of him getting hurt sink in, because I’m not one to jinx outcomes. I straighten my back and stare into his eyes.

  “You’re going to destroy ‘The Hammer.’”

  “I will. And you can call him Jackson.”

  “Oh yeah, because he’ll have no time to use his hammer on my—” I cough, interrupting myself.

  “Your what?” Dilated pupils meet mine from a face that’s turning stony, and it’s not, not a good sign. These ups and downs: I think I understand, but my heart skips at his change.

  I need to reel myself in, not let my happiness ruin our fragile nearness.

  I never was a bitter person. I honestly don’t think I possess the resentful gene. I see others’ points of view easier than my own, and Keyon has such battles to brave. I’m strong. Life has taught me to shut valves off, valves that if left open, could flush me to the gutter with anyone’s bathwater.

  I can close them again.

  I can lose again.

  I try not to think of glazed eggs or the moment when, layer after exquisite layer, Keyon peeled me bare as one, believing in a me that was good. My midnight-blue weight of hope is in my purse, a reminder that doesn’t inhibit realism; my fairy tale was brittle from the start, and it’s prepared to shatter at any time.

  There’s no lying to myself about being in love with my friend from times of chaos and uncertainty, the one who’s pulled me from dirty survival if even for a blessed minute.

  So much one can think at once. Now I lose to my mind. It runs amok imagining Keyon with another girl. I’ve been the other woman, the slayer of relationships. It would be justice if it happened to me. But if she made him happy, I’d need to understand.

  I didn’t come to Las Vegas to claim Keyon as my boyfriend. That’s not why I slipped and called him mine. It was the feeling I had last night. It was his quiet contentment at my side during breakfast.

  My lips still prickle with the mimosa he ordered for me because I’d never tried one. I finish my sentence lightly and with care, saying, “Jackson won’t have time to use his hammer on my friend.”

  But if I’m to suppress what I feel in speak, at least I will show him in action. I search for his lips and find them, easing in between them with my tongue.

  He gasps my name out once I let up, hands tight around my waist and lips so close I want another taste. “To be continued?”

  “Yeah,” I whisper.

  He leans his forehead against mine. Then he puffs up his cheeks in the sexiest display of frustrated and turns to walk away. I stay behind. Emit a shuddering breath before I grab my laptop and settle in at the bar.

  I’ll write to my brother about Keyon. I’ll tell him about the fight. The message will be more than a sentence long. Again I’ll cross my fingers that I won’t be unfriended.

  I’m happy without a reason, and I’m owning it. I order ano
ther drink, a piña colada, just because I want one. And whatever tomorrow brings might not be what I want.

  KEYON

  Sleep is underrated. So is amazing sex, amazing women, and amazing dinners and breakfasts and everything in between. Jaden’s got his arms crossed in front of me on the treadmill, eyes narrowed and studying me.

  I’m taking it easy, breezing through my little run. Maybe I’m high on having had enough Zzzs—who knows—but I’m stepping down on the intensity, the way the medics and Dawson have been prescribing for a while now, getting ready for my fight at an even pace.

  “Fucking chick.” Jaden might be grinning at me, but his eyes scowl.

  “Yeah? Nothing fucked about her,” I lie, because he doesn’t know how fucked up she is, how fucked up I am, how not fucked we’ll be together once I figure shit out.

  “Seriously, dude, you in love or something?”

  “Maybe,” I say. Then I sniff, minimizing the enormity of my admission, and stare at the flat-screen in front of me. Courtesy of the hotel gym, a Marlon “The Hammer” Jackson medley runs nonstop for me.

  “Dayyyyyuuuummm.” If Jaden could extend the word longer without being out of breath, he would. “Keyon Arias, on the verge of committing to the Ball and Chain. Who knew?”

  “I’d chain her up if she let me,” I say.

  “Don’t blame you. She’s sexy as hell,” he replies, and I get off the treadmill and thrust him against the wall so hard a mirror behind him cracks.

  “What did you say?”

  “Her sister,” he snickers out. “Is so hot, I mean, wow.”

  “Asshole.” I drop him and stalk to the ring. “Ready to spar?”

  “Do I have a death wish?” he counters. “Sure. Let’s do it.”

  PAISLEE

  Spotlights swipe the venue with blues, greens, and reds, and dance music thumps through giant speakers. Poles apart from the violence-thick gloom I’d experienced in Mexico, the atmosphere here is thrilled and jacked up.

  I look around and find Markeston approaching with two drinks. I’m already at three for the day, but I’m up for another; heck, this is my first time in Vegas, and I’m probably about to get my mind blown.

  “You okay?” he asks, the crinkling at the corner of his eyes reminding me of my mom. I do want them to meet at some point.

  “Yeah, just a bit overwhelmed. Is that for me?”

  “Yes, ma’am. A champagne cobbler for ya.”

  “A what?” That’s a tough one to imagine.

  “Specialty of the house: champagne—I had them exchange the cheap Spanish one for Cliquot—mixed with homemade peach cobbler.” Excitement plumps his cheeks until the wrinkles at his eyes plow into furrows. “Have a sip. Then thank me.”

  I do and spell out “Wow” in individual letters. I suck up another goopy mouthful and manage, “That’s just crazy.”

  He bobs his head, eyes gleaming. Then he fans a hostess over to us. “Miss?”

  I can’t see the bills he crumbles into her fist, but her eyes become alien-large when she opens it and shoves the cash into the pocket of her apron.

  “Can you make refills arrive promptly whenever one of us is out of these babies?” Markeston levels his gaze on her, and I don’t think I’ve ever seen a faster nod. She’s like a fast-forwarded anime.

  After my tentative sips, my beverage is still brimming over, so I steady it with two fingers at the top. As tasty as this thing is, champagne cobblers can’t distort my night; I don’t want to be drunk while Keyon faces the most important fight of his career. I’ll be there, pouring good vibes at him full force, and if he wants to celebrate afterward, I’ll be ready.

  They do the Stare-Down. Markeston and I have front-row seats below the cage, which provides a prime view of Keyon. It would give him a prime view of me too if it crossed his mind. I’m so anxious, it’s hard to keep an unruffled façade.

  The fighters knock fists and take a step apart to get ready. At the referee’s signal, Keyon rushes in so fast our entire row gasps as he twists Jackson’s arm onto his back and slams him face down to the floor. A grunt erupts from Jackson. He squirms, feet kicking, while one of his hands grapple for Keyon’s leg.

  Keyon allows him to seize it, maybe because he can’t be rocked anyway? Then his gaze glides to me, eyes dark and dangerous, and a grim smile forms on his mouth.

  I think of the past he reinvented last night. The hold he’s got on Jackson is oddly similar to what he described for the train creep.

  Watch, he mouths, and I do.

  Keyon’s fist barges into his opponent’s face. The man writhes, trying to block by twisting toward the floor, but Keyon launches into an unstoppable barrage of punches.

  The referee runs over, drops to his knees. I can’t hear what he says, but he stares intently at Jackson for an answer while Keyon hammers his fist into the side of his head.

  “Holy cannoli!” Markeston yells. “The ref’s checking on him already, and we’re not even a minute into the fight!”

  I stand, champagne trickling along my fingers when all action freezes. Then, the audience reacts. They howl, laugh, high-five each other. Markeston brings me into a bear hug, guffawing, saying, “Our boy, he did it! Jesus, that was fast. He just went in there and owned him!”

  When I focus again, Keyon is there, chest heaving and gaze thick with adrenaline and testosterone. His eyes are fixed on me, the guard in his mouth popping his lips out enough to distort his growing smile.

  The ref raises Keyon’s arm up high. Loudspeakers echo out his win by submission. He doesn’t take his eyes off me. My stomach flip-flops, and I need him with me so hard.

  But then someone else walks into the ring, someone in a grey suit and a white shirt, a man with a tie, an air of arrogance and entitlement, one used to being obeyed. He smiles, irises glimmering with excitement, and then he offers Keyon his hand.

  Markeston jumps from his seat and takes the few steps up quicker than I thought possible for such a full-figured man. Dawson has already joined them and is listening intently to the guy in the suit.

  There are shakes of hands. Keyon’s eyes arching like when I snagged his last blue raspberry lollipop at fourteen. Incredulity, loads of it, but of the happy kind, I think.

  I’ve drained my champagne cobbler. Markeston’s hostess approaches me timidly, a smile on her mouth as she holds out a new drink. I don’t want one, but she’s so sweet I can’t reject it.

  Eyes trained on my love, I pinch the stem of the glass between my fingers. I’m so full of what he accomplished up there, the determination as he crushed his opponent. I sink to my chair, set the drink down next to me, because my hands tremble over the way he did it.

  Fans stop him as he leaves the ring. They want Keyon in their selfies, but he shakes hands, saying, “Later,” and then he’s with me, arms slung around my body and lifting me high.

  I squeal like I’m used to hope. With victory painting brightness in his eyes, he holds me like I mean so much. I can’t believe this feeling.

  “I did it, baby.” Gently, he clutches the back of my head and lowers me toward him. “Did you see how I did it?”

  “Yes, like in your dream. Like how you changed it.” I stammer out the words, because he’s already kissing me. “You won. Bam.”

  There’s a rumble against my mouth, maybe a laugh. “I didn’t stomp him into the ground and make him a bloodied mess. I had no toilet to swirl him in.”

  We draw apart enough to smile at each other. “Good thing too,” I say. “The man in the suit might not have given you good news if you had.”

  Keyon squeezes me so hard I tap his shoulder as if I’m in a fight. His reaction is instinctive. He loosens his hold and stares deep into my eyes. “I’ll be signing with the EFC.”

  “Now?”

  “Now. Their plan was to check me out in a couple of fights first, but the president, that guy over there”—he jerks his head toward The Suit—“said he can’t see himself changing his mind. We’re moving to La
s Vegas, baby.”

  He’s buoyant. Exuberant. Of course I’m not included in the “we.” It’s not what it sounds like.

  “Unless you want to remain friends?”

  My butterflies are the size of birds and slam-dance inside the cavity of my chest. “What do you mean? Of course I want us to remain friends,” I reply. Around us, the audience shifts, a slow stream of people on their way to the exit. Some detour to get close to Keyon, but he’s not paying attention.

  His face, dear and unmarred by the fight I just witnessed, hold eyes that are soft. “And you are, baby. But how about—” He bites his lip, reconsidering. “Listen: I’m sorry for everything I’ve put you through. I’ve been a total jerk, and there is no excuse for my behavior.”

  I open my mouth to speak against that. Keyon has all the excuses: the train creep; his brain holding off on the truth and then deciding to dunk him in it. I, of all people, understand. “No, Keyon—”

  He puts a finger to my mouth, puckering his own in a silent Shhh. “Please hear me out. Please forgive me. I’d like for us to start over again. You get my crazy shit. I want you—I don’t even enjoy the company of other girls anymore, and believe me, I’ve tried. Remember a few months ago when I said I was falling in love with you? Well, I’m done with the falling part. Now I just straight up love you. I’ve been a fucking idiot, okay?”

  “Guys! Ready to celebrate?” Jaden shouts from too close, startling me.

  “Dude!” Keyon barks back, eyes never leaving mine. “Can’t you see we’re busy?”

  “Whoa,” Jaden mutters. “So jumpy. Suit yourselves. We’ll be at The Fighter. The pub,” he specifies as if that’s necessary. Keyon doesn’t respond. Instead his irises calm into the pleading gold they wore before Jaden’s interruption.

  “Wow, I’m…” I begin.

  “No.” He shakes his head slowly. “That’s not even true. I’m not done falling in love with you. I love you like crazy, but I keep falling and falling and falling.”