Beautifully Dangerous

by Chelsea Kendall

  I have to stop reading. Why couldn’t I have trusted Archer? Why did I trust Archer’s enemies and not him? I just don’t understand my behavior those last few days on the tour. I’d like to chalk it up to lack of sleep, poor nutrition, love...anything but what it really was, which is just a basic lack of trust for Archer. They say that love conquers all, but apparently it doesn’t conquer a lack of trust. I drop my head into my hands again, overwhelmed by the knowledge that I had finally found love, and threw it away. Whatever happened to second chances? What about innocent until proven guilty? I took the man I loved and hung him without due process. I had pronounced him guilty without trial. I barely made it to the bathroom before my breakfast came back up.

  When I finish praying to the porcelain gods, I sit back down at my computer and decide my next move. I don’t have the heart to read the rest of the story. I’m a little surprised the police haven’t come to get my footage to use as evidence of the fight fixing. I suppose they could already have enough. I used to leave my laptop unprotected in my hotel room, and anyone could have figured out my password: EVanderbilt. Someone probably downloaded stuff to a flash drive and turned it over to the police by now. Hope I didn’t say anything terribly embarrassing on film. It’s a little late to worry about that though, isn’t it?

  After sitting there for a long time, wallowing in self-pity, a spark of an idea comes to me out of the thick fog of grief that is threatening to engulf me. I have to talk to Archer. I have to tell him my side of the story. Actually, my side of the story is not going to help matters. It occurs to me that telling him that I believed his enemy outright without giving him a chance to explain himself is probably going to just piss him off even more. He’s probably already figured it out, and my showing up is probably going to get me an ass kicking, but what can you do? I sit here in my black thoughts for a little while longer before I finally get up. I’ll just shower and head on over to his training facility and beg him to listen to me.

  I’m in the shower washing my guilt away when another thought occurs to me. It’s the middle of January, in the middle of Archer’s yearly tropical getaway. He’s not even going to show up until sometime in February. That means I’m going to have to sit on these feelings for a whole month before I have a chance at closure, much less reconciliation.

  It’s the end of January, almost midnight, and I’ve just run across another headline regarding the upcoming cage fighting tour. First of all, it goes on to list the fighters, doctors, and support staff banned from this year’s tour. It does my black heart some good to see Koenig listed among the banned fighters. In fact, there are 17 fighters, 11 doctors, and 21 support staff that are not returning to the tour this year. My guess is that some of them will never be allowed back.

  The story goes on to recap last year’s fight fixing and the new method that’s being taken to prevent it. While most measures are being kept secret, they are telling a little. Chief among the measures they are talking about is the one about releasing a fighter’s schedule and who he will fight. During the first two thirds of the season, fighters get to see their schedule but not who they will be fighting. They will be given twenty four-hour notice of who their opponent is to be so they can prepare. Twenty four hours. You can’t study a man’s techniques and methods and learn how to fight him in a twenty four-hour time frame, but that’s all they will be given. During the last third, when fights begin to count, and eventually become elimination fights, the fighters will have even less notice. Finally, there is the roster of fighters along with their records and their fighting disciplines. In the number one position is Adrian Ramirez. Number two is Archer, who holds the prestigious red belt in Sho Shu, a particularly vicious Chinese Kung Fu system.

  I shut down my computer. Time to get some shut eye.

  “Eva...Eva...”

  I roll over and stretch. I look at the clock beside my bed. It’s almost five. I could have sworn someone was calling me. I yawn and drift back off to sleep.

  “Eva...Eva wake up!”

  I’m wide awake. I definitely did not imagine that. I open my eyes and get the shock of my life. Archer is standing there, calling my name. How’d he get in? Never mind, I don’t really care. I scoot over as he makes to sit down on the edge of my bed. My mind is filled with a million things I want to say to him, but instead of producing language, all I can produce are tears, a whole flood of them. I can see his blue eyes glowing faintly in the moonlight. His face is as beautiful as it has ever been. He reaches out and touches my face. I feel like I am melting under his touch. It’s been so long. I have wanted to feel him again forever, and now he’s here beside me and I can’t seem to respond.

  “Archer,” I finally manage to croak, “I’m so sorry...”

  He looks down at me with so much compassion. I know he isn’t mad about what I did. Maybe he was angry about me leaving, but all I can see now, and all I can feel is the love he has for me radiating out of his eyes. I could stare at him like this forever.

  He withdraws his hand from my cheek and puts his finger to his lips like he’s kissing away my tears, but it only makes me cry harder. How could I have left this man? Here is a perfect human being who loves me, and I leave him on the strength of his enemy’s accusations.

  He touches my face again, and my skin is warm and tingling where his palm rests on my cheek. I place my hand on top of his, luxuriating in the feel of his powerful hands. I have seen what those hands can do to another human being, and I have also felt what those hands can do in the heat of passion. And that is what I remember most about him, his loving hands all over my body while he covers me with kisses.

  “Lie down, Bobby,” I say, patting the pillow next to mine. He looks at me, and I can see there is still some sorrow there reflected back to me. It takes my breath away. “Archer, I am so sorry.” It’s all I can manage to say to him. The rest of the words are stuck in my throat and won’t come out no matter how hard I try. He just looks at me and smiles this sorrowful smile, then he begins to stand. “No, Archer, please…”

  He looks down at me and suddenly his face starts to grow slack and his chin droops and suddenly his face begins to melt like some giant candle. “Archer!” I sit up and struggle to get out of bed but my covers trap my legs like a giant pair of hands and I can’t seem to get free as Archer continues to melt like Frosty the Snowman until there is nothing left but a faint masculine scent in the air.

  My eyes snap open. It’s light in the room. I sit up, throwing off my covers. I slip out of bed, searching for some sign that Archer was really here last night. I walk over to the front door and find it’s still locked. More importantly, the chain is still in place securing the door. So how did he get in? The balcony. I run to the sliding glass door and there it is, standing open, wide enough for someone Archer’s size to slip through. But it’s on the third floor. How could he have come in through my balcony? I walk out and look down, half expecting to see a rope ladder, or even just a rope. Then I remember the last part of what had to be a dream. He had stood up and melted like a candle. It must have been a dream. I hope this is not a sign of things to come. I do not want my subconscious making me dream about him every night.

  I sit down at my kitchen table, put my head in my hands, and begin to cry. This is not the way my life was supposed to go. Not this way, not without Archer...

  Chapter 16

  The End is the Beginning

  There’s a huge crowd tonight. Probably the biggest crowd I have ever seen for a tour fight. It’s probably because of all the headlines at the end of last year’s tour. There’s no such thing as bad publicity when it comes to show business, and it’s apparently true for the sport of cage fighting as well.

  As I wade through the crowd, I let my camera dangle at my side. I’m not even sure why I brought it, I don’t plan on using it. I guess old habits die hard. It’s the opening night for the tour. Only the highest ranking fighters from last year get to fight on opening night, so I’ll probably see the Ramirez brothers, Bulle
t Man, and, of course, The Archer. I didn’t bother to get a fight schedule, so I have no idea who Archer will be fighting. If I had to guess, it’ll be a rematch of last year’s championship bout between either Archer and Adrian or Archer and Ricardo Ramirez.

  The usual contingent of female worshipers is here waiting to see their man, who used to be my man, Archer. There’s even a whole group of young women who are all sporting the same tattoo. They each have his name tattooed along their left arms from the shoulder to the elbow. I really hope they didn’t get permanent tattoos. They’re going to feel real silly when Archer’s age finally catches up with him. It’s a young man’s game, and eventually youth will triumph over experience. Given a couple more years, and that bout between The Kid and Archer would have gone a lot differently. But for now, its Archer’s stage and he rules supreme.

  A roar from the crowd interrupts my thoughts. The announcer has just introduced the first fighter, Bullet Man. The crowd really seems to like him. They barely applaud at all for his opponent who goes by the name of The Shark. I watch the fighters take to the ring and engage in a little stare down while the referee goes over the rules. Then the men touch gloves in the traditional martial arts fashion, and the fight is on. I don’t really pay too much attention to the fighting. I saw so many fights last year that nothing surprises me. Something really exceptional would have to happen, and these guys, though they’re great fighters, are not likely to pull a crowd stunner out of the hat. I focus on the crowd while I occupy my thoughts with Andy.

  We spent hours standing in the crowd together, he with his clipboard full of notes on everything under the sun, and me with my camera. I was there to destroy his brother and everything he stood for, and he was here to make sure Archer had every advantage possible. Andy was Archer’s secret weapon. As I stand here, I’m suddenly reminded of a conversation long ago.

  It was Sunday night, and I was taping the fight right before Archer’s.

  “Still looking for your version of the truth?” he asks without looking at me.

  “The truth is the truth, it’s not about anyone’s version. It just is.”

  “So it’s all about philosophy with you tonight, is it?”

  I shrug. “It’s just about the truth. That’s what I’m looking for.”

  “And how’s that working for you?”

  “The jury’s still out.”

  “You really hate this sport, don’t you?”

  “Hate’s a strong word. Let’s just say I have a strong dislike for human cock fights.”

  “There it is again,” he replies, “Everybody who doesn’t understand the sport relegates it to the status of a cock fight. If everything people didn’t understand was outlawed, we’d still be riding horses, using torches, and two cups and a piece of string would still be our version of the telephone. Why can’t you journalists just report the truth and remove your own personal bias from it? Then maybe even you would see the truth before it bit you on the nose.”

  “Touchy!”

  “For once, I’d like to see one of your boxers try and take on one of our fighters here tonight. Sadly, I don’t think the American public is ready for that truth.”

  “Yeah, people love boxing and they pretty much hate this. Well. Except for the few that follow the sport. If it wasn’t for women and fighter’s entourages, there’d be no one here to watch tonight.”

  “You just keep filming. Pretty soon, you’ll uncover the truth. Even you will recognize it.”

  The roar from the crowd draws my attention back to the present day. Bullet Man has just knocked his opponent on his ass and is going for the kill. Despite the excitement of the fight, I still find myself drawn to the crowd rather than the ring. One guy in particular stands out from the rest of the crowd. Most of the guys at the fight are wearing Tap Out and other gear espousing the fighting lifestyle. Very few are wearing normal clothes, except for this guy. He’s got on a pair of jeans, a black tee and a Red Sox baseball cap. Not the typical fight night gear. What’s even more telling is what he’s holding in his hands. He’s got a clipboard with what must be about forty sheets of paper clipped to it. And finally, rather than being focused on the fight, he’s watching the crowd. There are a lot of hot chicks here tonight, but he doesn’t seem to be interested in them. Something else is going through his head, and I think I know what it is. I decide to approach him casually and possibly strike up a conversation.

  When I reach his side I decide to let him start the conversation. He waits a full two minutes before finally breaking the ice.

  “You sure are taking a lot of footage of the floor,” he begins, as he points to my camera which is pointing at the floor. “Isn’t there anything more interesting going on around here, Miss?”

  “Aren’t you supposed to be watching the fight?” I ask.

  “There’s far more interesting things going on around here than what’s taking place in the ring.”

  “I couldn’t agree with you more. So which fighter are you working for?” I ask bluntly.

  “What makes you think I’m working for anyone?” He asks.

  I continue on. “Can’t be one of the lower ranking fighters. They have yet to understand how important your job is to them. It also can’t be the Ramirez brothers, they trust no one so there’s no chance they’d trust someone like you to bring them accurate intelligence.”

  He continues to watch me with growing interest, but holds his tongue.

  “Bullet Man would be a good guess, but I’m going to go with my ex-employer, Archer.”

  “Your ex-employer? I don’t believe it.”

  I watch him for a minute wondering what I can say to convince him. Then again, maybe I don’t care if he believes me or not. I’m here to see Archer, not him.

  He looks at me a moment longer then says, “Show me your power.” At first I don’t understand what he means, then it hits me. I think for a moment, then I show him.

  “Bullet Man: most people think he gets him name from some sort of ability he has, like speed or striking power, but it really comes from the fact that he’s got a bullet still lodged in his head. If tour officials knew about that, they’d ban him from fighting for fear it might become dislodged and bury itself in his brain. And Shark up there, he and his father back in Russia used to make high interest loans to desperate people, and when they didn’t pay up, his father sent him to enforce his will. His father was a loan shark and he was the muscle behind it right up until he walked into a gym in Moscow and saw men destroying each other where it was legal. He became the youngest champion in his country at the age of seventeen. Soon as he turned twenty-one, he showed up at the tour at the very bottom. Three years later and he’s in the top twenty. He has limited vision in his left eye from a beer bottle in a tavern brawl, so he’s constantly moving his head a little to the left to compensate. Most think it’s a tic or something but that’s not it at all.

  “Pistol Pete, not the basketball one, he got his name because he was a shot caller for the 149th Street Crips. Nobody could ever pin anything on him, so when he learned he could beat the crap out of people in cage fighting, and get paid doing it, he walked into Jimmy Shakes gym in Compton and began training. He was sixteen then and he joined the tour at nineteen on the bottom. He’s also in the top 20. He was diagnosed with Fibromyalgia in his teens, so any pain he has is magnified a hundred times. That’s why he has no endurance in the ring. He either wins it in the first three rounds or he goes down from the pain. If the other fighters found out about that, they’d figure out how to fight him and he’d never win another fight. Do I need to tell you about Bobby?”

  “Enough. So you know the tour. Are you looking for a job? I can tell you right now that Archer is very happy with my performance.”

  I laugh. “No, that’s not why I’m here.”

  “So, what brings you back to the tour then?”

  “Just trying to put the pieces of my life back together I guess.”

  “What’d you bring the camera for?”


  “Old habits.”

  “I thought you said you were an analyst like me?”

  “I was a videographer, but after Andy was murdered...” I have to stop. It’s too painful to think about.

  “Whoa...wait one second. You knew Andy, and you took over as an analyst for Archer...Holy shit! You’re the one from the papers. You’re Jane! Oh my God! You’re the one that blew up the tour. I mean, the papers said it was all because of that undercover guy, The Kid, and The Archer, but it was your discoveries and your videos that put the pressure on and you made it possible for The Kid and The Archer to expose the whole scheme so the FBI could come swooping in and arrest everybody. Holy crap, Jane. You’re a legend. Ask any analyst on the tour, everybody knows your story. Wait. Are you here to blow the tour up again? Is it steroids and EPO, and other performance enhancing shit? That’s why you’re here isn’t it?”

  “Actually, I’m here—”

  “Come on, you can tell me. I swear to god, I won’t say a thing. Maybe I can even help you. I know a lot of shit around here you know.”

  “Yes, I’m sure you do, but I’m just here on my own. I’m not trying to blow the tour up again. I’m trying to decide if I want to talk to Archer or not.”

  “What? You’re from California, right?”

  “Yes...”

  “And you realize we’re in Boston, right?”

  I nod my head.