by Aly Martinez
He puts me down only long enough to snatch a phone from his pocket. "Fourteen Ulrich Ave. I need a pickup. Medical. And a whole team of cleanup. I just killed Darren Wilkes and his top three." He abruptly ends the call and cradles me back into his strong arms. "I’ve got you. Shhh," he whispers into my hair.
We stand for a few minutes in the doorway. He alternates between looking outside and soothing me. Finally, he yanks open the door and carries me out just as a black SUV pulls into the driveway. I prepare myself for more chaos, more pain, and more fear. My heart races even as he whispers, "Those are the good guys."
Three men and a woman jump from the barely parked truck and race towards us.
"What the fuck did you do?" the first man who arrives barks at Marcus.
"Take her. She needs medical. I have a gunshot wound to the thigh. I think it was clean through, but I’m not positive." He shifts to pass me off, but I scramble to stay in his arms. I have no idea what the hell is happening, but there is only one man I trust right now, no matter how screwed up that may be.
The man pulls me away from Marcus, but I try to hold on like a baby clinging to its mother. My legs are on fire and every inch of my body is sore, but I fight to resume my place in his arms.
"Marcus!" I scream, reaching toward him.
Despite his own injury—I can obviously see that he’s bleeding through his pants—he returns to my side. "Hey, you’re in good hands. This is Agent Greene from the DEA. You’re safe, Erica."
I know his words should soothe me, but they only make me frantic. I’m not safe. I’ll never be safe again, but Marcus made me feel that way, even if for just a minute. I need that right now more than I need the air in my lungs. I need him to give that to me.
He turns to walk away and I lose it, frantically swinging my arms and legs, shaking free of the blanket and the hold the supposed officer has on me. I forget about the pain in my legs and the fear I felt because of this man only hours ago. I rush ahead, slamming into his back as he makes his retreat.
"Please don’t leave me. I don’t understand what’s going on right now. I need you. Please don’t leave me like this. I…" I begin to sob, begging him to stay with me.
He spins around, wrapping me in his arms and pulling me into his chest. "Fuck. Okay. I’ve got you."
"Please don’t leave me," I repeat as my body shakes violently.
"Hey. It’s okay. I won’t let you go until you're ready." He smooths down my hair as I suck in a relieved breath. "But no more Marcus, okay? My name’s Leo James. Just Leo from now on."
I nod against his chest as a blanket is wrapped back around me from behind.
"Clean up is on the way. We need to get you two out of here," a woman says from somewhere nearby, but all I can see is Leo.
"Come. Let’s get you to the hospital." He once again lifts me off my useless legs and climbs into the back of the SUV, cradling me securely on his lap.
Three years later...
"Kill him!" I hear Jimmy yell from outside the ring while pounding on the mat. It's about the only noise I can hear. With over eighteen-thousand people crowding the arena, the cheers are almost deafening.
My opponent throws a combination of punches, catching me off guard with his sudden burst of energy. Just as his last strike hits me, he drops his hand—only for a second. But that is more than enough time for me to land an uppercut to his jaw, snapping his head back in a way that I know will end the fight. He stumbles back before landing against the ropes and falling to his ass.
The ref counts him to seven before waving his hands and calling the fight. The crowd goes wild and my corner rushes in to celebrate. This is nothing new, but I'm proud nonetheless. I haven't lost a fight in over two years. Averaging over fifty million a match and one fight every six months, I've done well for myself. More than enough for me to leave this life and never look back. But for some reason, I always return.
I'm thirty-five years old and my fighting days are nearing an end. Hell, I've made it longer than most. But one of these days, a young, rising star will be quicker than I am and put me on my ass. I better enjoy this while I still can.
"Ladies and gentlemen, your winner and still heavyweight champion of the world... Slate The Silent Storm Andrews."
My glove is lifted into the air while the belt is draped over my shoulder. I stand for a moment, nodding to the crowd with gratitude like the trained professional I am. Thankfully, Jimmy quickly pulls me from the ring. I do what has been ingrained in me over the years and tap hands and pose for pictures with fans as I make my way to the back. People slap me on the shoulder, and it takes more effort not to move away from their touch than the entire eight rounds I just went. I hate this part of my job. Always have. Always will.
"Good fight, man!" Chris, my trainer, says, rubbing my neck. He's allowed to touch me. Hell, I even pay him thousands of dollars to do it.
"Thanks." I push my hands toward Jimmy so he can remove my gloves. "Hey, did you get me a plane for tonight?" I ask my manager, Mitch, who is standing in the corner with an insincere smile plastered on his face.
"You sure I can't persuade you to stay? The fans would—"
"Did. You. Get. A. Plane?" I repeat very slowly in case he suddenly doesn’t speak English.
"You going to finally tell me where in Ohio you disappear to after fights?" He quirks a questioning eyebrow that I swear I heard pop. "A month is a long fucking time to go off radar, Slate. You should be doing talk shows and endorsement deals after your win tonight. You could make all of us a lot of money if you acted like the superior athlete you truly are."
I bark out a laugh. "I think I make us all enough money without whoring myself out."
This is the exact same song and dance Mitch and I go through after every fight. Even before I was making millions, I still did my own thing after fights. I work my ass off for months in preparation. I don't think it's too much to ask for a little time to unwind afterwards.
I lie facedown on the table for Chris to rub down my back. "Go. Party your ass off, but I'm out of here."
"Slate, you are the heavyweight champion of the world. Act like it. Go out and mingle with the people. Maybe find a woman and break your vow of celibacy."
"I'm not celibate, you ass. Since when are you worried about my cock? Last I checked, it doesn't make you a damn penny."
"Not yet. But if you give me enough time, I'm sure I could get you a Magnum condom sponsorship," he halfway jokes.
"Oh for the love of God. I turned down Nike. You think I'd do a Trojan ad?" I groan at his ludicrous idea.
"Money isn't the devil, Slate."
"Maybe not, but you still make enough to be an evil bastard all the same." I roll my shoulders, signaling Chris to work on them.
"All right, all right," he relents. "Go on your little vacation. Can you at least take your phone this time?"
"Nope. You know the drill. You need me, send an email. Don't be a vague prick this time either. I'm not falling for that shit again. A rematch announcement does not constitute an emergency."
"It does when I need a contract signed ASAP."
"It could have waited two weeks." I push up from the table to catch his eye. "I'm serious. New rule. You don't contact me unless Jimmy deems it an emergency. Got it?" I glance over at Jimmy, who is looking down, suddenly enthralled with his shoes.
"Fuck that. This arena could burn down with us inside and he wouldn't consider it an emergency."
"Exactly," I say, pushing to my feet.
"Whatever, Slate. It’s your career. You can fuck it up all you want."
"Well I've been fucking it up for over fifteen years now, all the while lining your pockets. I think my career will survive another month." I stand and head to the shower without another word spoken.
"Riley!" my boss calls, catching me off guard.
I cartoon-style throw all my papers in the air then scramble to the floor after them.
"Jeez, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to scare you." He bends down to help
me collect them.
"It's okay. No big deal," I say breathlessly, more to myself than to him.
"It's just that we are taking a final head count for the Christmas party. I know you're new and I just wanted to make sure you got invited. I'm sorry. I didn't realize you were so jumpy."
"Yeah. I am pretty jumpy," I say softly. "I won't be able to make the party. I'm sorry." I stand, straightening the papers just so I don’t have to meet his eyes.
"Are you sure? It's not for another week. You can bring your boyfriend if you would like." He smiles. I'm sure it’s genuine, but all I can think about is what he’s hiding behind that grin. He's never looked at me in a suggestive manner, but I'm sure he's thought about it.
"Yeah, I'm sorry. I can't make it." I shake my head as I quickly exit the file room.
I walk back to my corner of the cubicle I share with both of the other file clerks and snag my purse, ready to escape for the day. I pick up my phone and text out a quick message before grabbing my jacket and lunch bag and heading to clock out.
I hate this job, but it pays the bills. At least that's the way I'm supposed to think.
Dale, Derrick, Don—whatever his name is—pulls up outside in a small, older-model, silver sedan, and I all but dive into the car.
"What's your name?" I ask as soon as I shut the door.
"Fuck, Riley."
"I'm sorry. I can't remember. I'll get it, I promise. Just give it to me one more time."
"Dave," he answers shortly.
"I'm sorry," I whisper.
He shakes his head but reaches down to reassuringly squeeze my leg. "How was your first day?" he asks with a quick smile.
"Can’t Buy Me Love," I answer, staring blankly head.
"Really?"
I nod and quickly ask, "You?"
"Grease," he responds.
"Oh! Well that's not bad." I answer, finally looking over at him.
"Two," he finishes, and my eyes widen in shock.
"No fucking way."
"Way. I'm a car audio installation specialist!"
"Damn. That's really bad. And here I thought a file clerk sucked."
He chuckles. "Someone out there really likes you. You've had an office job three moves in a row."
"Right. I'm so glad I spent all those years in medical school now. What would I ever do without them now that I spend forty hours a week filing auto insurance claims."
"Riley, you don't always have to be strong." He guides me into our run-down two-bedroom apartment.
"Neither do you," I snap.
I walk inside, head straight for the closet, and slip out of my heels. Suddenly, I feel him behind me. His hand starts at my collarbone and slides up my neck, forcing my head back to look up at him.
"Erica." He whispers my real name so quietly that, if I didn't know what he was saying, I wouldn't have heard it at all. But I did hear it, and it sends chills through my entire body—quickly followed by tears. I rock back into him and immediately fold toward the floor. His strong arms catch me before I fall even an inch. "I've got you," he whispers, carrying me to the tattered couch. His brown eyes pierce into mine, and I try to lock down the emotions. But no matter how hard I try, I can't seem to find the latch.
"Let it go," he urges, reading my struggling body language.
I fight it for a few more minutes before finally releasing it all. I roll over to my stomach and bury my face in the pillow, sobbing. He rubs my back for hours as I fade in and out of sleep—waking only to cry some more.
Some hours later, I wake up dehydrated, starving, and with a splitting headache. I look down and find him sleeping peacefully at the end of the couch with my feet resting in his lap. I both love and hate this moment at the exact same time. Those moments shouldn't cross for a person, but for me, they are dangerously similar.
"Dave." I push against his leg, but he remains still. "Dave." I nudge him again with absolutely zero reaction. Finally, I give up and lean in close. "Leo," I whisper.
Knowing the drill, I quickly back away as he flies to his feet—fists raised and swinging. His eyes flash around the apartment before landing on me just a few feet away.
"God damn it, Riley!" he huffs.
"You wouldn't wake up," I try to explain.
"I don't give a fuck if I'm dead. You don't call me that. Ever. Do you understand me?"
"Whatever. I'm going to bed."
I hear him growl as I march to my bedroom. "Riley, wait."
"Go to bed, Dave. We have to be at work in a few hours."
"It doesn't mean the same to me as it does you," he says from my doorway.
"Get out. I want to change clothes."
"Your name means something to you. But if someone knows mine, it just means that I've failed—and we're both dead." He runs a frustrated hand through his hair.
I suddenly feel ashamed. I know he’s right, but what he doesn’t understand is that sometimes I need to say his name. I need to be reminded that not everything is a lie.
"I'm sorry."
"Stop. Apologizing."
"No. I mean it. You know the first couple of days after a move are always the hardest for me. I'm sorry. I'll get my shit together. I promise."
"I know you will." He smiles so warmly that it makes me feel even worse.
We silently stare at each other for a few beats. He always lets me get away with this bullshit after a move.
"Hey, I didn't get a chance to tell you earlier. I have to go away for some training in a few days. I'll only be gone four days tops."
"What? Why?" My heart begins to race.
"On-the-job training."
"You install car stereos! You could do that in your sleep."
"Yes, but Dave can't." He walks forward and puts an arm around my shoulders. "Do you want me to call it in? Get someone to come stay with you?"
"No. Please don't. I don't want any extra attention that could draw them to us. I'll be fine for a couple of days. I have a phone if I need anything."
"God, you are a terrible liar."
"Shut up. I am not."
He laughs then tries to reassure me. "You'll be okay."
The truth is that he’s a much worse liar than I am. I can tell that this is going to kill him. I'll be nervous the entire time he's gone, but he will be in a complete and utter panic until he gets back.
"Get out of here. Go to bed. Tomorrow will be better." I push him toward the door.
"Right. Night, Riley."
"Night, Dave!" I shout, and he throws me a wink over his shoulder.
Home.
I spent years trying to escape this place. All I wanted was to make a better life for me and my mother. I wanted all the crap that poor kids dream about—a grand mansion, nice cars, and fancy meals. I wanted her to retire, get off her feet, stop worrying about how she was going to make ends meet, and then I’d finally be able to pay her back for a little of what she gave me. The day I won my first title, I finally succeeded in earning enough money to get her out of here.
Twelve years later, I came back.
Who would have guessed the place I hated most in the world all those years ago would eventually become my safe haven? No one knows I bought this building three years ago. It would be a media circus if they did. Which is exactly why I bought this place to escape. Luckily for me, Jimmy was willing to put it in his name to keep mine, as owner, off public record. He even paid for it out of his own pocket to keep the paper trail from leading back to me. He did get a nice little bonus that year that more than compensated him for his efforts.
As I pull up in my economy rental car, an immediate sense of calm washes over me. Not the kind you feel after a few deep breaths or a stiff drink. I'm talking the kind of calm you feel in your bones. The eye of a tornado. The still after an earthquake. The silence after a hurricane. Calm.
I grab my small bag from the backseat and head inside. I never bring much with me when I come here. I never had anything before—why start now? Honestly, my whole first twenty years of l
ife could have fit in this bag with plenty of room to spare.
I rush around the corner, ready to own that feeling for the next month of my life. It’s a feeling that I will eventually lose when I have to go back to my real life, but now that I have this place, I know I can always reclaim it.
"Shit," I hear as I turn the corner. A petite woman with mousy-brown hair pulled back into a ponytail is juggling grocery bags while trying to open her front door. Her bags slip from her hands and a carton of eggs opens, spilling all over the ground. "Shit!" she screams.
I drag a baseball cap from my bag, pulling it low over my eyes, and move toward her.
"You need some help?" I ask gently.
"Shit!" she screams again and jumps away, flattening her back against the door.
"Jesus. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to scare you. It just looked like you might need some help."
"I'm okay. I'm okay." She breathes deeply, and if I'm not mistaken, talking to herself.
I reach down, pick up the mess of broken eggs, and shove it back into the plastic grocery sack. I tie it in a knot, readying it for the trash.
"You'll probably need more. Not even one egg survived." I smile, but she doesn't reciprocate. She stands silently with her back still pinned to the door. Her whole body is tight as she stares at me nervously.
Fuck. Based on that star-struck look in her eyes, I know she’s recognized me. I haven't even stepped inside yet and I've already been made. I'm starting to think her choice in vocabulary seems fitting. Shit.
"You didn't see me. Okay. Don't tell anyone I'm here," I whisper, and she visibly relaxes. Her eyes glide over my body, and she even leans to the side to take in my small bag.
"Did Dave send you?" She finally speaks a sentence that is not a cuss word.
"Who?"
"Dave. Did he send you?"
"Not that I know of," I answer, confused.
Her eyes narrow as she accesses me. It's only fair that I do the same. I rake my eyes over her body from top to bottom and back again. She's pretty. Cute, small, nice boobs, and trim figure. She's not hard, but she is fit. Like her hair, her eyes are brown, and aside from her unusual level of alarm, there's nothing overly special about this woman.
