They made jet engines, here. Perfected aircraft systems for military and private use. Most of the equipment is gone, of course, sold at auction to other companies or shipped to another of Lancaster’s workshops in some distant part of the country. All that remains is the faint scent of oil, hanging in the air like a mechanic’s perfume.
There’s a fine layer of dust along the concrete floors — if I shine my narrow beam of light behind me, I can see my footprints like tracks through snow. No one else has been here in a while.
The thought bolsters me enough to keep going.
I pass through a room scattered with empty spray paint cans, the white walls tagged with various gang signs and puffy-lettered slogans whose meanings I can never seem to discern. The teens left their mark and vanished, nothing but cigarette butts and empty beer cans as evidence of their presence.
I’m about ready to give up this crazy crusade and turn back when I cross through a wide archway and find the main assembly line. It’s a cavernous room with staggeringly high ceilings — probably where they built the engines — and my pathetic little light barely illuminates the space around me. The dark seems to encroach from all sides. Shadows slither along the walls, the silence pushes back at me like a weight against my eardrums.
I’ve only made it a few steps inside when I spot them. Footprints, disturbing the dust coating the floor. I stifle a gasp as I make out the distinct shape of a man’s boots, their treads perfectly in tact. They look crisp, fresh — no dust dulling their edges or filling in their borders. It’s clear they’re recent.
Someone’s in here.
The panicked thought bursts into my mind without warning. I bite my lip and hold my breath, trying to regulate my racing heart. It’s no use panicking. If someone really is in here with me, they’ve already seen my flashlight. The damage is done.
You used to be a badass, Zoe Bloom. What happened?
Swallowing hard, I grip the phone tighter in my suddenly clammy fist and start to follow the boot prints across the room. They’re concentrated almost entirely in one area, around a wall of pipes on the far side of the room.
If I had to wager a guess — which I wouldn’t because I’m not a gambler — I’d say it’s some kind of cooling unit. Dealing with superheated steel, molding engine parts, they’d sure as hell need one in here, somewhere.
The room doesn’t look vandalized, like the graffitied space I was in earlier. In fact, the pipes are shiny silver steel, so bright they reflect my flashlight beams back at me when I approach. It’s the oddest thing… they look almost new compared to everything else in the crumbling factory.
In the email Lancaster sent to Linus, his Head of Security, he talked about clean up. I don’t know why but I get the unshakeable feeling that this, right here, is exactly what he was talking about.
I just don’t know what any of it means. Which really pisses me off.
Following the footprints, I see they lead from the pipes to a window. I peer through the foggy glass and make out the shape of a fire escape in the alley outside, its metal corroded with rust, its ladder crumbling from disuse. Just looking at it inspires the need for a tetanus shot.
With a careful sweep of my flashlight, I turn back to glare at the gleaming pipes, willing the answers I’m seeking to materialize like a genie from a bottle.
Think, Zoe. What the hell is so special about these fucking pipes?
I’m staring at a puzzle, holding the final piece in my hand, but no matter how long I look I can’t quite seem to figure out where the hell it goes.
My nonexistent knowledge of industrial factory equipment is exceedingly useless. So, eventually, I do the only thing I can do — snap a few pictures with my phone and high-tail it out of there before whoever was messing with the pipes comes back.
My pace is faster on my way out. I keep my legs moving and my eyes forward, suddenly desperate to be out of this place, out of this town, back in my safe, comfortable bed. I haven’t felt like this for years — this nervous, haunting nausea swirling in the pit of my stomach. Some innate instinct is telling me run, go, quick! Get out of sight.
As though everything I’ve worked for could be snatched from my grip with a rogue gust of wind.
Feeling like that made sense when I was living on street corners. It makes almost no sense, now.
Still, I’m relieved when I burst through the back door into the light of day, blinking at the sudden brightness. I practically run through the alley and across the parking lot. I don’t look back until I hit the street, nearly out of sight – just a quick glance over my shoulder at the factory, silhouetted by the sun sinking over the water.
Every muscle in my body goes tense.
Someone is standing in the shadows at the mouth of the alley, watching me leave. I can’t see his face, but I know it’s a man from his clothing, his build, his height. I’d bet my ass he’s wearing size-nine boots with deep, dust-covered treads on his feet.
Maybe you’re wrong, I tell myself. Maybe he’s just a homeless guy. Maybe he’s a teenage graffiti artist. Maybe he’s doing something totally innocent in that alley, like conducting a drug deal or soliciting a prostitute. Just because he’s watching you now doesn’t mean he’s been watching you since you got here.
My reassurances fall flat. This guy isn’t some teenage derelict. He isn’t a dealer or a creepy cheating husband.
He works for Lancaster.
As I watch, he takes a few steps into the abandoned stretch of parking lot, closing a tiny bit of the distance between us.
It’s close enough.
I don’t stick around another second to see what he plans to do about my trespassing. I turn on one heel and bolt toward civilization, never stopping until my ass is planted firmly in a plastic train seat and I’m barreling back toward Boston.
* * *
The next night, I’m sitting at my computer pouring over architectural plans of the LC factory I found on the flash drive, trying to figure out what those shiny pipes are — just like I’ve been doing since the moment I got back to my apartment — when the doorbell intercom buzzes.
I glance at my watch. It’s nearly midnight on a Thursday.
Who the fuck is at my door, at this hour?
Luca and I still aren’t speaking, so it can’t be him. Plus, he has his own key; he wouldn’t buzz up. And… I don’t have any other friends.
The buzzer goes again, more insistently.
Grumbling under my breath, I rise to my feet and cross to the intercom panel by my door. The small screen shows a blurry, black and white video feed of a man wearing some kind of uniform, holding a box.
“Who is it?”
“Delivery for Zoe Bloom.”
“I didn’t order anything.”
“The guy said to tell you it’s from Blaze.” The male voice sounds tired and somewhat nervous. “Listen, lady, he paid me double to deliver it tonight. And, to be totally honest, he’s not the kind of guy I want to have to disappoint with news I couldn’t make it happen.”
I snort, but I’m not exactly surprised. Luca has that effect on people.
“Fine,” I agree. “I’ll buzz you in. You can put the package in the elevator. I’ll call it up after you leave.”
I wasn’t born yesterday. I’m not about to let some random dude into my apartment in the middle of the night. In this old building, the elevator doors open straight into my living room. Yes, the keyed-panel system offers a layer of protection, but it’s not exactly the same as having a concierge guarding the door at all hours. And my neighbors aren’t the type to call the police if they hear a scream, what with the illegal pot farm the guys in the unit below mine are cultivating and the fake ID operation the lady on the first floor runs out of her living room.
By the time the elevator clangs to a stop on my floor, the delivery boy is long gone. When the doors slide open, I find a small, hot pink box labeled Crumble in curvy white letters sitting inside. I stare at it ominously.
I know exactly what�
�s in the box — the same thing I order every time I stop at my favorite bakery in the city.
Double chocolate cupcakes with peanut butter frosting.
I have to hand it to Luca — the bastard knows my weakness and is shamelessly exploiting it to get me to forgive him.
Still… it would be a shame to let them go to waste…
I sigh as I grab the box and retreat back into my apartment. I only last about thirty seconds after setting it down on the counter before I cave and flip open the lid, inhaling the scent of chocolate with a soft moan. There are four perfect, frosted cupcakes sitting inside, crying out for me to devour them.
Damn.
There’s a note tucked between two in the middle. I pluck it out and read it as I suck chocolate glaze off one finger.
I’m a dick. Forgive me anyway?
Got a fight tomorrow night — need you there, babe.
8PM. Lansdowne Gym.
He doesn’t sign his name. Doesn’t apologize.
Typical Luca.
But he knows I’ll be there. Just as he knew exactly what kind of cupcakes would be most effective in leveraging my sympathies.
Parker may think Luca is in love with me, but he’s wrong. Sure, we love each other — but it’s familial, not romantic. We’ve seen all the ugly, awful parts of each other. We’ve hated each other. Pushed each other. Forced each other to carry on when the whole damn world seemed to be telling us not to bother.
You can’t love someone who knows you like that.
Or at least… I can’t love someone who knows me like that.
Luca and I both gravitate toward darkness. Distrust. Destruction.
And, the truth is, you can’t drive out shadows in a windowless room. At some point, you have to let the light in. Find someone who glows bright enough to lessen the burden of your misfortunes.
Luca deserves someone who can bring that light into his life.
Out of nowhere, Parker’s face flashes in my mind. And for the rest of the night, no matter how hard I try, no matter how hard I focus on financial data and executive email streams… I can’t quite seem to banish it from my thoughts.
Later, when my eyes are drooping shut and I can no longer make out the words on my screen, I can’t stop myself from crossing to my dresser, pulling his large black sweater from the back of the drawer where I hid it last week, and tugging it on before sliding beneath the sheets.
10
The Invitation
I push my way through the crowd, my don’t-fuck-with-me expression firmly in place. It makes little difference — no one pays me a bit of attention. Everyone’s eyes are on the center ring as the crowd slowly moves inward, jostling for better positions. This isn’t an official fight, so there are no seats or press boxes; the UFC doesn’t sanction underground bouts. But, for a twenty-five-dollar cover charge at the door, anyone can get in… so long as they know where to go, of course.
The gym is well over the fire marshal’s designated capacity, but no one seems to care. Money flows freely as bets are exchanged last minute. Fans trash-talk about the competitors, discuss the odds. I overhear someone saying Luca is expected to take a heavy beating against Dean “Iceman” Bailey, a massive lunkhead from New Jersey with a killer right hook and a twelve-match winning streak under his belt.
Go ahead and underestimate Luca, I think, pushing past them. You’ll be eating your words by the end of the night.
From what I hear, there’s a shitload of money on the line. I’ve never been one to place bets, but if I did I’d bet on Luca every time.
Times like this, being petite comes in handy. I duck under arms and between groups like a shadow, finding space to maneuver where there is none. By the time I make it to the ring — a raised, fenced-in octagonal platform surrounded by metal barriers to keep the fans back — the roar of the crowd has reached a crescendo.
Groupies push up against the metal fencing, their boobs straining inside see-through white t-shits. Bouncers make a half-hearted attempt at holding them back from the narrow ringside area where corner men, octagon girls, and coaches gather before the fight. The male fans in the crowd are a little more subdued, but not much — they eye the empty octagon with an anticipatory look, taking stock of the bets they made upon arrival.
They crave blood, tonight.
There’s an uncomfortable flutter of nerves in my stomach; the same one I get every time Luca fights. No matter how often he goes up against impossible odds and makes it out alive, it never gets easier. Tonight, when he’s battling one of the best fighters in the underground circuit, my heart is lodged firmly in my throat.
He’s still backstage, likely getting psyched up and going over his strategy for the match. He likes to be alone, before all his fights. He’s not the biggest fighter, not the strongest or the most muscular in the heavyweight division, but he fights fast, he fights smart, and he never goes into a fight blind. He says dominating in the ring is as much mental as it is physical.
His sparring partner, Colton, somehow spots me from where he’s standing in the blockaded area by the ring. In a flash, he’s there in front of me, nodding to the nearest bouncer before extending one huge hand and hoisting me over the barrier with a single flex of his bicep.
“Thanks, Colt,” I say breathlessly, when he sets me down. I hear whines of complaint from the groupies along the fence.
“Hey, why does she get ringside access?” a busty brunette squeals.
“Take me, too!” a hopeful blonde suggests.
“What’s so special about her?” a redhead sneers.
Colt shoots them all a withering glare. Despite his blond, surfer-boy good looks, he can bring the heat when necessary.
“She is with Blaze.”
Without another word to them, he hooks one arm around my neck and walks me to the cluster of metal folding chairs reserved for the fighters’ teams.
“He’ll be happy you’re here,” Colt yells into my ear. I can barely hear him, over the din behind us. “He’s been a total nutcase all week.”
I shrug. “He’s always a nutcase, Colt.”
“Yeah, well, nuttier than usual. You two fighting or something?”
“Or something,” I mutter.
His blue eyes crinkle. “Well, don’t take it out on him too long. He needs to focus.”
“What are his odds?”
Colt shakes his head and his eyes dart across the ring to where Iceman’s coach is standing. “They’re pretty evenly matched, if I’m being honest. Hard to say who will take it. Iceman is brawn and brute force… Blaze is speed and strategy. Totally different approaches. It’s anyone’s game.”
I suck in a breath. It’s one thing to hear shitheads in the crowd talking about Luca losing — it’s another to hear one of his best friends discuss the possibility.
“Don’t worry, Zoe.” Colt smirks. “Fire always melts ice.”
I hope he’s right.
A few minutes later, the crowd has swelled to bursting. I keep my eyes on the ring as the announcer runs up the short set of stairs and hoists his mic into the air. His voice booms like a clap of thunder.
“ARE YOU READY, BOSTON?”
The crowd roars in response.
“I SAID ARE YOU FUCKING READY?”
Five hundred people scream at the top of their lungs.
“Then make some noise for our first fighter…. a man built like a glacier… a powerhouse with fists like icebergs… your undefeated champ…. ICEMAN!”
A rap song blares from the speakers overhead, barely audible over the cheers. From the left side of the gym, a bare-chested man in shiny black shorts cuts a swathe through the crowd, flanked by bouncers on all sides. Fans reach out to touch him as he passes by, but he brushes them off — he’s watching the ring, hyper-focused and frigid as he makes his way up into the octagon.
I feel my eyes widen.
He’s built like an eighteen-wheeler — at least 260 pounds of solid muscle. His head goes straight into his shoulders, foregoing a ne
ck entirely, and his fists are each about the size of my face. Just before he climbs into the ring, he cuts a cold glance at Colt… and then his black eyes slide to meet mine.
I shiver when he stares at me, suddenly understanding his nickname. There’s not an ounce of warmth inside him.
Dropping my gaze, I refuse to watch as he does his victory lap around the inside of the ring, hyping the crowd to new levels. They chant like druids at the alter of their god.
ICE-MAN!
ICE-MAN!
ICE-MAN!
The announcer’s voice blares again. “And now, ladies and gents, your challenger this evening… your very own hometown hero… a man who’ll bring the heat and try to burn his way to an upset… BLAZE BUCHANAN!”
Luca’s entry music always makes me grin. What can I say? The Dropkick Murphy’s I’m Shipping Up to Boston is an unbeatable soundtrack choice for a redheaded Irishman from the city. The crowd eats it up, singing along as Luca emerges from the back room and jogs to the stage, two beefy security guards at his sides to keep the fans back. Just before he hops up the steps into the ring, he spots me. His lips curl into a devilish grin.
I smile back and mouth, Good luck.
He winks and steps into the arena, all humor fading from his expression as his focus narrows on his opponent. He looks much, much smaller than his 210 pounds, up there next to the human ice sculpture.
Colt’s shoulder bumps mine. “Breathe, babe.”
I bump him back. “I’ll breathe when it’s over.”
The announcer steps out. The referee steps in. The octagon door slams closed. The crowd screams. The fighters start to circle…
I hold my breath and force myself to watch as round one begins.
* * *
It’s brutal. Bloody.
Colt was right — they’re pretty evenly matched. Luca moves quickly, ducking punches and striking out strategically whenever Iceman drops his hands, like the sun unleashing a solar flare of pure heat. I cheer as he manages to land several sharp blows to Iceman’s head. Still, the sheer strength of his opponent can’t be dismissed, because no matter how many times Luca hits him, the bastard refuses to go down. By the final round, Luca’s bleeding from his bottom lip, and I’m relatively certain Iceman is actually made of stone.
One Good Reason (A Boston Love Story Book 3) Page 12
