He narrows his eyes but lets me come.
I spend the day with Allie and her adorable little girl, Bailey. It’s a joy to watch her run around the unforgiving warehouse, her smile lighting up the whole place. She tells me about her ballet lessons with Aunt Rose and her hamster named Fred.
Allie and I discover we have something in common besides ghosts from our past. We both love baking. She runs a small catering service that specializes in baked goods for weddings, baby showers, and children’s birthdays. I’m in awe of what she’s accomplished, even with a little girl. It gives me hope for my future, that I can make something of myself besides a waitress at dive bars.
When I tell her about my pies, she offers to buy some from me. But I don’t have a kitchen. And more importantly I’m not sure how long I’ll be in town.
Only a week, if all goes well. And if it doesn’t…
Well, if it doesn’t go well, I won’t be anywhere on earth.
Luca told the truth when he said yesterday was just the beginning. Today Colin pushes him harder, demands more of him, gives him meaner competition. By the end of the day Luca wavers on his feet. I have to bite my lip to keep from going to him when he steps out of the ring. I clench my hands into fists to keep from holding him, supporting him. Without asking I know he’d hate that sign of weakness. So I remain on the bleachers as he staggers to the showers, wondering how bad the real fight will be if this is only the second day of training.
Chapter Seventeen
I know why he didn’t worry about the small cut on his temple yesterday. He has ten cuts like it all over his body when we get back to the hotel suite. There are new bruises on top of the old ones, turning black and blue and yellow.
It’s late by the time we leave the second day, dark outside. It’s been raining while we were inside, the scent of wet city concrete rising up from the sidewalk, a little different in every city. Luca doesn’t shower this time, and he shakes his head when I reach for him.
“I’m a mess,” he mutters.
He means sweat and blood, but it’s more than that. He feels more raw than before, as if the hits he took in the ring have reached inside him. My stomach clenches as I realize that this fight won’t just hurt him physically. It’s shining light into dark places.
Maybe this is why he doesn’t want to fight anymore.
I let him keep his isolation through the lobby, where we get sideways looks from everyone, even the people behind the desk. In the elevator I stare at my reflection in the mirror—blue eyes bright with worry. Blonde hair darkened by rain left in the air.
When we enter the suite, he heads into his room and closes the door. To shower?
I set down my bag and my book more slowly, wondering what I should do. Wondering what I even want to do. The safest thing would be to leave him alone.
It’s bedtime for Delilah, so I call her and read If You Give a Mouse a Cookie.
Twice.
Then I’m left to wander back into the living area. His door is still closed.
I stare at the plain white door as if the answers are embedded in wood. What would they tell me, if walls could talk? Would they say that he’s a dangerous man, made more unstable by a day of violence? I would never consider knocking if Leader Allen were on the other side of that door. Rice feels uncomfortable for the first thirty seconds—and agony for the next twenty minutes. He could have whipped me bloody and it wouldn’t have hurt more. I feel the echo of that torment on my shins.
Then I remember the haunted look in Luca’s eyes. He has his own echoes.
His own torment.
My insides feel like they’re made of liquid, quivering inside me as I approach the door. I raise my fist, trembling with trepidation, fighting back a lifetime of conditioning.
It’s the memory of him holding me in my apartment that overcomes the pain of rice under my knees. He could have done anything to me that night. Hurt me. Used me. I couldn’t have said no. I wouldn’t have said no with Delilah’s safety on the line. And all he did was hold me.
I knock.
Seconds pass with every heavy beat of my pulse. It thuds in my eardrums, louder than the silence that answers me. Is he asleep? Still in the shower?
Or what if his injuries are worse than anyone realized?
He might have a concussion, collapsed on the hotel floor. Or worse, he could have fallen in the shower, slipped from dizziness and exhaustion. I did this to him. I broke him.
Frantic, I turn the latch and push open the door.
He’s lying on the bed, one arm slung over his eyes. There’s blood staining his body, his sheets, the same as when he walked into the room. He hasn’t showered. All he’s done is take off his shirt and shoes. He’s only wearing his sweatpants as he reclines on the bed.