“What’s going on?”
Torment fixes me with his deep, dark gaze. After a terrible night in which Damian haunted my dreams and Zack tormented my waking moments, I am ill prepared for a meeting with Torment. When he called me to his office this morning, I had to fight the urge to run and hide. I broke the rule against fighting outside the practice ring when I slapped Zack yesterday, and I can only pray Torment will let me go in one piece.
“I’m sorry.” I figure Torment will appreciate the straightforward approach. And it’s not like I can lie. Redemption is worse than high school for gossip, and given the number of people who were at the gym last night, guaranteed everyone knows I slapped Zack Grayson.
What the hell was I thinking?
“Unsatisfactory,” Torment says. “Try again.”
“Well…” I twist my hands in my lap, supremely uncomfortable with having to discuss my personal life with Torment. Although I respect him as a fighter and a coach, we’ve never really had a personal conversation. Torment isn’t really a chatty kind of guy. How Makayla gets along with him, I’ll never know.
“Zack and I have a history. We grew up together. Dated. It ended badly. I guess I still have unresolved feelings.” I’m not embarrassed about slapping Zack. It was the goodbye I never got to say.
“I’m not interested in your relationship issues.” Torment cuts me off with an irritated wave of his hand. “I’m talking about the fight on Saturday night.”
Burn, cheeks, burn. Can this entire situation get even more humiliating? Of course he doesn’t care about relationship issues. He’s running a gym, and training fighters. All he cares about is making good fighters better. “Right. The fight. Well, I don’t know what happened. I started strong—”
Torment cuts me off again. I’m not sure why he even needs me here, since he’s not really interested in my answers to any of his questions. “I was there. I saw the fight. Your opponent is known as a grappler. She works best rolling on the mat because she lacks the stamina of a striker. That was obvious when she dropped her hands and exposed her chin over and over again. You needed to use defensive wrestling and striking to get a knockout.” He leans forward and scowls. “Just like we planned.”
I slump down in my seat like I’m in middle school and being told off by the principal. Except this time, Zack isn’t going to be waiting outside, threatening to beat anyone who makes me cry. “I thought it would be too risky.”
My heart pounds wildly as Torment drums his fingers on his desk. I knew this talk was coming. This is the fourth fight in a row I’ve lost over the last few months, and Torment doesn’t like losers.
“I never had any doubts you were ready to step up to the next level,” he says. “You have the skills, the fitness, and the strength. You decimated the entire lower tier of amateurs. But last year when we moved you up to fight a different class of fighters, you started holding back. Is it a matter of confidence? Do you not think you’re as good as them? Or are you afraid of more experienced opponents?”
“I’m not afraid.” I hum a few bars of Masterplan’s “I’m Not Afraid,” trailing off when Torment’s scowl deepens. So much for lightening the mood. The power metal song is a little slick for my taste anyway. After I left New York, I purged all my playlists of classical music and dance pop, replacing them with the angst-filled, angry, frustrated lyrics, dirty guitar sounds, and heavy drumming of lighter grunge bands like Stone Temple Pilots, Pearl Jam, and Queens of the Stone Age. Only they understood my pain.
“I’ve talked to Fuzzy,” Torment says after my brief musical interlude. “We think it might be better if you pulled out of competition until we can find out what’s holding you back.”
“I’ll lose my shot at the amateur title belt and my chance to go pro. It will be another year before I can try again.” I want this more than I want anything else. I want to prove to myself that no one can destroy me. That no matter how far I fall, I can get up again.
Determined to empower myself after my career and marriage imploded in New York, I moved to San Francisco and trained as a security guard. Now, as a senior security consultant for Symbian Cloud Computing, I have a gun, Taser, and nightstick, and I know how to use them. But success as a fighter has eluded me. I am good, but not good enough. I want to be a pro. Not because of the fame and fortune, but because I need to know in my heart that if anyone ever tries to hurt me the way Damian did, I will be able to defend myself. My biggest fear is to be a victim all over again.
“You would need to win your next three fights to get into the finals,” Torment says. “And right now, that doesn’t even look like a possibility.”
Torment doesn’t pull his punches in the ring or out.
My hands clench into fists in my lap. I’ve been through far worse. The two most important men in my life left me—my dad when he died in a car accident just after my seventh birthday and Zack when he walked out on me—and the third, Damian, betrayed me, morphing from caring friend and gentle lover to violent, alcoholic, abusive spouse. I lost my marriage, my friends, and my career because of him, and I almost lost my life.
In the big scheme of things, taking a step back from the competitive circuit is not a big deal, and yet I feel sick inside. For four years, I’ve trained and sweated through pain and blood and bruises for a chance to show the world that I’m a survivor, that I could come back stronger than ever, that I’m worthy of being the role model the young girls in my classes think I am.
Maybe I was wrong.
For the first time since I sat down, concern flickers across Torment’s face. “I know what you’re capable of. I’ve seen you grow as a fighter, and I know you can grow more. We’ll put our heads together and come up with a plan.”
“Okay. Thanks.” I feign enthusiasm, but I’m dying inside. Fuzzy, Torment, and my personal trainer, Stan Roberts, have already put in hours of their personal time to help me get to where I am. I can’t possibly ask for more. Stan only charges me half his normal rate, and Fuzzy pretends he hasn’t raised his coaching fee during the time I’ve been at Redemption. I offered to pay Torment once and almost lost an arm.
After I leave Torment’s office, I head into the gym and take a quick look around for any sign of Zack. Still reeling from the huge setback, I can’t bear the thought of seeing him right now. Zack made it to the pros faster than any other amateur on the circuit, winning his title belt only a year after he moved to Seattle. Unlike me, he brought no baggage into the ring when he decided to become a fighter. He didn’t have a body shattered by a fall down two flights of stairs, a heart destroyed by betrayal, or a mind twisted by fear. He had no one and nothing to hold him back.
And yet, for all the hurt in my heart, my body still responded to his touch. It was always that way with Zack. We had a connection from the moment we met. All the more reason to stay away.
For the rest of the afternoon, I manage to avoid Zack as he scouts out potential recruits, flirts outrageously with his female fans, signs autographs, and talks with the pro fighters while ambitious amateurs swoon in his wake. Although he retired four years ago, everyone fully expects him to make a big comeback. So, of course, they all want to be his new BFF.
“Hey, Zack, can I get you a protein shake?”
“Can you sign my gloves?”
“Will you pose for a picture?”
“It must get lonely traveling all the time, sleeping alone in your hotel…” Sandy, of course, doesn’t waste any time. She knows what she wants, and for her, Zack is triple A–grade fresh meat.
I tell myself I don’t care. Zack is nothing to me. Like I told Torment, we had a history, but now we’ve moved on. So why does my stomach clench when I hear the deep rumble of his voice? Why am I hyperaware of his presence when I’m trying to ignore him?
By the time my training day is over, I am more than happy to escape to Silicon Valley for my late shift as a security guard at Symbian Cloud Computing.
After running from the nightmare that was my life in New York, Redemption was one part of taking back my life; training as a security guard was the other. It was as close to my secret childhood dream of becoming a police officer like my dad as I could get while still recovering from my injuries. Although there is no possibility of promotion, I can use my fight and self-defense skills, work the hours around my training schedule, pay all my gym and training bills, and I get along so well with my coworkers Joe and Cheryl, I haven’t looked around for anything else.
Long rays of evening sun filter through causeways lined with trees as I pull my Volvo into the parking lot. The company compound consists of four two-story, T-shaped buildings that appear to have been haphazardly dropped in the middle of an industrial estate along with a smattering of trees and a circular flower garden. Our main security desk is in the central reception building.
“Hey, Joe.” I take a seat behind the plexi-glass bulletproof barrier Symbian erected two years ago after spies from a rival software firm broke into the building and tried to steal company secrets.
Joe Robinsky, age fifty-seven, widowed, no kids, no hair, one heart bypass under his tightly cinched belt, gives me a nod. “We’ve just got building three tonight. Management put extra security on the other buildings, because everyone’s staying late to meet some deadline.” He bites into what appears to be a mayo, butter, and processed meat sub on pure white bread.
“I thought you told me the doctor ordered you to cut out white carbs and bad fats.” I pull out my plastic containers and show him my fight diet evening meal—steamed chicken and veg, and whole grain rice with a chocolate protein shake for dessert. “I’m happy to share.”
“Can’t eat that shit,” Joe says. “I need real food.”
“I don’t want to lose you.” I hand him one of my containers. “I was worried sick when you had your heart attack. What would Cheryl and I do without you?” Joe, Cheryl, and I have worked the evening shift together for almost two years. We make such a good team, Joe turned down an offer to take on the slightly higher paying late-night shift to keep us together.
Joe waves the container away. “Don’t worry about me. It’ll take more than a sandwich to put me out of commission, and if it does, I’ll see my Lizzie that much sooner.”
My heart squeezes in my chest. Joe’s wife died three years ago, and he still misses her something fierce.
I strap on my utility belt and angle my cap to avoid the bump on my head. My uniform consists of a silver polo shirt bearing a Symbian Security badge, shapeless navy pants, a security belt complete with gun, Taser, nightstick, walkie-talkie, and cuffs, and an extremely unflattering blue cap. “Don’t say things like that. I like working with you. You know the last time you were in the hospital, they paired me up with Sol DeMarco. He spent half his shift hiding in the basement watching sports on his tablet and the other half telling people he could take me in the ring with one hand tied behind his back.”
“Not a chance,” Joe says.
“Definitely not with these pythons.” I mock a body-builder pose, flexing my biceps.
Joe chuckles and then calls out as I leave the building, “Remind me never to get on your bad side.”
My tension eases as I walk the perimeter of the building, enjoying the cool stillness of the night. Maybe I can take some extra shifts while Zack is around. Usually, recruiters only stick around for a couple of days, wining and dining potential new fighters or scouting for talent. I’ll just have to rejig my training sessions so I’m there when he’s not around, and then he’ll be gone and out of my life for good.
I cross over to the parking lot, and something rustles the bushes in front of me. Heart thumping, I turn on my flashlight and push the branches aside.
“Jesus Christ. Get that thing outta my face.” The throaty rasp of Cheryl Walker’s voice cuts through the night air. A botched thyroidectomy a few years ago damaged one of the nerves leading to her voice box, leaving her with what she describes as a “chain-smoking, phone sex hooker voice” but what Joe says is downright sexy.
“I thought you were a raccoon.” I lower the flashlight and round the bush to the parking lot, where Cheryl is picking something off the ground.
“You know many five-foot-three-inch raccoons with big boobs and a little extra junk in the trunk?” She pats her ample bottom and grins. Her curly, dark hair is even more wild than usual, and her green eyes are wide and framed in long lashes. I’ve never known anyone like Cheryl. She says what she thinks, and she lets it all hang out. Compared to her, I’m positively repressed.
“Not personally. What are you doing in the bush?”
“Dropped my keys.” She leans closer and frowns at my face. “Talk about raccoons. What happened to you?”
“Bad fight on the weekend.”
Cheryl snorts. “Welcome to my life. I had a bad fight with the damn ex, so he decided not to pick up Amber even though Tuesdays are supposed to be his daughter and daddy nights. I had to drop her off with my sister again.”
“Report him to family services.”
“Tried it.” Cheryl sighs. “He straightened up for about two weeks, and then he turned deadbeat again. I knew that about him when I married him, but the sex was so damn good. You know what I mean?”
“Sure,” I say, although I don’t. As the ballet company’s artistic director, my ex, Damian, was creative at work, not so much in bed. It wasn’t until I’d moved away that I realized he had married me not because he truly loved me but because I helped his career and fed his ego. He liked that I was twelve years younger than him, awed by his power and reputation, and willing to do his bidding. He showed me off to his friends, boasted about our relationship, and used me as an adornment when he wished to impress. As I became more successful, I opened doors for him, giving him an edge over the new generation of choreographers who were snapping at his heels. In return, he gave me stability and security, helped me build a career, and made me feel wanted again.
After I left Damian, I didn’t date for over a year, and when I did, it was just casual hookups with men who were friends of friends or part of my social circle. For the most part, they were uniformly dull, mild mannered, and totally unthreatening, which translated into lackluster performance in the bedroom.
“I’m on patrol with you tonight,” Cheryl says. “I’ll let Joe know I’m here and we can finish patrolling the parking lot together.”
She is gone no more than five minutes when my walkie-talkie crackles into the silence. “Got a guy in the front lobby who’s looking for you,” Cheryl says. “You want me to bring him out with me?”
“I’m not expecting anyone. Who is it?”
“He says his name is Grayson. Zack Grayson.”