Dodging Trains (22 page)

PAISLEE

M
y mind runs amok with film clips
. They swirl and dance like snowflakes. But now that I’m wearing the sleep mask Keyon bought me and the altitude has stabilized, I can pick them apart and enjoy them one by one.

Keyon wears a long-sleeved T-shirt,
white with blue arms and
Alliance Cage Warriors
printed across the front in bold letters. His eyes glimmer. Sadness and happiness are in them, and they sink to my mouth, which is trembling.

“You said you missed me yesterday,” I say.

“And I already do again.”

He’s hard but yielding as he forms his body around me and lets me cry.

These days in Florida have been like a pocket of air underwater. It’s been someone else’s life, a slice of Heaven I’ve borrowed. No one knew me except as Keyon’s girl. I was a businesswoman traveling for my job, not the tramp, the town slut, the loose woman people hated or wanted for an hour.

He tips my head up when I can’t be silent anymore, when a small hiccough escapes and shakes my shoulders. “You got your wallet? Your driver’s license and your boarding pass?”

I nod silently, tears coating my eyes. I blink so they fall and give me free sight of he who has questioned the importance of train stations.

He kisses me then, deep, in front of everyone. “Don’t forget what Markeston said. I want you there. You’ll be good luck.”

A
whoosh
of hope swells in my chest at his reminder.

The stewardess murmurs
something to the person in front of me. I lift my sleep mask, concerned that I should be alert for her inquiries too. When she doesn’t approach me, I lower the mask and drift back into moments of promises.

“So
!” Markeston says, folding plump hands and shaking them for effect. “Why don’t we head into the backyard?”

Back park
, I think.

“Dawson gave me the honor of breaking the news to you.” His happy greys peer from Keyon to me, back and forth, while he waves us out his back door.

“The sooner the better.” Keyon’s deep pitch is one he uses when he’s intrigued. “You sounded damn cryptic when you called. This better be good.”

Markeston lets out a hearty laugh. Slams his hands together as if life’s a game, and I guess it is when you’re so loaded you can do whatever you want. “Well,” he breathes. “Here’s to hoping.”

Our host sidesteps urgently to allow three toy-sized horsies to clop past on the paved pathway. They haul ass, their leader nudging me out of the way with his muzzle. He only reaches up to my knee.

With determined looks and adhering to some equestrian schedule, they take off without as much as a glance at us lowly humans. The only thing real about them is the sound of their hooves against stone as they gallop off.

“Wow,” Keyon mutters. “Your pets, man. Christ!”

Markeston nods distractedly and motions toward a pavilion at the end of the walkway. Octagon-shaped and with a shiny gold roof, it boasts squeaky-clean glass walls on all sides. It’s not ginormous, a surprise in Markeston’s abode, because with the notable exception of his toy horsies, the man is all about size.

The pavilion is beautifully decked out with soft sectionals along all walls, the occasional footstool, and an octagon-shaped table. It offers shelter against most weather, while lush plants make the place feel like an extension of the outdoors.

“Oh I love this,” I exclaim. Markeston smiles and waves for us to make ourselves comfortable. Marta, the maid or chef or butler, appears out of nowhere with a tray of sushi and other bite-sized appetizers. Warm sake and plum wine already await, the last part no surprise—we already knew our new friend likes his drink. I shoot Keyon a furtive wink and catch the glitter of amusement in his eyes.

As we eat, Markeston describes how blown away he was by the talent Keyon showed at the gym yesterday. How Dawson and he discussed Keyon’s future and what he needs to reach it.

“Your head coach and I want you in Vegas,” he says like a man entitled to opinions and decisions. “Keyon, you should be a fixture in EFC’s Light Heavyweight class. You’re taller than most of them and damn fast. Speed and agility doesn’t come naturally to your weight class so it’s an advantage. Combined with your technical skills, it could leave you undefeated for a long time in Vegas.”

Keyon bobs his head. Apparently, Markeston isn’t telling him anything new. “That’s the goal, and I’m not tapping out until I reach it. Vegas and EFC, baby.” No smile accompanies Keyon’s statement. Steely dedication and hard work is what’s going to get him there.

“Good. Now here’s the deal. On Monday, I’m getting the paperwork drawn up to become Alliance Cage Warriors’ main sponsor. My name will be associated with every fight, and when it comes to you, Keyon, I’m getting you a publicist. I’ll be hiring the biggest name in the biz, and that’s the guy that’ll be booking your fights from now on.”

Keyon freezes next to me. Then he sets the squid handroll down on his plate and stares at Markeston. “I don’t understand. You’re not thinking about getting…?”

“Morton Arudson. Yes, that’s who. He doesn’t know it yet.”

“No way. He’ll never take on someone like me. He’s got his hands full with—”

“Bah. You
buy
publicists. It’s easy. I want to be a part of making you, I want your talent up there on the boards, and Morton Arudson’s going to help us.” He shrugs and tilts more sake into my cup.

Keyon tongue-tied is beautiful. I shift sideways in my seat. My attention should be on Markeston since what’s occurring is courtesy of him, but the joy surging in Keyon’s features entrances me.

“It’s simple. As I said, I’ve wanted to play with MMA for a while now. I’m an entrepreneur, a builder, and what I do is find projects worth investing in. I’ve got mad talent, they say”—he chuckles, pleased with himself—“and have yet to put money on the wrong horse.”

The knock of a hoof against the glass wall makes me jerk around. A more tangible horsey is busy ripping plants out of the flowerbed that circles the pavilion. I give her a stern look and knock on the window between us, but she confirms my experience thus far, that people are air to toy horsies.

“I’ll be pouring decadent amounts of funds into the Cage Warriors over the next few years to get them to yield. And you”—he points merrily at Keyon—“are off to the EFC first. That’s going to elevate the camp big time. Next up are a couple of the others. Dawson knows his talent, and you know what? I already trust that guy.”

“This is a lot to take in. I’m speechless.” Keyon’s voice is gruff. I watch his big hands hiding the tiny glass of plum wine completely. Are there—? Wow, there’s moisture in Keyon’s eyes. “But yes, I’ve never known a more trustworthy man.”

My own eyes are gathering moisture. “Markeston, you are godsend. This is crazy.”

Keyon’s hands shake, and I think of all the years he has been working for this. He started with martial arts as a fifteen-year-old, and since then, he’s been stepping up his workout regime, becoming more and more serious about his goals. Over the last years, it’s all he’s been doing—working out, watching his diet and his sleep schedule, in addition to fighting, fighting, fighting.

“Cool. Aaanyways. That’s about it.” Markeston shrugs and takes a good pull from his own plum wine. “Oh and the first match I’m going to is your Mexico City one. I need to see you demolish ‘El Machete,’ all right? And Paislee here, should come with.”

I’m still beneath
the sleep mask and a little self-conscious. This isn’t a night flight, but I saw others taking naps around me, so I remain hidden behind it with my thoughts.

Me, Paislee Marie Cain, going to Mexico? I never thought I’d leave the United States. Over the last years, I’ve let myself dream of Italy, of Murano where the first glassblowers lived and worked. It’s far away, but it felt close because of the mirror-making industry. I would love to go there and see it all.

But Markeston has reminded me that there are other places to dream of, so many places I’ve never seen. The world is giant and chock-full of them, because I, I have been nowhere.

Mexico. This exotic place where they speak a different language and dance different dances. It would be amazing to go, but I don’t even have a passport.

“Bah, that’s an easy fix,” Keyon brushed me off when I mentioned it. “Get on it as soon as you get back to Rigita. You’ve got five weeks. Those things take a few weeks, max.”

“But I don’t even know if Old-Man will let me. I’ve been gone once already.”

“Listen, Paislee: order the passport and check with your boss. Without a passport, you’ll never go anywhere, and whether it’s in a month or later, you’re gonna want to use it.”

With the absence of Keyon big inside me, I decide, right there on the plane, that I’m getting the passport.

I fumble for another film clip, one that’s sadder but beautiful all the same.