Dodging Trains (31 page)

PAISLEE

S
potlights swipe the venue with blues,
greens, and reds, and dance music thumps through giant speakers. Poles apart from the violence-thick gloom I’d experienced in Mexico, the atmosphere here is thrilled and jacked up.

I look around and find Markeston approaching with two drinks. I’m already at three for the day, but I’m up for another; heck, this is my first time in Vegas, and I’m probably about to get my mind blown.

“You okay?” he asks, the crinkling at the corner of his eyes reminding me of my mom. I do want them to meet at some point.

“Yeah, just a bit overwhelmed. Is that for me?”

“Yes, ma’am. A champagne cobbler for ya.”

“A what?” That’s a tough one to imagine.

“Specialty of the house: champagne—I had them exchange the cheap Spanish one for Cliquot—mixed with homemade peach cobbler.” Excitement plumps his cheeks until the wrinkles at his eyes plow into furrows. “Have a sip. Then thank me.”

I do and spell out “
Wow
” in individual letters. I suck up another goopy mouthful and manage, “That’s just crazy.”

He bobs his head, eyes gleaming. Then he fans a hostess over to us. “Miss?”

I can’t see the bills he crumbles into her fist, but her eyes become alien-large when she opens it and shoves the cash into the pocket of her apron.

“Can you make refills arrive promptly whenever one of us is out of these babies?” Markeston levels his gaze on her, and I don’t think I’ve ever seen a faster nod. She’s like a fast-forwarded anime.

After my tentative sips, my beverage is still brimming over, so I steady it with two fingers at the top. As tasty as this thing is, champagne cobblers can’t distort my night; I don’t want to be drunk while Keyon faces the most important fight of his career. I’ll be there, pouring good vibes at him full force, and if he wants to celebrate afterward, I’ll be ready.

They do the Stare-Down.
Markeston and I have front-row seats below the cage, which provides a prime view of Keyon. It would give him a prime view of me too if it crossed his mind. I’m so anxious, it’s hard to keep an unruffled façade.

The fighters knock fists and take a step apart to get ready. At the referee’s signal, Keyon rushes in so fast our entire row gasps as he twists Jackson’s arm onto his back and slams him face down to the floor. A grunt erupts from Jackson. He squirms, feet kicking, while one of his hands grapple for Keyon’s leg.

Keyon allows him to seize it, maybe because he can’t be rocked anyway? Then his gaze glides to me, eyes dark and dangerous, and a grim smile forms on his mouth.

I think of the past he reinvented last night. The hold he’s got on Jackson is oddly similar to what he described for the train creep.

Watch,
he mouths, and I do.

Keyon’s fist barges into his opponent’s face. The man writhes, trying to block by twisting toward the floor, but Keyon launches into an unstoppable barrage of punches.

The referee runs over, drops to his knees. I can’t hear what he says, but he stares intently at Jackson for an answer while Keyon hammers his fist into the side of his head.

“Holy cannoli!” Markeston yells. “The ref’s checking on him already, and we’re not even a minute into the fight!”

I stand, champagne trickling along my fingers when all action freezes. Then, the audience reacts. They howl, laugh, high-five each other. Markeston brings me into a bear hug, guffawing, saying, “Our boy, he did it! Jesus, that was fast. He just went in there and
owned
him!”

When I focus again, Keyon is there, chest heaving and gaze thick with adrenaline and testosterone. His eyes are fixed on me, the guard in his mouth popping his lips out enough to distort his growing smile.

The ref raises Keyon’s arm up high. Loudspeakers echo out his win by submission. He doesn’t take his eyes off me. My stomach flip-flops, and I need him with me so hard.

But then someone else walks into the ring, someone in a grey suit and a white shirt, a man with a tie, an air of arrogance and entitlement, one used to being obeyed. He smiles, irises glimmering with excitement, and then he offers Keyon his hand.

Markeston jumps from his seat and takes the few steps up quicker than I thought possible for such a full-figured man. Dawson has already joined them and is listening intently to the guy in the suit.

There are shakes of hands. Keyon’s eyes arching like when I snagged his last blue raspberry lollipop at fourteen. Incredulity, loads of it, but of the happy kind, I think.

I’ve drained my champagne cobbler. Markeston’s hostess approaches me timidly, a smile on her mouth as she holds out a new drink. I don’t want one, but she’s so sweet I can’t reject it.

Eyes trained on my love, I pinch the stem of the glass between my fingers. I’m so full of what he accomplished up there, the determination as he crushed his opponent. I sink to my chair, set the drink down next to me, because my hands tremble over the way he did it.

Fans stop him as he leaves the ring. They want Keyon in their selfies, but he shakes hands, saying, “Later,” and then he’s with me, arms slung around my body and lifting me high.

I squeal like I’m used to hope. With victory painting brightness in his eyes, he holds me like I mean so much. I can’t believe this feeling.

“I did it, baby.” Gently, he clutches the back of my head and lowers me toward him. “Did you see how I did it?”

“Yes, like in your dream. Like how you changed it.” I stammer out the words, because he’s already kissing me. “You won.
Bam
.”

There’s a rumble against my mouth, maybe a laugh. “I didn’t stomp him into the ground and make him a bloodied mess. I had no toilet to swirl him in.”

We draw apart enough to smile at each other. “Good thing too,” I say. “The man in the suit might not have given you good news if you had.”

Keyon squeezes me so hard I tap his shoulder as if I’m in a fight. His reaction is instinctive. He loosens his hold and stares deep into my eyes. “I’ll be signing with the EFC.”

“Now?”

“Now. Their plan was to check me out in a couple of fights first, but the president, that guy over there”—he jerks his head toward The Suit—“said he can’t see himself changing his mind. We’re moving to Las Vegas, baby.”

He’s buoyant. Exuberant. Of course I’m not included in the “we.”
It’s not what it sounds like
.

“Unless you want to remain friends?”

My butterflies are the size of birds and slam-dance inside the cavity of my chest. “What do you mean? Of course I want us to remain friends,” I reply. Around us, the audience shifts, a slow stream of people on their way to the exit. Some detour to get close to Keyon, but he’s not paying attention.

His face, dear and unmarred by the fight I just witnessed, hold eyes that are soft. “And you are, baby. But how about—” He bites his lip, reconsidering. “Listen: I’m sorry for everything I’ve put you through. I’ve been a total jerk, and there is no excuse for my behavior.”

I open my mouth to speak against that. Keyon has
all
the excuses: the train creep; his brain holding off on the truth and then deciding to dunk him in it. I, of all people, understand. “No, Keyon—”

He puts a finger to my mouth, puckering his own in a silent
Shhh
. “Please hear me out. Please forgive me. I’d like for us to start over again. You get my crazy shit. I want you—I don’t even enjoy the company of other girls anymore, and believe me, I’ve tried. Remember a few months ago when I said I was falling in love with you? Well, I’m done with the falling part. Now I just straight up love you. I’ve been a fucking idiot, okay?”

“Guys! Ready to celebrate?” Jaden shouts from too close, startling me.

“Dude!” Keyon barks back, eyes never leaving mine. “Can’t you see we’re busy?”

“Whoa,” Jaden mutters. “So jumpy. Suit yourselves. We’ll be at The Fighter. The pub,” he specifies as if that’s necessary. Keyon doesn’t respond. Instead his irises calm into the pleading gold they wore before Jaden’s interruption.

“Wow, I’m…” I begin.

“No.” He shakes his head slowly. “That’s not even true. I’m not done falling in love with you. I love you like crazy, but I keep falling and falling and falling.”

Tippy-toes on the floor, I lift my hands and cup his face. I need him to hear me out too. “Keyon, baby?”

He shakes his head, concerned, and I don’t know what he’s concerned about. “Paislee, I made a mistake. No, several mistakes. I couldn’t deal with my memories. I didn’t know what had happened to me, and I wasn’t even sure who I was anymore. Now I know. I’m still me, Keyon Arias, the fighter, the lover of this girl who needs to move in with him and be his rock and kiss him through violent sleep.”

I draw a breath. Open my mouth to speak.

“Please don’t do this. I see it in your eyes, Paislee. There’s still something there for me. Hell, you wouldn’t fucking have flown out here if there wasn’t, and all I’m asking is that you give us a chance. Please?”

All this begging. Euphoria froths in my chest, a mélange of bliss and laughter. “Oh my God, enough with the
pleases
; you need to let me answer. Yes, I love you. Yes, I want to give us a try, just, it’s a bit hard to get a word in edgewise around here.” My cocky words don’t match that I’m out of breath with the enormity of the moment.

He opens his mouth for another objection. As my outburst sinks in, they close slowly, and dilated pupils return to their normal size. “Ahh. You scared the bejesus out of me,” he mumbles. “Freaking H.”

His arm shifts and settles around my shoulders. Draws me in tight. “Oh baby, baby.” The air he lets out is almost a groan. “Time to go pubbing. Pop champagne and tell everyone you’ve agreed to have my babies.”

Shirt haphazardly slung over a shoulder and a wet towel still around his neck, he walks me out of the venue. “Like, a litter of rug rats.”

“Hey, wait a minute.”

“Shush, love. Keep moving.”

KEYON

I
hate being away from Paislee.
She’s mine, and she has a history of all sorts of things. I should be trusting her. I do too, but goddammit, I’m not the only guy enthralled by her kaleidoscope of awesome. She’s kindness, beauty, and sweetness in one, even after a life that’s treated her harshly.

After seventeen days apart, we’re finally together in Markeston’s brand-new hall of mirrors. Last night, Paislee flew in with her mother and her boss, so I’ve got my girl at a safe distance from the pigs drooling over her in Rigita.

I crush my thoughts before I go out on a tangent. There’s no need to obsess; she
is
mine. I see it every time I look into her eyes, which I do nightly thanks to Skype. My Paislee will be leaving Rigita for good in a few weeks, on the day my lease in Tampa gets exchanged for a duplex in Las Vegas.

I travel north a few nights before that so we can fly to Sin City together. She huffed when I told her, saying it’s not worth the expense, but I blamed it on my father’s birthday, which will be celebrated in the Coral Mansion.

That made her gooey-eyed, a look so pretty on her it gave me a boner. Until bedtime came early and was even nicer than usual. Yeah, I’ve filed away that little positive side effect for future reference: for erotic pleasures, act as if giving a shit about celebratory traditions.

At the moment, the little lady of my heart strides slowly through the room, thick ponytail swinging lazily as she turns to study details. Dainty fingertips caress the surface of the mirror closest to a backyard window. Her eyes dart to the waning sun outside, then she peers up at Old-Man Win. “Good, right?”

“Excellent,” he agrees.

Markeston isn’t his jovial, calm self. He’s busy impressing my soon-to-be fiancée’s mother. It’s the funniest thing; the man himself straightened a little within his five-foot six-inch frame as soon as she walked in the door, and truth be told, she cleans up nicely.

Margaret’s got a red skirt going, some matching top and bunned-up blonde hair, and makeup that has her looking rosy-cheeked and as beamy as her daughter in the right mood. I almost groan at that, because it’s been weeks since I had my girl to myself.

Last night, we let her mother use my bedroom, while Paislee and I opened the couch in the living room. Between Simon hogging her and no doors to lock, all I got was insanely tight hugs and massages slippery with juices.

Tonight I’m booking a hotel.

“Please, I’ve got room, Margaret,” I overhear Markeston say to Paislee’s mother. “Mr. Win’s isn’t my only guest room. It would be an honor to set you up for the night.”

“Oh no, I can’t thank you enough for paying for the ticket in the first place. This is all too much. I could never…” her mother breathes, trailing off softly. I can see where Paislee gets it from now. One look at Markeston, and I suspect a future fellow prisoner of love for the Cain women. I suppress a smile.

“Mr. Markeston—”

“Oh call me Rick,” he pleads more than says.

“Rick…” she sighs, and it’s got to go straight south on Markeston.

I glance at my girl. Incredulous, her stare flickers between Markeston and her mother. I meet her gaze, purse my face in a playful frown, silently asking her to not interfere: Markeston’s offer could be
really
good for us. She slinks closer, curling herself into my side, shoulders hunched and nose rubbing my chest like we’re already horizontal and cuddling. I just—

“Love you. I love you.”

“And I love you. Five more weeks, Keyon.”

The phone buzzes in my pocket, and it better be who I think it is. “Hold on. Business,” I say, kissing her forehead and loosening her grip. She’s mildly disappointed, but I clarify, “The contract. There’s that last point I need to negotiate. Two minutes?”

She nods, smile brightening from the pouty-lipped version she wore for a second. I step into the hallway, check the screen, and pick up.

“I can’t find the exit,” he says, annoyed.

“It’s fifty-seven,” I say.

“Not fifty-four?”

“There is no exit fifty-four. Keep going. Unless you’ve passed it?”

“I’m at... Umm. Just passed fifty-five.”

“You’re almost here then. There’s no fifty-six either, so the next one is—”

“Weird, man.”

“Yeah, just deal with it.” I rub my forehead, surprised at how my heart’s speeding. Phone convos don’t usually rile me up like I’m on a beach sprint.

“I see it,” he murmurs, voice low.

“You gonna be all right?” I ask, because who the hell knows.

“What’s gonna stop me from that?” the fucker says. “I’m always okay.”

I get the impulse to noogie him when he arrives for being a smartass. “Good. Five minutes tops.”

“See ya,” he throws out and hangs up.

PAISLEE

“Sorry. A minute
?” Keyon slides a hand around my hip and looks at Old-Man for permission to pull me away. Of course Old-Man nods, and Markeston instantly includes Mom in their group so Old-Man won’t be examining the finalized hall of mirrors on his own.

My boyfriend gives me a quick hug in the hallway before he turns me to him. “Paislee, steel yourself, okay? Promise me you won’t have a heart attack.”

It’s true that hearts can leap into people’s throats, because mine instantly anchors itself to my esophagus. “Sure, what’s going on?”

It’s dark in this damn hallway. I can’t read his expression. He pulls me behind him through more rooms until we hit the lobby. He widens the front doors for me, letting me through first.

My self-confidence is better, but it has no skyrocket switch and I can’t lie and say I’m not afraid of bad, bad news right now; Keyon has a history of making himself scarce. If he tells me he’s leaving for Vegas alone, I can’t fall apart here. I’ll have to wait until I’m alone.

Light floods the end of the driveway. Dusk is setting in, making the little car approaching us look ethereal. I peek at Keyon by my side. He doesn’t speak, just looks down the palm-tree-lined driveway, waiting with me as if that’s what we’re doing.

I make up a film clip where it’s a friend of his coming. We want to make sure he finds his way in safely. He’s a lover of all things mirror, and Keyon has told him what this particular hall is like.

In an effort to extract a last piece of intimacy, I hook my arms around Keyon’s waist, my chin hitting the hollow right beneath his arm.

He folds me in, to comfort me, I’m sure. He’ll start explaining why we’re out here any moment now. Or maybe he’ll wait until that car is out of the way, maid, whatever, so that he can talk to me in peace, perhaps explain more than he did the last time we—

Broke up.

He clears his throat as the car comes to a stop by the biggest fountain all the way in the front. I don’t want him to drop his bomb until the maid is out of the way. Polite, I nod at her windshield.

“Looky,” Keyon says, giving me a squeeze. I close my eyes, suppressing the heartbreak in my throat.

Enjoy the last seconds.

The maid steps out of the car. A man, not a woman. The butler? The gardener? One of the fighters. No, he’s younger. Tall, muscular, shoulders broad and erect like he’s comfortable with himself and where he is.

A mohawk combs his coiffure upward. Perfectly shaved on the sides, it speaks of individualism, a need to stand out that I’ve seen every day on my computer lately.

“Hey, man.” Keyon is the first to speak. “I figured this was a good time since it’s the last time we’ll be in Tampa together for a while.”

The man looks at me from the shadows below the porch. I wish he’d step up closer. He can’t stop looking.

“Yeah, good call,” he says, and that voice… I don’t know it, no. I don’t, and yet I do.

He steps up, into the porch light, and my knees give under me. Keyon catches me before I fall. My eyes remain wide, open, so open, and I never want to blink.

It’s not a man after all. It’s a boy. This boy turned eighteen yesterday, another year without me to light his candles.

“Sis,” he says, voice broken like it must have been when he hit puberty. “Wow. Paislee.”

“Why didn’t you answer my Facebook messages?” I say first of everything. Cugs has no reply, just those dark eyes locking with mine.

“Thanks for accepting my friendship,” Keyon murmurs.

“Keyon ‘The Avenger’ Arias wanted to be my friend. How could I not?” The angle to his mouth indicates he’s being funny, but his stare eats up the years separating us.

“Baby,” I sob out. They look at me. It makes sense, because they’re both baby to me. “You’re crazy, you know that? Scare me like this. Baby, baby brother. Finally.” I throw myself around Cugs’ neck, and he crushes me so tight.

“Shit, Sis, I’m sorry I didn’t respond. Ever since we left, Dad has—”

“I don’t care. You’re here. I love you so much you have no freaking idea.”

“I sort of do.” He chuckles dryly against my cheek. “Fifty-nine Facebook messages.”

“Seriously? That’s how many it’s been and you did
nothing
? I hate you.” The way I slump against him must be what tells him I’m the me of always, that I hate him no more than I did when I yelled at him for using one of my Barbies for his despicable experiments. His smile is broad when I pull out to stare at him some more.

“Sis. I can’t even tell you how good it is to see you.”