Beneath the Surface (22 page)

She received a few odd looks from the people standing on the curb.

Dale no longer cared. She was done.

“Dale, you can’t—”

“I can and I have. I’m not here to take your shit anymore. I’m an employee, not a doormat.” After pulling his bag from the backseat, she dropped it at his feet and got back in her car. “So the choice is yours now.

Either you go through those doors and prove everyone wrong, or you keep snorting the white shit. Your choice. I no longer care.”

Dale fought the tears, taking deep, cleansing breaths as she pulled away. She told herself not to look in her rearview mirror. Seeing Taylor’s shocked expression would make her turn around, and that would serve no purpose. The kind of choice Taylor had to make wasn’t one she could help him with. He was alone, as was she.

The journey home took forever. All Dale wanted to do was curl up in her bed and sob. Every muscle in her body ached. Her thoughts kept drifting back to the clinic and Taylor’s face as he stared at her from the sidewalk. Guilt twisted in her gut, the feeling so intense she felt the physical tremors of pain.

Whimpering and clutching at her stomach, Dale parked her car and locked it up before walking into her apartment building. She was halfway up the stairs when she remembered her mail and walked back down to the |

mailboxes. Her key hadn’t worked for months; the super had promised he’d fix it. She had now given up hoping that it would be sorted anytime soon.

Dale’s mail hung out of the slot. One white envelope with a typed address intrigued her, so she pulled it from her mailbox. It didn’t look like a bill, though she tried to think of any that were past due. Tearing it open as she walked back up the stairs, Dale pulled out the contents when she got to her front door.

She frowned. Inside the envelope was a long rectangular piece of card.

A thin blue border decorated the edge, but it held no words. The sheet was blank. Too tired to think, she tossed it into the trash can when she entered her apartment, and walked straight into her bedroom. Still fully clothed, Dale crawled onto the bed and pulled the duvet over her head. It muffled her sobs and soaked up her tumbling tears until she fell into a fitful sleep.

“I think you’ve had enough, sis,” Trace said as he removed Dale’s empty glass from her hand.

Dale growled at him, making a drunken move to snatch the tumbler back. Her head hurt but nowhere near as much as her heart. The decision to come to Metro had been a stupid one, and the decision to get drunk was even worse. Luckily, Trace was working; he would look after her.

“I need another one.” Her words began to slur.

“No. Besides the fact that
I
decide who I serve, there’s also the additional fact that you’re my sister, and I don’t want to be fishing you out of the gutter when my shift is over. So for that reason, I’m cutting you off.”

“You can’t do that.”

“I can and I just did.”

Dale slouched over the bar, not concerned with the spilled beer seeping into the fabric of her sleeve. Her vision was starting to blur, Trace becoming fuzzy around the edges. Her mouth felt weird, as if her tongue was too big.

“My tongue feels funny.” Dale swirled it around her mouth and across her teeth.

The corner of her brother’s mouth twitched. “Okay, then I definitely think you’ve had enough. I’ll call you a cab.”

“No.”

“I’m not doing this
yes
and
no
shit, D. You need to go home and sleep it off.”

“I want to stay.” She tried to sound determined but it came out more whiny. “You can drive me home.”

Trace shook his head and pushed his hair from his eyes. “No can do. I don’t have my car. Emmie is picking me up after my shift—I’m staying at her place tonight.”

Dale slapped her palm on the bar, wincing as the pain reverberated through her hand and wrist. “She can drop me off, then.”

Sighing, Trace rested his elbows on the bar and leaned as close as he could. “She lives on the other side of the city, so no, she can’t. Dale, you’re drunk. I have a job to do here and it’s not looking after you while you’re drunk. You should go home
now
.”

The way he said
now
cleared her fogged brain a bit. “Why now?

What’s going on?”

Trace pointed across the room. A crowd had started to gather, the people growing anxious and noisy. Most nights it was quiet at the club and only ever got exciting when it was fight night.

“What’s going on?” she asked again, her brain not working as fast as usual.

“Tonight, um, well, it’s fight night.”

“No, it’s not.” Dale looked from Trace to the gathering group of customers.

Trace pointed again. This time it was toward the locker room door.

Dale already knew who her brother was pointing at. Her stomach flipped, the alcohol sloshing and threatening to make another appearance. She had come tonight certain she was safe from bumping into Kyran. Her resolve wasn’t that strong. If she saw him sweaty and pumped, she’d fall at the man’s feet.

“He asked for this fight,” Trace shouted as the noise level increased.

Dale held her breath as the door opened and Kyran walked out. He didn’t scan the room for her like he usually did, his posture wasn’t relaxed, and he wasn’t warming his muscles. In fact, his entire body was rigid, and his muscles bulged as his eyes pierced his opponent. His frame appeared thinner, though it was impossible for him to have lost enough weight to do that in the time since she’d seen him last. His skin was also paler, and his tattooed arms stood out against his white torso.

Dale’s first instinct was to run to him, but then her stomach reminded her just how much she’d drunk. After the amount of liquor she’d downed, Dale doubted she could walk across the room, let alone run. She supposed that was a good thing. It would be masochistic to take a step back now.

Kyran didn’t love her and never would.

That resolution didn’t stop her watching, though. She twisted around on her stool, wrapped her arms around her middle, and waited for the fight to start. A throbbing began at her temples—every cheer causing the thump to increase—and when the first punch was thrown, she cringed as the crowd bellowed.

Kyran circled the chalk ring, holding his bandaged fists up, guarding his face. His opponent threw random hooks, none of them on target to hit Kyran. Dale almost laughed out loud. The guy had never seen Kyran fight.

The one time he’d been caught cold was the night she had come to see Trace, the night Kyran’s competitor sucker-punched him.

It concerned her that Kyran wasn’t fighting the way he usually did.

Either he was angry or his focus was elsewhere. Neither was a good thing if he wanted to win the fight. Dale managed to hold back the urge to shout.

Kyran’s mood wouldn’t get any better if he saw her there, especially in her drunken state. So she sat on her hands and chewed on her bottom lip in an attempt to silence herself.

Kyran began to sweat, and as one punch got a little too close to his eye, he stumbled back.

“He shouldn’t be doing this.”

|

Dale looked to her left. Sam stood next to her, leaning back against the bar and assessing the fight just like she had been. She hadn’t seen him approach. Sam seemed concerned, worrying his hands and frowning over at the two men circling one another.

“Why is he?”

“I thought maybe you could answer that.”

“Why me?” she asked defensively, and shot Kyran a quick glance when she heard the whooping of the crowd. Kyran had landed a decent uppercut to the other man’s jaw. She caught herself before she jumped up and cheered for him.

“Well.” Sam frowned. “You and he had the . . .
thing,
and now you don’t. It doesn’t take a genius to know he’s hurt and pissed. This is where he comes when he needs to shed the shit.”

“Take your concern to the offending person. That isn’t me. Taylor’s the issue here.”

Sam raised a white brow. “You think his head is full of his
brother
right now?”

Dale’s head started to spin; she didn’t want to think at all, let alone consider what was happening in Kyran’s head right now. She’d tried to keep their relationship what he wanted. Dale wore herself out with it until there had been nothing left.

“I don’t know what he’s thinking. I just know he’s not fighting right. I know he’s not blocking those jabs as he should.” She raised her voice, annoyed that Sam blamed her. “And I know he doesn’t fucking love me, so none of this is my doing.”

Sam nodded and shot her a quick smile. “Now I get it.” He patted her shoulder. “Forgive an old man for the miscommunication?”

“You’re not old, and you knew just what you were saying.

Miscommunication, my ass.”

The crowd boomed, and she and Sam turned to see Kyran stagger, blood seeping from a cut above his eye.

“Oh God,” Dale moaned, sickness burning its way up her throat.

“Sam, get him to stop. Call time.” She panicked. “Do something.”

Sam reached for her hand and held it tight. “I can’t. He either pulls it back or says hello to the floor.”

Kyran took another punch, this time to the jaw. He pulled back and put space between him and his competitor. Dale could see the deep breaths he took and the way he shook his head as he tried to gain some focus. She felt utterly powerless.

“Sam, please.” She begged him, knowing it was useless. “Sam!”

Her last exclamation was shouted, and Kyran heard it. He turned in her direction, and Dale saw what was going to happen before he did. She didn’t even have a chance to warn him. His competitor threw his arm out, hooking his fist and slamming it into the side of Kyran’s face. His blood spurted over some of the crowd, and they gasped in shock as Kyran went down and hit the floor.

“Oh fuck. Watch the bar,” Trace said to the other bartender before jumping over the bar, almost reaching Kyran before Dale.

Her body shook as she reached out to touch Kyran’s forehead. “Ky?

Wake up, it’s me. I’m here. I came.”

Trace felt for a pulse at Kyran’s neck and shouted for Sam to help carry him into the locker room, away from the agitated crowd. “He’s going to be real pissed when he wakes up to find out he lost. The other guy better start running now.”

“It’s not funny, Trace,” Dale said.

Her brother heaved Kyran up by the shoulders, and Sam got his feet.

“I’m not laughing, D. Just stating a fact. Kyran never loses. He’ll beat the guy to a pulp. When he wakes up, that is.”

Dale stared at the floor where Kyran’s head had been, gagging at the pool of bright red blood. Her stomach churned, and her throat constricted as an acrid taste filled her mouth. “T-Trace, the blood . . .”

“Kyran hit his head when he fell. Head wounds bleed badly, but most of the time the cut’s tiny. We’ll check him out, sis. Promise.”

Dale opened the door and swallowed in an attempt to stop the sickness. She couldn’t tear her eyes away from Kyran, and a mantra of hope repeated in her head. She’d seen him after he’d been knocked out before—the blood scared her then, as well, along with the way he’d acted during the fight. They needed to talk, but whenever they did, they ended up in one place. Bed.

“D, can you get some towels to support his head? Sam and I will see to his cuts.” Trace placed Kyran gently onto the cushioned bench.

Sam waved his hands toward the door, looking at Trace. “You have the bar to deal with. You go. Dale can help me clean him up.”

“You sure?”

Sam had barely nodded before Trace slammed the door closed behind him. Dale continued to watch Kyran, stroking his forehead and soothing herself more than him. His skin appeared grayer, much sallower than it had earlier. His cheekbones were sharper, and the darkness of the skin under his eyes almost matched the shade of his long eyelashes.

Dale wanted to think he had been as upset about the state of their relationship as she had been, but in reality, she doubted it. Kyran didn’t love her, and therefore he couldn’t feel as bad about it ending. After all, he could have sex with whomever he wanted. He didn’t have to wait for her.

Kyran mumbled as Sam placed a cool cloth on his forehead. Her heart leapt at the sound.

“You’ll have to trash that shirt.” Sam pointed at her stomach. Blood marred her cream-colored cotton top.

“I look like I’m an extra in a horror movie.”

“He’ll be okay, you know. The cut doesn’t even need a suture. The only thing hurting him will be his pride.”

Kyran moved again and moaned. His eyelids fluttered, but he didn’t open them. Knowing he was conscious was enough to ease her sickness, though she wouldn’t feel comfortable until his eyes met hers.

“Kyran, open your eyes. I need to know you’re okay. Please?” Dale said. He moved a little, but his eyes stayed closed. “Damn you.”

|

“Always so high strung,” Kyran muttered, reaching out. Dale took hold of his hand right away.

“You scared the life out of me.”

Sam dabbed at the cut on Kyran’s eyebrow and then the one on his jaw. “Scared that girl good. Next time watch the other fighter, not your woman.”

Sam walked to the sink and rinsed the towel, leaving them alone.

“It’s your fault anyway,” Kyran said, his voice breaking slightly.

Bristling at his accusation, Dale battled to stay calm. “I’m not arguing with you right now, Kyran. You’re in no state to defend yourself. However, I will ask why you think this is my fault?”

Kyran tried to sit up, pressing his elbows deep into the cushion. Dale tucked her arm around his waist and helped him up. She watched him blink to clear his vision. He rolled his head a bit as he gained his equilibrium, and when he turned his gaze on her, she fought to gain her own. She hated the effect he had on her body and despised the effect on her heart. Maybe she would feel differently if he reciprocated her love . . . but he didn’t, and she couldn’t force him to.

Kyran tugged on the hem of her top until she moved closer to his face.

“You distracted me.” His voice was raspy. “I didn’t expect you to be here.”

“Ditto.” His warm breath fanned her cheek, and he still clutched her bloody top. The heavy pounding of her heart had just started to slow, but because of his touch, it began to escalate. At least her nausea had disappeared. “You scared me, Ky. I mean really scared me.”