by Emilia Finn
I stop in first position, lift my arms, then my legs lift high when Mac runs at me and lifts me from behind.
My heart races with exhilaration now rather than nerves. Rather than heartbreak. My smile is real, when it hasn’t been for a week. My vision is as clear now as it is in the octagon. My brain slows everything down, helps me process and perfect every single stance, and who cares if I’m heavier than I should be? So is Mac! We’ve worked on it together, so when he lifts me again, exactly as choreographed, I let go of my insecurity and count on his new strength to do it right.
“Get ready, beautiful.” He sets me down on my feet, pushes away so I can spin and check, spin and check, spin and check.
I smile on each revolution, and on the third, Mac takes my hips and places me exactly where I should be.
“You ready to fly?”
“Oh god.”
But it’s too late, because he dances his way to his mark, laughs at himself as he tries to roll his hips and just can’t manage it.
Men’s hips are so different to women’s, and only a special few can roll them the way Rudy can.
I shoot a fast glance to Soph. She’s not playing. Gone is the kind instructor with the honey this, honey that. Gone is the understanding woman trying to help the scared girl. In her place is the tyrant who swore I could never get my leg high enough on the arabesque.
Her eyes scream at me. Don’t fuck it up! Don’t you dare fuck it up!
Or maybe that’s just my insecurity projecting.
My eyes flick to Mac’s, to his waiting hands, to his grounded feet and bent knees.
“Run,” he mouths. “Fuckin’ run.”
I’ve never jumped out of a plane before. I’ve never run toward fire. Or stepped off a cliff. I’ve never bungee jumped, or white water rafted. I’ve never met anyone famous unless they were a fighter. And I’ve never nearly spewed from nerves. But here I stand, and I swear, it feels like I’m stepping off the edge of the Earth.
Jay-Z’s voice marks my cue, his chorus, his encouraging demands, and then he declares it so. I run toward Mac, I leap, and when he catches my hips, he lifts me so high that it feels like flying. Straight up, high, higher, higher, until I move into a pirouette nine or so feet above the stage floor. I point my toes, despite the fact I’m not standing on them, hold my posture, and at Mac’s signal, I flip into arabesque.
Soph hollers from her spot when my leg lifts higher than it ever has before.
Adrenaline helps me over the line, it helps me breathe deeper, to lift higher, to smile wider, and when it’s time, Mac lets me fall.
The crowd gasps as I tumble, they squeal when I stop a mere inch from the floor, and they applaud and whistle when I roll out of his hands, land on my toes with barely a tap against the floor, and simply continue to spin like the world wasn’t just hurtling toward me so fast that I may as well have truly bungee jumped.
The music comes to a close, the final chorus, Jay-Z’s final requests to roar, and then my audience does exactly that. They roar louder than any applause I’ve ever received in the octagon. I don’t have to see them to know they stand, to hear their whistles, to imagine their hands smarting from clapping so hard. And then it all turns so much louder when Mac rushes me, grabs me up and slams his lips against mine.
He’s as breathless as me, panting, sweaty. His hair hangs into his eyes, and his lip bleeds against mine, but he still lifts me into his arms and holds my butt as I wrap my legs around his hips. His breath races down my throat, and when he notices tears on my cheeks, he kisses them away.
“You’re so amazing,” he pants. “You did it. You see that?” He turns us to see Soph screaming her approval.
She jumps on her husband, squeezes him the way I squeeze Mac, and Jay laughs at her craziness… the way Mac laughed at me just an hour ago.
“You’re so fucking perfect, Luce. Now see this?” He turns to the audience. Gestures toward them despite the fact we can’t see them. “You were never born to be in anyone’s shadow. You stood there, you hid, because you thought you couldn’t compete with the craziness of everyone else. But you were born to be lit up by stage lights.”
“I’m so happy right now.” I drop my face to his shoulder, try to wipe tears from my cheeks. “I’m so sad, and so happy, and so… just… everything. I love you.” I pull back. “I’m so conflicted about everything else, because it all feels so bitter and sweet and weird and crazy. But you…” I press my lips to his. “I’m sure about you. I was always so sure about you.”
“I’m sorry I took so long to give in.” Slowly, he sets me down onto my feet, but his arm remains around my waist. “I’m in now, though. For the rest of my life.” He presses a kiss to my forehead. “Also… I kinda forgot to mention we were making love when you were supposed to step into the octagon today and defend your title…” he grins. “Slipped my mind?”
I burst out in tearful laughter. So many tears. “That was such a huge lie, Mac Blair. I can’t believe you did that. I can’t believe you forfeited us both. I can’t believe…” My heart gives a heavy thump. “They’re not here. They’re there, and I’m still in the shadows.”
He flashes a wide grin and shakes his head. Turning to Soph, he gives her some kind of signal, because the very next second, the house lights come on, and in the very first row, the first several rows, my family spills from their seats amid roaring cheers and pumping hands. Smalls stands front and center, hands still in her pink wraps, hair still in a braid. Her jaw is bruised, and a smattering of knuckle-shaped bruises bloom along her chest, but her smile is huge. Ben stands beside her. Katrina. Eric. Mom. Aunt Tina. Aunt Kit. Uncle Bobby, and beside him, Uncle Jon.
“You got them all,” I cry. “Oh my god, you got them all.”
I frantically search the crowd. Uncle Aiden, Grandma Nelly. The whole Checkmate crew; Andi, Riley, Spencer, his sweet wife Abigail. The cops, Uncle Alex, Uncle Oz. Lindsi. Marc. Meg. Meg’s dad. Scotch and Sammy, Juliette, and Laine and Ang. Every single person I’ve ever met fills every seat, they wolf whistle, they clap.
But my heart splinters and snaps away from my chest.
“He’s not here. Mac…” I turn and lose all of the happiness I had. All of the exhilaration. The adrenaline.
Twenty-one years of birthdays and Christmases and training sessions, quiet coffees in the mornings, pancakes, movie days, and the time he tried to teach me how to drive. Twenty-one years of perfection and happy memories blow away like dust when my heart gives up.
“Mac, he’s not here. Daddy…” I bury my face against his chest. “I wanted him to be here.”
“I told you I would never let you fall.” Mac grabs my face, brings it up so he sees my eyes. “And before that, he promised.”
He steps aside so swiftly that I stumble forward, but then a new chest catches me. New lips pepper over my face. New arms wrap me up. And when I can’t stand any longer, when I simply cannot cope, new hands lift me and hold me against his chest like I’m a baby all over again.
“You dance like an angel, Bean. I didn’t…” Daddy’s breath catches with grief. “I’m so sorry I didn’t pay attention.”
“I’m sorry for hurting you.” When he lowers to the floor, crosses his legs, and holds me in his lap like I was a toddler again, I merely manage to curl up and sob against his strong chest. “I’m sorry for hurting you. I swear I never meant to.”
“I don’t want you to ever feel other, baby. You have never been anyone’s but mine. Not from the moment I found out about you. Not from the moment I decided I couldn’t live without you and your mom.” He presses a kiss to my brow. To my cheek. His stubble, hair he doesn’t usually wear on his jaw, scratches against my skin and tugs flyaway hair from my sprayed style. “Please come home. Be with us. Then tell me everything. All of the things I missed because I wasn’t listening properly. I want to hear it all.”
Epilogue
Christmas morning rolls along exactly how Mac predicted; in my home, eating pancakes right beside my dad, wh
ile my mom dances around the kitchen with a smile similar to mine, and my brother walks around talking smack because he got to fight at Stacked Deck this year.
He didn’t win his division, but he’s Jimmy Kincaid Jr.; in looks, in personality. And in his inability to not boast about his accomplishments.
The best part of all was the personally delivered invitation from my dad to my boyfriend.
‘Join us for Christmas. My family is your family.’
Now that our breakfast has been consumed, our presents have been exchanged, and Stacked Deck has officially wound up for the year – Iowa won his division, of course, and is now half a million dollars richer – every Kincaid congregates around the gym while we cook up bacon and eggs for anyone who wants to stop by and hang out.
For as long as I can remember, my family has hosted these breakfasts on Christmas morning, but they’re busier now than they ever were, since Smalls so cleverly scheduled her tournament for the days leading in, and every fighter, victor or loser, refuses to leave town lest they miss something exciting or important.
The lines are long, the snow is light, and now that the tournament has been settled, even those who fought each other chat companionably as they eat and mill around.
“So, anyone else want to talk about how Mac dropped Bean the other night?” Smalls stands beside me, beside Ben, as we fill bread rolls and shuffle the line along. “Lucky catch at the end there.”
“He didn’t drop me!” I laugh. “It was part of the routine.”
“You mean the bit where your nose touched the floor? That was on purpose?”
“My nose did not touch the floor.” My chest bounces with muted laughter as I squirt a dollop of ketchup onto a roll and pass it to the fighter who extends his hand. “Merry Christmas, Troop.”
“Merry Christmas, Miss Kincaid.” He tips his head, moves along the line and repeats. “Miss Kincaid. Thanks for having me this year.”
“You’ll be back next year?”
He flashes a charming grin and rolls his shoulders back. “I’ll be back for as long as my body fights. It’s an honor to be included in your event.” He tips an imaginary hat, then with a wink, he wanders away.
Ben growls. “That dude wants you so bad, Eve. He sends me insane with the country manners bullshit act he puts on.”
“Stop it, Sasquatch.” She leans forward and waits for my eye.
“What?”
“So… Russia? Really?”
I roll my eyes. “No, not really. I’m not going anywhere.”
“But they made the offer. They wanted to buy you, and they would have paid massive zeroes to get you.”
“Plus a goat,” Mac inserts. “They were at the point of adding bottles of vodka and mountain goats to sweeten the deal.”
“So weird they want you,” Ben drawls, “considering dipshit dropped you.”
“He didn’t drop me! And I’m not moving anywhere.”
“Sure felt good to get the offer though, huh?” Smalls fills another roll, passes it to a fighter with a grin and a wink. Then her gaze comes back to me. “Our name is Kincaid, and being a Kincaid has opened doors in the fight world that loads of other names don’t get. But there are no doors for us in the dance world…” she grins. “Until now. And that’s all on you, on your talent. Which, by the way, you hid from us.”
I shrug. “Not much of a talker, I guess. Not everyone likes the spotlight like you.”
She snorts. “But it feels so good, no? All that showboating, the hotdogging, the peacocking… synonyms in our family. But they all apply.”
“You can continue with your bullshit, and I’ll do mine. I like doing it my way.”
“You’re not gonna fight anymore, are you?” Her voice comes lower. Like her words are sacrilege. “You’re quitting?”
I chew on my bottom lip, work methodically as we fill more rolls, squirt more ketchup, and pass out the meals.
“I don’t think I’m quitting,” I hesitate. “More like I’m going to concentrate on school for the next couple months, finish that out, then… well, I dunno. Soph offered me a job, so maybe I’ll take her up on that.” I pass another bacon and egg roll to the next in line. “I used to spend seven hours a day in the gym, one hour in the studio. Maybe next year will be seven in the studio, one in the gym. And that one will still be enough that I can compete.” I step into Mac’s side when he throws an arm around my neck. “It’s time to see my dreams through. But I promise to make time for everyone else’s too.”
“Next year,” Mac says. He’s not angry. Mostly he’s… humored as Iowa steps up with his sweet daughter clutching his hand. “Next year, mofo. It’s gonna be on.”
“I understand that you were too scared to face me.” He skips back with a laugh when Mac lunges forward. He lifts his daughter to his hip, presses her cheek to his. “Please, I have a child. Don’t hit me.”
“Get the f—” Mac’s words cut out on a gurgle when the little girl’s eyes widen with curiosity. “Fudge,” he inserts. “I was gonna say ‘fudge’. And then I was gonna finish it with out of here!”
He leans over the little table we work in front of, brings his face closer to the girl’s, and grins. “Next year, you bring your daddy back, then you close your eyes when I beat the snot out of him.”
Iowa throws his head back and laughs. “If you say so.”
“You heading home today?” Smalls asks. She offers a loaded roll to him, but doesn’t offer one to the little girl.
“Actually, we’re sticking around for today. Bobby Kincaid – former world champion, heavyweight legend, coolest of the cool; you’ve heard of him, right?”
All four of us – the Fearsome Foursome – laugh as one.
Smalls nods. “I’ve heard of him. He’s… honestly? He’s an ice cream hog, and that’s the best thing I can say about him.”
Iowa takes a small bite of his sandwich, and chuckles. “Yeah, well, I don’t know that stuff about him. You know the guy, I know the legend. He asked me to stick around for a minute later. Wants to talk.”
“Yeah?” Her brows pop high. “What about?”
Iowa shrugs and lets his daughter slide down his body when Cass the Cocker Spaniel makes her way over to us. Deck roams around freely, steals food when people turn for just a second, and barks every time anyone tells him to.
I swear, I’m calling the puppy school people on the first of the new year.
As soon as Alyssa is down, Iowa stands tall again, groaning at the pains that sing through his body from the tournament. “He didn’t say. Just that he wanted a minute. You don’t say no to Bobby Kincaid, so…”
“I say no to him all the time,” Smalls says. “Last night, he challenged me to spar for the last turkey leg. I said hell no. This morning, he wanted me to spar for the last of the pancakes. Again, I said hell no, then I ate all of those pancakes like he wasn’t sitting right there with his pout turned on full blast.”
She points at him. Purses her lips. “Uncle Bobby has the pout down to an expert level, so make sure you’re aware of that for your meeting. Whatever he wants, if you say no, he’ll pout.”
Chuckling and moving aside as the line backs up, Iowa grabs Alyssa’s hand and brings her along. “I’ll let you know how it goes. Maybe. I dunno. Depends on what he wants, I suppose.”
Just before turning away to leave, he looks to me and grins. “I saw you dance.”
“You did?”
He nods. “There was an open invitation for the fighters at the tournament. Miss Kincaid,” he nods to Smalls, “rushed the fights through, got the day done by five. Then she told us there was a performance across town she had to be at. Open invite. Lots of folks didn’t go, the angry dudes who lost their fights, but I was there. I got my girl, and hightailed it to the venue. You did real good. Just wanted to tell you that.”
“Thanks.” I curl into Mac’s side, because it’s as true now as it’s always been; where Smalls lives on the praise from her many fans, I shy away from it. I burn up, stum
ble over my words, and eventually, hide. “I appreciate that.”
“I’m sorry about the bit where he dropped you. But other than that.”
Ben’s chest bounces, and a barking laugh echoes in the air around us.
Iowa looks to him, then back to me. “Sorry. He told me to say that. I know he didn’t really drop you.”
I shake my head. “He didn’t. He did it exactly right.”
“You were amazing. And you have a new little fan.” He looks to his daughter, and smiles the way Daddy has always smiled when he spoke of me. “She wants to get into dance now. So maybe when we get home, I’ll sign her up.”
“That would be nice.” I look to Alyssa and grin. “You’ll love it. It feels like flying.”
The End… for now.
The Stacked Deck series continues with Iowa’s story in Full House
Acknowledgments
At the time of writing this, the world was in the grips of that nasty virus that shall not be named, so I thought it would be cool to make note of that here; like a time capsule of sorts.
On this day, my family and I are in isolation. For now, we’re all healthy, we have a newfound pet lizard with two broken legs (I don’t think he’ll survive this apocalypse), and my children have already eaten all the snacks.
We located a rare and precious packet of TP yesterday, and our groceries were delivered a few days ago - so we’re set to hunker down and wait for this virus to do it’s thing.
I hope, by the time this is read by anyone except me, the virus is gone, everyone is well, and the world has found it’s damn sanity.
If it’s not… we’re all fucked.
I should also make mention of those who help me in this book world!
Tink and Kelly. I love you both very much. Thank you for being mine. I SHOULD be with you guys right now, our precious vacay we’ve been planning for two years, but that damn virus ruined it. Instead, I’m spending time with Mac and Bean, and frankly, they’re cooler than you anyway. *shrugs*