Shadows You Left

by Jude Sierra

  “I’m sorry if you hated it,” River said before he could bite it back.

  “I didn’t.” Defensive tension tightened Erik’s shoulders. He took a breath. River knocked his booted foot against Erik’s shin. “It was new. I don’t know much about art, but—” Erik looked down—“how much you love it, listening to you talk about it… You were my favorite part.”

  River chewed on the inside of his cheek. “Me?”

  “Oh, and the gray blobs,” Erik said with a wink and a grin. River scoffed and rolled his eyes, but Erik snorted a laugh and continued. “You surprised me, I think. I got to see what you’re passionate about, what you love. There’s a lot I don’t know about you, a lot I want to know. Today was about River, the artist.”

  “That’s always me, though.” River’s hackles rose, an old insecurity exposed. “Tattooing is—”

  “Easy, babe, I didn’t mean it like that.” Erik leaned forward. “Tattooing is art, of course it is, but today was about something different.”

  River exhaled slowly. Their server came to collect their orders, and River took that time to rein himself in.

  “Maybe sometime I could see more of your stuff. If you’ll show me?”

  “It’s not—it’s nothing gallery worthy,” River warned.

  “I don’t know about that,” Erik said, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Hearing you talk about those sculptures, I think I really understood something. You paint beautiful things, but they mean a lot more than what’s just on the canvas, right?”

  River nodded, hoping Erik wouldn’t ask for more. Some of his pieces eviscerated him. They whispered and shouted and demanded a telling of stories River didn’t have words for. Secrets he wasn’t ready to lay bare.

  “Do you want that?”

  “What?” River tilted his head.

  “To be in a gallery. To show your work?”

  That particular question circled his body and squeezed his heart—a question that was the root of so many things. That prodded where his desires and fears spoke but refused to be heard by anyone but him.

  “Sometimes,” River forced out. Erik eyed him, waited in the silence for more. “You know, I almost took you somewhere else.”

  “Yeah?”

  “There’s this gallery called Soil. It’s run by Seattle artists. It’s more of a collective. In another life, maybe a place I’d have wanted to show at. Or aspire to.” He rolled his eyes.

  “What do you mean, another life?”

  “When I went to Cornish, I thought I was someone totally different from who I really am. That’s one of the reasons I left. I love art. I want to make it. But it has to be on my terms, and it has to be honest; I think all good art does. Honesty can mean any number of things, but trying to be someone I wasn’t killed my desire to create.”

  “That why you dropped out?”

  “Yeah. It was the right choice for me. This is my best life—right now. I don’t know who I’ll be in the future, but I like who I am in this moment. I like the different kinds of art I make. My style isn’t… I mean, it’ll never be cutting edge or experimental or unique, not the kind that makes it into that kind of gallery. But I have enough ego that sometimes I wish it were.”

  “You? Ego?” Erik laughed. Crumbs lingered at the corner of his lips. River wanted to brush them away, wished they were home and he could kiss them off, lick slowly into Erik’s mouth.

  “Not that kind.” River couldn’t explain what he meant, for the articulation of that drive underneath creation, the self that trusted the attempt, even when the product might not live up to expectation.

  “Well.” Erik brushed his fingers off and took a long pull from his beer. “I don’t know much about art, but I do know that when you were talking about the weird gray blob sculptures, it was sexy as hell.” River laughed, because Erik made it easy to. Because even if he didn’t understand all the things River was passionate about, he was trying to understand River—the pieces he’d seen, the man he’d been shown. “And your art. I haven’t seen a lot, and I want to see more, but River…” Erik’s gaze was steady, intent on River’s eyes. “There’s a reason why I trust you with my dragons. Your art blows me away.”

  “Speaking of dragons, when’s your next fight?” River asked, a way to steer the conversation to something less intense.

  Erik tilted his head. He touched the top of River’s hand and stroked the length of his middle finger. “Tomorrow,” he said. Hesitation betrayed him. A reluctance. Fear, maybe. “It’s a rematch.”

  “You’ll be okay, right?” That wasn’t what River had meant to say, but he let the question linger.

  “Yeah.” It was a lie. River saw it in his tense brow and forced smile. He knew it in the set of his mouth and the way his touch paused for a breath, another, until he laid his hand over River’s and gripped. “Yeah, of course.”

  River wanted to believe him. He wished he could.

  Chapter Nineteen

  The Warehouse was made for violence.

  Situated on the water in the industrial district, the large concrete building sported roll-up doors and dim lighting. Pete paid security well enough to keep the attendees quiet about the location, but that didn’t wash away the stains on the cement. Blood had soaked into the floor. It soured the air.

  Erik wrapped his hands in tape and glanced at the makeshift bar—a row of fold-out tables draped in black cloth. Desiree stood behind them, gaze tense and back straight. He hated fighting here. She hated bartending here. This place, these fights, they were always barbaric, but Pete paid them double at the Warehouse, so Erik fought, and Desiree poured.

  Maybe it was the atmosphere, the actual cage built of grate and steel in the middle of the room. Perhaps it was the reality of it, of being what he was and doing what he did.

  Fights at Gem and Virgo made him feel like a fighter.

  Fights at the Warehouse made him feel like a monster.

  “It’s Johnson,” Desiree said. She nodded toward the ring and Erik followed her gaze to the fighter beside it, a tall, lean guy with olive skin and a shaved head. “He’s back for blood, Erik. This is a revenge match.”

  “I’ll be fine,” he said.

  “Be careful.” She touched his shoulder and sighed, gesturing toward the entrance with a wave. “Go get them before they get in trouble, please.”

  Jadis craned their neck, dwarfed by a hooded black coat. Erik snorted and stalked through the buzzing crowd until he snatched their wrist.

  “What’re you doing here?” He let them go once he had their attention.

  Jadis shrugged. “Money to be made,” they said. They slapped a tiny bag into his palm and grinned. “That’s on me. Meet me in ten?”

  He felt the edge of the cellophane with his thumb. “Yeah,” Erik mumbled.

  He shouldn’t, but as soon as Jadis slipped the coke into his hand, Erik knew he’d use it. Despite Lee. Despite his conscience. Despite Desiree shaking her head at him from the bar. None of it mattered. He’d snort two lines, let his heartbeat drown out everything else, and get in the ring.

  This is how people lose themselves, Erik. Lee’s voice colored a memory too distant to be visual. It stung all the same. They pretend they’re invincible.

  Erik met Jadis in the bathroom ten minutes later. Jadis cradled a bump of coke in the hollow of their thumb and lifted it to Erik’s nostril. Their eyes bored into him, hollow blue pits. Sometimes he wished they’d get help.

  “Desiree told me this is a rematch,” Jadis said.

  Erik nodded. “We fought a few months ago.”

  “Rumor has it, he’s got a grudge.”

  Erik snorted another bump and pinched his nose, wincing when the drip started, a chemical burn down the back of his throat. Jadis handed him a beer, and he took a sip.

  “Yeah,” he rasped, “well, rumors are rumors.”

  “Don’t get cocky, O’Malley.” They shot him a grin and shoved the empty baggy in the garbage on their way out.

  He leaned aga
inst the wall and watched Jadis go, the thrum of adrenaline building in his bones, mingling with the hot spike of drugs in his system. He played with his phone, scrolled through Instagram, then Facebook, until an unread message made his breath catch.

  Beverly: I wanna see you. Seattle, right?

  Guilt ate at him, but he didn’t have time, patience, or room for it. Beverly would bring with her everything he’d been trying to forget, and he wasn’t ready for that. For her. For Lee. To be okay with what happened. To face the wreck he’d made and abandoned.

  The clank clank clank of a crowbar on metal signaled the start of the main event. People cheered when Johnson was announced, whooping and hissing. This was a mean audience that wanted blood. Erik stripped his shirt off and stuffed it in a cubby with his coat and phone. He couldn’t think about Beverly right now. He couldn’t think about anything.

  A referee dragged the crowbar along the sides again before pointing it at Erik, who slipped through the door of the cage without lifting his gaze from the floor. He was there to get paid. To fight. To win. To leave. He repeated that to himself while he flexed his hands, listening to the crowd growl and whoop around him.

  “Fighters! You fight until a knockout or a tap out. Understood?” The ref was a middle-aged man with umber skin and a black goatee. He pointed at Erik. Erik nodded. He pointed at Johnson. Johnson nodded. “If I intervene, the fight ends. Ready?”

  Erik tracked the room outside the cage. Faces were distorted through the wire and grate, blurred by bars and the barely-there light. Desiree stared at him, mouth tight. Jadis was busy talking to a group by the bar. But along the wall, in the very back of the room, he caught a pair of familiar eyes.

  Shock hit like a bucket of ice dumped down his back.

  River watched him carefully, lips thinned, apprehension steady on his face. He did not belong here, and it seemed like they both understood that. But it was too late. River was about to see everything Erik had tried to keep from him.

  Erik stared, trying and failing to get his heartbeat under control. River’s hood was pulled over his head, and his coat was zipped tight, hands stuffed in his pockets. His lips parted, he took a breath, and Erik finally ripped his gaze away.

  Erik wore anger like he wore clothes, and River had obviously caught on.

  “Fight!”

  The crowd erupted. Lights slid toward the cage, illuminating Erik and Johnson. Focus. He dodged the first jab, stepped back when Johnson barreled toward him, and whipped around the cage, dodging another two hits. Focus. Focus. Erik landed a hit to Johnson’s torso but didn’t go unpunished for it.

  He hadn’t been quick enough. Before Erik could jerk back his arm, Johnson’s hand was around his wrist, dragging him forward. A sharp knee met Erik’s rib cage. He was flipped around and tossed against the cage wall, face smashed against the chain-link. His knees buckled, but he stayed on his feet.

  “I got you this time, O’Malley,” Johnson said. He twisted Erik’s arm backward until Erik was gasping and clawing at the grate. “Tap, or I’ll snap your fucking wrist.”

  Erik gritted his teeth and threw his elbow backward, jamming it into Johnson’s stomach. He wrenched away and swept to the other side of the cage. His wrist burned. Johnson, who was angrier than hurt, punched Erik in the cheek, then once more in the jaw.

  Fuck. High pitched ringing filled his ears. He tasted blood.

  Another hit, knuckles right below his eye. Even the crowd had gone quiet. Erik could hear the splatter of his own blood hitting the floor.

  “Tap, you fuckin’ idiot!” It was Desiree’s desperate, shrill voice.

  Erik was too mad, too prideful, too reckless. He spat a mouthful of blood at his feet. Johnson was careless now. He saw it in his relaxed shoulders, his smirk, the lazy way he held his arms, and that meant it was over. As soon as Johnson threw another punch, Erik grabbed his fist and jerked Johnson forward. His knuckles cracked against Johnson’s brow, then his mouth, sending him toppling to the floor.

  Fighting was predatory. It was timing and willingness to bleed for a win. It was being mean enough to pin someone against the ground, strong enough to feel the skin on your knuckles split against someone’s teeth and not care.

  Blood hit Erik’s chest. It wasn’t his own. He hovered over Johnson, hitting him again and again and again.

  Finally, the ref said, “It’s over! I’m calling it!”

  Erik immediately stopped. His fist hovered over Johnson, who coughed and quivered beneath him. He stood and hauled Johnson up with him. When Johnson’s friends scrambled to carry him, Erik very quietly said, “His jaw might be broken,” before he walked out of the cage.

  The crowd gave him a wide berth. They always did, but tonight was different. Erik had to focus to stay upright, to keep his knees from giving out. He swallowed hard and tried not to wince when Desiree appeared suddenly, a damp rag against his face, removing blood and sweat.

  “You okay?” She eyed him up and down.

  He shook his head. “My rib might be broken.” His hands trembled, knuckles red and battered. “And River’s here.”

  “No, he’s fuckin’ not,” Desiree snapped, as aggressively upset for Erik as Erik was himself.

  Jadis skidded to a stop in front of them. Their eyes were wide, a startled, sleepless animal. “Jesus, Erik. You good?”

  “No,” he bit. “Check my left side.”

  Jadis immediately grabbed Erik’s rib cage. They weren’t gentle, but Erik was prepared for it. Ever since they’d become friends, Jadis had used their massage therapy skills—something they acquired during their third stint in rehab—to check his body for broken this or fractured that. Jadis felt along his sore side and shook their head. “All good. Probably just a bad bruise.”

  “Good. Can you get my shit for me?” Erik winced when Desiree touched the skin below his left eye.

  Jadis scurried off to get his clothes and phone.

  “He busted some blood vessels in your eye, sweetie,” Desiree whispered. “Ice it, okay? Ice everything. Don’t come to work this weekend.”

  “Des—”

  “Do not even go there,” she snapped. “Rest. Stay awake for at least two hours when you get home.”

  The cocaine was still fresh in his system. “I won’t be sleeping,” he muttered.

  Jadis returned with his things. Erik pulled his shirt on and winced as he slid his arms into his coat. The ref brought him a wad of cash, which he immediately shoved in his pocket. A hand touched his arm, and Jadis whispered, “Your partner…”

  Desiree and Jadis took their leave when River stepped forward, footsteps light and slow. Erik glanced at him but couldn’t bring himself to speak. Everything still hurt—everything. Shame bristled on his skin. A steady, anxious dread radiated inside him. River saw you, it whispered. He knows what you are.

  River said Erik’s name, two broken, whispered syllables, but Erik interrupted anything else he might have said with a clipped, “Don’t,” and walked away.

  Brisk night air met him, but he didn’t make it far. Once he was outside, he leaned against the shadowed wall of the Warehouse and tried to breathe. His chest ached. He ran his tongue along his teeth to make sure they were all there.

  Footsteps again. A shaky breath. River’s cologne.

  “You’re hurt, Erik. You’re really hurt,” River said softly. He touched Erik’s jaw, and when Erik jerked away, his fingers caught his chin. “Stop. Just let me.”

  “Remember when I asked you not to come?” Erik’s voice was cold and hollow. “Remember that, River? When I explicitly told you no?”

  “Yeah, I get it, okay? Just—Erik, stop!” River’s breath hitched. He laid a hand on Erik’s chest and flinched when Erik twitched away, a soft whimper bitten between his teeth. “Let me take you home.”

  “No.”

  “Erik.”

  “I said—”

  “I don’t fucking care what you said!” River’s voice wobbled. He swallowed hard and wrapped his hand around Erik
’s wrist, a gentle, loose hold.

  “I didn’t want you to see me like this,” Erik choked out, and meekly met his eye.

  “Come on,” River whispered. He tugged until Erik followed him. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”

  Chapter Twenty

  River hadn’t expected an actual cage, much less one like this. This was no well-situated MMA-style cage. It was thrown together, the floor under it stained. River would bet ten-to-one the bar wasn’t legal. No way a place like this had a liquor license. Jadis was there, cloaked, fluttering from person to person. Money and drugs passed hands. The violence in the room was palpable. Patrons muttered amongst themselves, hungry for blood.

  O’Malley better watch his back, Johnson’s out for blood.

  This’ll be a good one. No one’s leaving that cage whole.

  River pulled his hood up and scanned the room. Erik had shed any trace of the person River knew. When he glanced at the crowd and caught River’s eye, fury burned, snapping heat that River felt across the distance. In the blink of an eye, Erik redirected it toward his opponent, anger and violence chilling River more than the teeming cold of the Warehouse.

  Paris, Paris, Paris.

  He wanted to shout it when Erik was pinned. He bit his lips raw to keep it in and watched blood splatter Erik’s face and chest. A moment came and went, a breath in which River really thought it, almost meant it, when the limit of what he was willing to watch was under his feet and slipping past him. It paused and rewound the moment Erik stopped beating his opponent.

  That violence, what seemed like uncontrolled rage, stopped at the drop of a hat on the ref’s command. River closed his eyes. His whole body was a mess of tremors and cold sweat, his stomach heaving. But still, he thought, this can be saved.

  …

  It rained steadily while they waited for a car. With water on his lips and in his eyes, Erik was too far away. His distance ached more than the cold.