The Beat and The Pulse Box Set 2

by Amity Cross

  The men’s change room was bustling, and when I walked in, all eyes turned to me. Instead of hatred, I saw respect. And I fucking hated them for it. I wasn’t a hero. I just did something that needed to be done. I saved a woman’s life only to break her heart.

  I should’ve remained anonymous.

  “Hey, Storm!”

  Narrowing my eyes at the group of fighters huddled in the center of the room, I suppressed the annoyance rising in my gut. Just like a bunch of jocks in high school, they had never wanted to talk to me until I’d done something they deemed worthy. Saving Callie was my ticket back into the life I’d left behind, the life I’d wanted to pick up when I first got back from America. I would’ve done anything back then, but now it was empty. Shallow fucks.

  They didn’t want to know me at all.

  Curiosity drew me to them, and I was brought into the circle.

  “That was some ballsy shit, man,” the fighter known as Sabre said next to me.

  “I don’t know if it was crazy or heroic,” my onetime buddy, Boom, declared.

  The compliments kept coming. Once upon a time, the old Storm would’ve lapped it up, but my hackles were rising, my exterior was bristly as fuck, and all I could do was sneer.

  “Whatever,” I drawled, shaking off the pats on the back. “I’ve got a fight.”

  Turning, I walked away, grabbing my hand wraps and slamming my locker closed. Ignoring the murmurs and the pointed looks, I strode from the change room and out into The Underground, weaving the webbing around my knuckles as I went.

  When I was announced, instead of the chorus of boos, there were actually cheers. Fame and favor were a fickle beast if ever there were one. In one minute and out the next.

  I toed the line opposite Crowbar, and he actually looked worried like the extra juice from the crowd was going to give me the upper hand. Boy, was he wrong. My emotions were all over the place, my heart was broken, my soul destroyed, and it wouldn’t take much for him to knock my block off. I was in the mood to do something stupid, after all.

  Needless to say, the fight was terrible. For me, not Crowbar. He absolutely smashed his way through the first few minutes of the bout. After a particular lax grapple on my behalf, he threw me down and slammed his heel on my left arm. That was the moment I was done. Probably for good.

  I knew my forearm was broken even before the pain burned up my limb and the signal lodged in my brain. When it did, the cage began to spin. Cradling my arm against my chest, I rolled onto my side and screwed my face up.

  I was vaguely aware of the fight being called in Crowbar’s favor, then people cheering and catcalling before the cage door opened. Faces milled about, and one leaned over me and began prodding at my arm. That was the wrong thing to do. Pain seared even hotter, and I cursed loudly. I could already feel my forearm swelling.

  Someone helped me to my feet, and in a rage, I shook them off and strode from the cage. Swaying on my feet, I pushed through the crowd and found my way out back and not a moment too soon. I slumped against the wall, the pain really starting to get to me.

  Grimacing, I sucked in breath after breath through my nose while my skin turned clammy. Dammit! A punch to the face and a kick in the nuts I could handle but a broken arm? Shit.

  “Hey,” a voice said behind me. “Are you okay?”

  “Leave off,” I snapped.

  A hand came to rest on my shoulder, and I groaned when I saw Hamish standing behind me. He looked concerned, and it did nothing to calm the rage that was about to boil over. Maybe I could upchuck all over his boots. He would get the message then.

  “Mate, your arm is probably broken. You need—”

  “Get off me,” I said, shaking out of his grasp. Grimacing as the snapped bone in my arm grated together, I almost threw up.

  “No,” Hamish said. “No one else is linin’ up to take you to the ER, even after your heroic story came out in the paper.”

  “I can call a taxi,” I said stubbornly. “I don’t need anyone’s help.”

  Turning, I stumbled and fell against the wall, jarring my shoulder.

  “C’mon,” the Irishman said. “Let’s get you outta here.”

  The last place I expected to find myself was in the ER at the local hospital being treated by a redheaded doctor whilst sitting beside a redheaded fighter. Gingers were everywhere, taunting me.

  “You’re such a dick for no reason,” Hamish said.

  “Shut up,” I retorted, the cast feeling heavy as hell on my forearm. “There are better things to do than to keep notes on how many times I’ve called you Ginger.”

  “See what I mean?” He raised an eyebrow. “At some point, the self-punishment has to stop.”

  I ignored him as the nurse came back, checked the cast, and attempted to put me in a sling, which I promptly shook off.

  “Lori told me,” Hamish added. “About everythin’.”

  “Great.” I assumed she’d told him the real behind-the-scenes story from my spectacular run in the UFC. Duped and taken for all I was worth. It was humiliating.

  “You don’t want people to know the truth?” he fired back. “It’s your funeral, but things don’t have to be this way, Storm.”

  “It doesn’t matter.” Signing some form the nurse handed to me, I grabbed my leather jacket and stalked out of the ER. Outside, the air was cool, so I tried to pull it on, but the cast got stuck. “Fuck!”

  “Storm! Bloody hell.” He’d followed me again.

  “Go the fuck away, Hamish,” I said. “I don’t even know why you’re still here. Don’t you hate my guts? I know I’m high right now, but I’m beginning to think you’re off your nut.”

  “What the hell is wrong with you?” he asked, shaking his head. “I’m tryin’ to help you.”

  There wasn’t any point to any of it. I didn’t need help because I was past the point of no return. This was the end of the line for Mark Ryder, and I wasn’t sure what to do about it. I’d lost the only person who mattered me—I’d lost Callie—before I’d had a chance to really open up to her. I’d hurt her even when I was trying not to. Not even two weeks had passed, and I was already eyeballs deep into fucked-up-ville.

  I didn’t bother replying to Hamish’s jibe, and it pissed him off even more.

  “There’s the taxi rank.” He pointed to the line of yellow cabs half a block down from the hospital entrance. “Take yourself home, Ryder. Your wish is my command.” He spread his arms wide and backed away before turning completely, leaving me alone on the steps. Just how I wanted it.

  Cradling my arm against my chest, I slid my right arm into my jacket and slung the other side over my shoulder. The bone was fractured, not snapped, and lucky for me, I would live to fight another day. Great for my bank account, not so much for my psyche.

  Jumping into the first available taxi, I gave the guy my home address and leaned back in the seat. Shit, my arm ached.

  Just like my stupid heart.

  16

  Callie

  Opening the oven, a waft of hot air blew into my face, carrying the scent of warm chocolate with it.

  It had been weeks since I’d had the chance to make something extravagant, and what better time than now? A heartbreak cake seemed just the thing to help mend the tear in my chest, so that was what I was doing.

  The oven in the little kitchen our rented cottage in Northcote wasn’t that great, but I’d worked out its quirks long ago. Like when the dial said two hundred and twenty degrees Celsius, it really meant one-eighty, and the timer ran slow. An hour on that thing equated to an hour and eleven minutes. I’d checked. But stick a simple chocolate sponge into its belly and it came out fluffy and cooked through every time.

  He’d hit a woman! I couldn’t believe it. Grabbing my oven mitts, I took the hot pan out of the oven and dumped the steaming cake onto the rack on the kitchen table. Strangulation marks was a serious red flag. Then to claim it was a twisted sex game? Bloody hell.

  Leaning against the table, I stared at th
e chaos—a reflection of what was tumbling inside me—and forced back tears. He’d been evasive yet charming, and he was handsome and really good in bed. I knew he had things he didn’t want to talk about, but I couldn’t get over it. He’d admitted he’d stepped over people on his way to the top, so was the story of the fire coming out now because he saw an opportunity? The evidence was stacked against him.

  I did the right thing the other night by kicking him out. Right?

  I swallowed, my throat feeling thick, and picked up the block of marzipan I’d been shaping. Glancing at the drawing I’d made on a scrap of paper, I shifted my focus back to the cake I was making. The heartbreak cake.

  I needed a new mountain to climb, and this was it. If I could pull off this design, then it would be the centerpiece for my opening weekend. This cake wasn’t for eating—it was for gawking at. Visions of displaying it in the window of The Fitzroy Cake Company came to mind, and I smiled. How good would it be to have someone film me smashing it apart with a baseball bat? Epic.

  I hadn’t realized it had grown so late until I heard the front door open and the familiar sound of Macy’s heels clacking down the hallway. I’d been eyeballs deep in batter and whipped chocolate all day, only surfacing to go to the toilet. Too much information right there.

  When she came into the kitchen, wearing her usual work getup—a cute blouse, blazer, and skirt—her mouth fell open when she saw the cake mountain on our kitchen table.

  “Holy shit,” she said. “It looks like someone detonated a bag of flour in here.”

  “I’ll clean it up,” I replied, glancing at the recipe for spun sugar. I knew it by heart, but everything felt blank tonight. I needed the road map to keep me on the straight and narrow. No use crying over burned sugar.

  “What cake is this going to be?” She peered at the bottles of food coloring and then the base of the cake I was building up. “It looks like a farmyard.”

  “I’m making a Twister cake,” I declared.

  “What does that mean?” Macy was frowning at me.

  “You know the movie? With the tornadoes and the flying cows and the destruction?” I pointed to my marzipan test subjects. “I’ve even made some cows.”

  “Oh, my God.”

  “I’m thinking of making the twister out of spun sugar, but I’ll need a lot. Either that or I’ll have to make a base all the way to the top, then…” I shrugged. It was a work in progress, and I was a fan of trial and error.

  “Fairy floss?” Macy suggested.

  “Genius!” It was dense enough to cover the insides, and I could use little bamboo skewers to pin the flying debris up and down the twister. Best.

  Dropping everything, I threw open the cupboard doors searching for the fairy floss maker I got for Christmas one year. It was a cheap little thing, but it could crank out the floss like nothing else and was better than trying to do it in a saucepan.

  “Are you okay?” Macy asked, watching me closely.

  “I’m fine.”

  “The last time I saw the kitchen like this—”

  “I’m fine,” I said, hauling the appliance out of the cupboard over the fridge.

  “That story in the papers…” she went on, looking sheepish.

  “I can’t think about that.” I dumped the fairy floss maker on the last empty spot on the table. “The shop is weeks away from opening, I’ve got this cake, I need to keep my staff informed and busy, and there’s just too much to do.”

  “You always do this,” she complained.

  “Do what?” Now, what ingredients did I need? Sugar, corn syrup, water, and a little pinch of salt.

  “Throw yourself into your baking when you don’t want to face something.”

  I placed my palms down on the table and closed my eyes. Saying a little prayer, I glanced at my housemate. “I did face it. I faced it the other night.”

  “What do you mean?” She frowned and sank down into a chair.

  “Mark came by the shop when I was cleaning out the damaged stock.”

  Her mouth fell open. “And?”

  “And I gave him a chance to explain, and he didn’t say anything.” I rolled my eyes, totally over the whole thing. “He just stood there. Completely silent. Saying nothing.”

  Macy worried her bottom lip, and her fingers began pulling the hem of her blouse. When she got that look, I knew something was up. The last time I’d seen it was when she accidentally threw out the tiny container of gold foil I’d bought for a client’s wedding cake. It was actual gold, too. The edible kind. She felt awful for weeks.

  “Macy…” I said, narrowing my eyes.

  “I said I thought I knew him from someplace,” she blurted. “It came to me later, so we Googled it, and I mentioned it to Kevin…”

  “You squealed to Merritt?” I exclaimed. “He’s a fucking journalist, Macy! Did you even stop to think I mightn’t want my name splashed all over the papers? Especially after finding out the man I’ve fallen for was convicted of assault against a woman. Fuck!” With a frustrated cry, I grabbed a knife and brought it down on one of my marzipan cows, severing it in half.

  “You fell for him? Seriously?”

  “Dodged a bullet,” I muttered.

  “Callie… I didn’t realize…”

  “It’s a good thing you didn’t,” I replied. “I could’ve found out later in a worse way.”

  “But…”

  “But what?”

  “Do you think it’s true?” she asked, looking agonized. “Do you think he really did those things?”

  “How are you doubting it when you’ve never met the guy?” I retorted. “I met him all night long, you know.”

  “Did he give you any indication that… You know.”

  “That he might be a violent asshole? Not at first.”

  Macy tilted her head to the side.

  “He showed up to our last date with a split eyebrow and a black eye,” I explained, sitting across from her at the table. “He told me he’s a fighter.”

  “Yeah, he was in the UFC. Ultimate Fighting. It’s a rough sport.”

  “He was banned,” I replied. “He said he’s involved in illegal cage fights now. He warned me…” I shook my head. He’d wanted to remain anonymous for a reason. Was that just a story he’d told me, or was it the truth? Did he want to get back into the UFC, or did he really not want people to know about his past?

  Nobody wants to listen. They just want to point fingers and blame. His words echoed in my mind with startling clarity. Something about his story bothered me. His inability to stand up for himself, his evasiveness, his blatant disregard for his own safety… Something wasn’t adding up, but it didn’t erase the fact that he’d purposely lied to me. Call me old-fashioned, but sleeping with someone actually meant something more to me than a good time.

  Standing, I tapped my fingers lightly on top of the chocolate cake I’d taken out of the oven earlier. It had cooled enough for me to tip it out of the pan.

  “Maybe you’re right,” Macy said. “Are you mad at me?”

  Sighing, I flipped the pan upside down, and the sponge slid right out. Perfect.

  “Maybe you should’ve told me first before running your mouth off to Merritt,” I said. “But I can’t stay mad at you. You know I can’t.”

  “I’m really sorry. You seemed really into him.”

  “Yeah,” I muttered, grabbing a knife and slicing the chocolate sponge. “I really was.”

  That night, after I’d finally dragged myself to bed and my cake was complete, I started dreaming of fire again.

  This time, Mark didn’t come, and I lay on the storeroom floor as flames licked at my body, searing and melting me alive.

  Jerking awake with a cry, I began to sob, my hands batting at imaginary flames. My blankets were tangled, and sweat covered my body, sticking my nightie to my skin.

  The light flicked on, and Macy appeared in the bedroom door. “Callie? Are you all right?” When she saw me in hysterics, she ran over, flopped onto t
he bed, and wrapped her arms around me.

  “I’m sorry,” I said, wiping at my tears. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

  “Don’t be,” she replied, drawing back. “Did you have a dream?”

  “I was on fire… I was…” I hiccuped and rubbed my palms over my arms. “He left me…”

  She sighed, lost for words, and hugged me again.

  “If it’s so wrong, why do I feel like shit?” I blurted, realizing I hadn’t cried once over Mark’s betrayal. I’d forced it down ever since I found out, and even more since he’d come by the shop, and still, I hadn’t let go.

  “Because you cared about him,” Macy replied. “He saved your life, Callie. That’s gotta leave some kind of mark.”

  “I wanted him to be the one so badly…” I muttered. “I’m tired of being alone, Mace. I’m so tired…”

  “It’ll happen one day.”

  “What if it doesn’t?” I argued. “What if this is as good as it gets?”

  “Then it’s pretty good,” she retorted. “You’ve got your shop, your friends, and you’ve got your success. Not everyone gets to do what they love for a living. You’re lucky.”

  I nodded, my heart still feeling heavy. I knew I should be happy. All of those things were great, and life had dealt me a good hand, but something was missing. I didn’t feel complete. The maw inside me yawned, and I began to ache.

  I wanted Mark to be the one so badly… I had terrible taste in saviors, not to mention men in general. Just my luck.

  “Will you be okay? Or do you want me to stay a little longer?” Macy asked.

  “No,” I replied, shaking my head. “I’ll be okay.”

  “Well, okay. Wake me if you need me.” She gave me one last hug and left, turning off the light as she went.

  When I was alone again, I buried back underneath the covers and curled up into the fetal position. It had felt so real. The dream and the other bit… The heart thing. What a mess.

  I fell back into a fitful sleep, unable to shake the awful tingling down my spine.