Beneath the Surface

by M.A. Stacie

  “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.”

  “I’m okay . . . a bit blurry but okay.”

  “I guess the major plus is that seeing you hit the floor sobered me up pretty damn quick.”

  “You were drunk?” he asked, his voice breaking halfway through.

  Dale hummed in response, not wanting to explain what a mess she’d been in. “Like you, my head is fuzzy, but I’ll be fine.”

  When Dale tried to pull away, Kyran dragged her back. “Stay, baby. I need . . .” His voice was a whisper. “I just need.”

  She understood what he was trying to say. She needed the comfort of his presence, too. Dale’s resolve to stay away from him had crumbled as he’d fallen to the floor in the ring. Every cell in Dale’s body had screamed out and pleaded that Kyran be okay. Now she felt exhausted—tired of fighting with him, tired of fighting her feelings. For this moment, she would accept that she loved him and wanted to comfort him.

  “You weren’t your best out there. I saw it as soon as you came out.

  You must have known. I know you. Your head wasn’t in the fight. Why did you do it?”

  He let his head flop back, grunting as he did. “You. You’re in here.”

  He tapped his temple.

  “You’ve told me this already, Ky. You make it sound like you’re the only one to be consumed by this relationship. You’re in my head, too. I’ve confessed how I feel; I couldn’t be any more honest with you.”

  “I didn’t run, did I?”

  Sitting back, she glared at him. “And that makes you a fucking saint?”

  Kyran gritted his teeth as he rolled his shoulders. He pulled Dale back to him and cupped her face firmly even though she tried to evade his grasp.

  Dale allowed his touch reluctantly. She didn’t want to let on what his touches did to her; this relationship had no future, but they continued to prolong the agony.

  “Not a saint, baby. Not one at all.” He stroked his thumb along her jaw. “I can’t tell you to leave. I’m a selfish bastard, Dale. I want you so fucking bad. I’ve been a cripple for the last week, and that’s why I demanded the fight. I wanted to feel something other than . . .”

  “What?” she asked, amazed at his confession.

  “Something other than hurt. It hurts when you’re not around.”

  Dale’s knees were turning to Jell-O from his words, but she had to keep her resolve. “It hurts me when you get punched. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t charmed by you right now. But I can’t go back. I can’t stay with you now. The rules have changed.”

  “Along with the label,” Kyran said, his voice gruff.

  “Yeah, that, too. I don’t want to go over this now. You’re in no state to think clearly—neither of us is.”

  She felt awful. Dale wanted to curl up in bed and sleep the growing headache off. She also wanted to make sure Kyran didn’t need medical attention.

  “Come home with me.”

  Dale had waited all week for Kyran to say that, but now the words squeezed her heart.

  “We shouldn’t.” Her response was pathetic.

  “I didn’t ask you if we should.” He nuzzled her jaw with the tip of his nose. “You normally look after me, baby.”

  “Stop calling me that. When you do that, I get mixed messages.”

  “Then I suppose asking you to the benefit again is another mixed message?” Kyran kissed her jaw, moving along to her chin.

  Dale pressed her palm flat against his bare chest with the intention of pushing him away. It didn’t happen, though. She allowed Kyran to touch, kiss, and seduce her until she answered, “Yes. Yes, I’ll go with you.”

  She hated herself for the lack of willpower, hated herself for not having the strength to walk away again, and she hated him more for not allowing her to go.

  Chapter 21

  Kyran fidgeted while adjusting his bow tie once again. He wore a suit almost every day, and never understood why tuxedos felt so constricting.

  The collar and tie were like a noose, strangling him slowly. He hooked his finger between the stiff collar and his neck, and pulled for extra room to breathe.

  Kyran’s nerves were causing him to act like child at his first piano recital, but then he was still amazed Dale had agreed to accompany him to the benefit. For the first time in years he was looking forward to the function. He never looked forward to it. Each year Kyran had faced it with a sense of dread, wanting it to be over quickly, but not tonight.

  Standing outside her front door, he wondered what she had chosen to wear. It had been two days since the fight at Metro, and they had argued about her dress on numerous occasions. Kyran had offered to pay for it, wanting her to have whatever she wanted, regardless of cost. Dale had refused, and because he didn’t have the strength to keep their arguing up, Kyran had caved. Her stubbornness drove him crazy. He knew he had met his match when Dale Porter had walked into his office.

  Kyran pushed those thoughts aside as he knocked on her door. He snorted as a series of obscen
ities could be heard through the wood. He called out to her when he heard a crash. “Dale? Is everything okay?”

  The door flew open, revealing a harassed-looking Dale. She held a flatiron in one hand and a brush in the other. “Oh God,” she groaned and kicked the door wide with her foot.

  “Good evening to you, too.” Kyran closed the door behind him and walked into her apartment. He stopped, gawking at the mess that surrounded him. “Dale? Did someone break into your apartment?”

  Dale rolled her green eyes as she dragged a brush through her half-straightened hair. “How amusing.”

  “I wasn’t trying to be funny.” He gestured around the apartment. “It looks like someone rummaged through all your things.”

  “I’m stressed. You’re early. And I don’t have time to run around and clean up.”

  Amused by her frazzled state, Kyran began picking up glasses and placing them in the kitchen sink. “I’m not early.”

  “You are,” she said, smoothing the flatiron along the length of her hair. He watched as the curly strands became poker straight. Dale ran a comb through the section as he shook his head.

  “You are! It’s—”

  “Seven thirty.” Kyran tapped his watch.

  “Oh damn! Really? Christ, I’m sorry. I’ve tried on seven different outfits and done my hair and makeup just as many times to match. I lost track of time.”

  “I see.”

  Dale paused. She thinned her eyes as she looked at him. “You’re always doing that.”

  “Huh?”

  “Whenever anyone says anything to you, you answer with ‘I see’ or ‘So it appears.’ It’s very condescending, you know that?”

  “So it would seem.” He waited for her wrath, knowing his response would ignite her rage. Dealing with that would be far more tolerable than |

  dealing with his nerves. He knew how to act when she was pissed, whereas he couldn’t say the same about his anxiety.

  Dale pointed her flatiron at him. “You think you’re so amusing. Well, Mr. Funny Man, I know your game, and I’m not biting.”