Don't Run From Me

by Lorhainne Eckhart

  “Chase, what are you doing here?” Aaron said, and he gestured to the security guard to let him through. The guy was supposed to be manning the crowds to keep those not part of the teams away from the dressing room, but apparently groupies and women looking for a quick screw weren’t on the banned list.

  It took only a second before Aaron realized Trey had actually left, walking the other way. He was rattled, and he wanted to get the hell out of here.

  “You got a ride?” Chase said.

  Aaron shook his head “Grabbing a cab back to the hotel.”

  “I’ll drive you.”

  He was about to say no, not to worry about it, but Chase was already walking to the back door of the arena and pushing it open, making his way past the crowds and more screaming women trying to get close to Aaron. He saw none of them. The parking lot was packed.

  He saw the BMW, his brother’s car, and Chase clicked the lock and popped the trunk. The night was warm, and Aaron was sweating as he tossed his bag in and shoved it closed with one hand. Best to leave the hoodie on over his bare chest and his head, hiding everything about himself that felt open, exposed, and raw.

  He rested his large frame in the comfortable leather seat, fastened his belt, and didn’t look his brother’s way as Chase backed out of the stall. He didn’t give much attention to the long line of cars, horns honking, and the bright lights of the city. Chase said nothing at all. It was then Aaron heard tapping, Chase’s fingers on the wheel.

  “Which hotel?” Chase asked.

  “Anaheim Grove,” he said, hoping Chase wouldn’t ask to stay and talk. Hopefully he would just dump him and run.

  They drove in silence, and Aaron took in the views of a city he had no intention of enjoying. His right side was blurred, and he was feeling the tightness of his messed-up eye. The swelling would pass, though, and his vision would clear. Tomorrow would be another day.

  “You all right?” Chase asked as he turned another corner. More stop lights ahead, maybe ten minutes to the hotel. Hopefully less.

  “Fine,” he said, wishing his brother would take the hint and shut the hell up.

  “You want to stop at the ER, have a doc look at you? Make sure nothing’s broken, stitch up those cuts?”

  Why was he asking now when they were almost at his hotel? “No.” Another left and two more blocks. Less than five minutes. Hurry the fuck up!

  “You need ice on your face or you’re going to be a mess tomorrow.”

  He’d been a mess before he stepped into the ring. At least there was a reason for it now. “Later,” he said, his adrenaline no longer spiked. He was starting to feel the tenderness in his ribs, the aches in his side, his shoulder, and his back from all the blows he’d never felt touch him. He’d take a couple Advil, raid the minibar, and sleep it off. Tomorrow he’d work through the welcome pain. It was a physical feeling that grounded him.

  He was looking for the sign of the bright pink two-story inn that was surprisingly more comfortable than any luxury hotel he’d stayed in. It was quiet, peaceful, and roomy.

  Chase pulled in front of it and parked, and Aaron opened the door before Chase could get into some long-winded discussion about how fucked up Aaron seemed, or analyze any part of the fight, or, worse, try to fix him in some way.

  Aaron tapped the trunk with his hand, and Chase must have known, as he clicked the button and the trunk popped open. Aaron lifted his bag out, tossed it over his shoulder, and closed the trunk, then took in Chase standing there, watching him. His look was shrewd, uncomfortable. His brother was always sticking his nose where it didn’t belong. Time to send him on his way, but instead Chase handed his keys to the bellman and stepped up on the curb.

  “What are you doing?” Aaron said. It wasn’t lost on him that those were the most words he’d used tonight. His jaw ached every time he moved it.

  “I’m staying here, too.”

  Aaron just stood there with his bag over his shoulder. “Since when?” Coincidence? Hell no, not where Chase was concerned. Aaron was pissed and hoped his brother picked it up. He shook his head and made a rude noise, which was far easier than forming the Fuck off his mouth refused to say. Maybe that was why Chase smiled. Of course he knew.

  “I already knew where you were staying. Checked in earlier. Wanted to have a talk with you.”

  He didn’t let his brother finish as he walked into the hotel. Maybe if he weren’t so wrapped up in himself, in trying to dampen all his heartache and everything that had spilled out of him in that fight, he’d have given a damn about what an asshole he was being.

  He stopped at the front desk. The girl behind it gasped when she saw him. Yeah, he did look pretty bad. “Key to my room, 106. Aaron McCabe,” he said.

  Maybe she didn’t recognize him, as she was staring, her mouth open.

  “Oh, Mr. McCabe, you’re back. How was the fight?” the other receptionist said. What was her name, Shawna or Sandy? His eye must have been swelling shut now, as he was having trouble seeing out of it at all.

  “Fine,” he said. “Send ice to my room.” He grabbed the key card on the counter and walked away before she could say anything else, and he took in Chase standing there, frowning, his arms crossed. He should be nice, say something, but he wanted him to go away, wanted everyone to go away and leave him be until he could have time to sleep and stuff everything broken about himself back into that hidden place where no one could see it. His trainer knew, and even his assistant knew, so why couldn’t Chase follow the routine?

  He walked right past his brother and down the wide hall, past the bright lights and spotless orange carpeting, to the suites at the end. He didn’t have to look back to know Chase was right behind him, dogging his heels.

  He stopped outside his door and shoved the key card in his lock. It clicked, and he pushed it open. He could walk in and leave his brother, let the door slam in his face, except Chase was plagued with major character flaws that had him poking his nose in everyone else’s business.

  “What the fuck, Chase?” Aaron said, and his jaw throbbed again, a painful reminder he needed ice, Advil, and whatever hard liquor was stashed in his minibar. “Go to your own room. I don’t need a fucking babysitter watching me all fucking night.”

  “No, but I think it’s time you talked about the reason you step into that ring.”

  Aaron dumped his bag on the floor. He could see his brother taking in the suite, the living room, the double doors that opened to his king-size bed. A sliding glass door faced the courtyard, all grass, trees, and green.

  Aaron yanked open the minibar and took in the selection: cheap wine, beer, or hard liquor. He settled on the bourbon, twisted the cap, and swallowed it right from the bottle, then groaned not from the bite but from the fire in his jaw, the burn in his mouth. A tooth was loose, and he tasted more blood. There was a knock on the door.

  Chase at least made himself useful and opened it. He was talking to someone, and then the door closed. “Ice is here,” he said, and Aaron heard him filling a bag. Chase was efficient as he tied it closed and handed it to him. “Put it on your jaw,” he said.

  Aaron just stared at the bag and snatched it from him, pressing it to his jaw, the freezing bringing more pain instead of relief. He tossed the bag on the table, downed the rest of the bottle, and dumped the empty on top of the bag of ice. He took in Chase again, who now appeared pissed as he sat in one of the chairs, crossed his jean-clad legs, and settled in. He was in no hurry to leave.

  “Again, Aaron, your fighting.”

  “Fuck off, Chase. My jaw hurts. Go away. I don’t want to talk.” He groaned as he reached in his bag, pulled out the bottle of Advil, and dumped three in his hand. Then he added another before tossing them back and swallowing them dry.

  Chase was still watching him. “Have some water.”

  Was he serious? Aaron just stood there.

  Chase shook his head. “Great, then you can listen, because after all these years of watching you fight in that ring, tonight
was the first time I realized that whatever is driving you in there isn’t human. Before I thought it was motivation, passion. I thought you had focus, knew how to get in and stay in the zone that makes you one of the best fighters there is. I believed you loved what you did, just like all those guys who step in the ring, but then it hit me tonight. I’ve always wondered whether it was something more. It’s like whatever is haunting you is driving you into that ring, and unlike any sane person, you see it as a chance to kill or be killed. Worse, I realized, watching you pound the shit out of that guy tonight, that if someone hadn’t been there to end that fight, to pull you off your opponent, you’d have kept fighting until one of you was dead.”

  3

  Anaheim had many attractions, all of which catered to tourists. In the light of day, the town was hopping with families, kids, and more kids. The bright sunlight filling his room resembled happiness and excitement, threatening to erase the heavy mood of the night before. Aaron wanted to pull the covers over his head to drown out the feeling of how different this morning was. Then again, the Advil, the bourbon, and the two sample bottles of tequila he’d found behind it had helped him relax and take the edge off the aches in his body.

  He slid back the covers and slipped out of bed naked, then climbed into a hot shower. The water stung the cuts he hadn’t bothered to clean up the night before, but he allowed the heat to ease some of the stiffness that always came after a fight. He dried himself and wiped the steamed mirror, seeing his bruised face and fresh blood oozing from the cut on his forehead. The one on his chin had scabbed over. He grabbed a wad of tissue to put pressure on his forehead and rummaged for butterfly bandages in the kit he always carried. He applied two once the bleeding stopped and then took a closer look at the cut on his jaw. His nose was still swollen, and although his right eye was bruised as well, he could open it enough to see that under the swelling was a nice shade of bruised blue. Not bad.

  He pulled on sweats and opened the bedroom doors he didn’t remember closing, then stopped when he saw a body on his sofa. Chase? He appeared to be sleeping, a blanket over himself, looking like a fine mess.

  There was a knock at the door.

  “I ordered coffee and room service when I heard you in the shower,” Chase said without opening his eyes. His voice sounded groggy as he lifted his hand to the door. “That’ll be them.”

  “And you couldn’t go to your room?” Aaron said before opening the door. He took in a waiter wearing a white coat, bringing a cart laden with covered plates, a thermos, cups, glasses, and a jug of orange juice. “Come in,” he said, and he didn’t make too much of the waiter’s expression once he got a look at his face. It was always the same, and he didn’t want the conversation. “Put it there.” He gestured in the living room, then signed the check the waiter handed him.

  The waiter didn’t stay, and Aaron settled on coffee after he downed a glass of juice, seeing his brother sitting up over his shoulder. His feet were bare, but he was still wearing jeans and a T-shirt. His hair was sticking up on the side, and he appeared to have had a rough night. Aaron took pity and poured Chase a coffee even though he was pissed that his brother hadn’t taken the hint and left after he’d downed the second tequila and went to bed.

  “Again, you’re here on my sofa in my room because?” He handed his brother the coffee and noted his gesture of thanks.

  Chase inhaled the drink and wasn’t looking his way. “Wasn’t leaving you in the state you were in.”

  Aaron shook his head and then remembered his fight. The throbbing and pinch in his neck came out of nowhere. He must have made a face, as Chase appeared worried. He reached back and squeezed his neck. “Would you stop it, already? I’m fine. What did you order, anyway?” He lifted the plastic warming covers and took in an omelette, then another plate with pancakes, one with sliced fruit, one with toast, and one with oatmeal. He settled on the oatmeal so he wouldn’t have to chew even though his body was craving calories, carbs, everything he had burned off the night before. He wandered over to the chair and sat, resting his bare feet on the edge of the coffee table. “Why aren’t you with the kid and that new woman of yours?”

  Chase raised an eyebrow at his remark. Of course it had been cutting, rude. He knew their names. He was just being an ass, hoping his brother would leave. “Rose and Billy Jo are at home. Rose is finishing up the house. She’s teaching Billy Jo how to use power tools and help. They’re fine.”

  Great. He was glad to hear the kid was doing good. He understood so much of what she’d come out of, and he was glad she and his brother had found each other. Chase was the kind of father she needed: in her face, not letting anything skate, letting her know she was wanted. “So you came to see my fight, or is there another reason?”

  “I always see your fights when we’re in the same part of the country. This is the first one that seemed different, though.”

  “How so?” He shouldn’t have asked. He was encouraging his brother to poke into his business when he really needed him to leave. In fact, it was taking less and less time for him to bury everything that exploded from him into the ring each and every fight.

  “I asked you last night what was going on with you.”

  “No, you poked your head into my business, saying I was killing myself and my opponent.” He remembered that much, and he hadn’t liked the fact that Chase could see something in him that he didn’t want to see himself.

  “You don’t talk to anyone, Aaron. You don’t want to share, but I can see something’s going on. I’ve never given it much thought, but your fighting is going to get you killed.”

  Aaron knew he was giving Chase a look that said he was being ridiculous. This was Chase being dramatic, and he was in no mood to look too closely into his brother’s analysis of him.

  “Hear me out,” Chase said. “I’ve watched you fight over the years, and it bothers me every time I see you step into the ring. I don’t want to see you get hurt.”

  “You don’t like fighting. I get it, Chase. Don’t come to the fights, then. It’s a rough sport. It’s not for everyone.”

  “Seriously?” Chase rested his mug of coffee on the table, leaning forward. He was giving Aaron that look of his that told him he had already analyzed every part of the situation and figured out what was wrong and what needed to be fixed. Aaron didn’t like this side of Chase focused anywhere in his direction. “I don’t mind fights,” Chase said. “It’s not really something that excites me like most of the rabid fans in there who get their fix off all that aggression and blood, but it’s a sport. I get it. What I don’t get, though, is that you’re far different from any other fighter when you get in that ring. I wonder if you even saw your opponent last night, the way your fists pounded into him over and over. The guy you were fighting, I swear he was done the moment you went at him. It didn’t take long into that fight—two, three minutes, tops—and he was holding his hands up in the end, trying to fend off your attack. Yes, you won. You beat him into submission and would have kept going if the refs hadn’t pulled you off. His team was dragging him out. I watched as your arm was lifted for the victory. The crowd went wild, but you weren’t there.” Chase touched his head. “Whatever I saw in that expression on your face, past the blood, was inhuman.”

  “You have no idea what it’s like to fight, and now you’re analyzing my fighting technique? Stick to what you’re good at and stay out of my arena,” Aaron said.

  “Maybe so, Aaron, but I do know that for a lot of years, you’ve been fighting something, carrying something. Maybe now that I have Billy Jo and have seen how scarred and damaged she is, the way she seems to wage a battle inside her, I’ve realized you carry so much more than Luc, than me, even than Vic. You came to us when you were five, and you were a part of our family, but there has always been this part of yourself that you held tight and kept away from us. I knew you would always have that piece of you that was distant, and ever since your trip to Asia, you and Brittany and what happened there, to learn…”


  “Stop!” Aaron shouted and was out of the chair, his bowl of oatmeal sliding across the table. “You don’t get to talk about that, to bring it up.”

  It had been his choice, his idea to stay another week, to pick that area, to camp out at the beach in Thailand. It had been a sound he’d never forget, the change in the air, the birds, the energy of the moment as a wall of water came at him and hit him before he could take one step to save his girl.

  “It’s been twelve years, Aaron.”

  He said nothing, because the giant aching hole he buried after the last bottle of tequila was now threatening to choke him again.

  “You need to let her go,” Chase said, but Aaron walked back into his bedroom and slammed the door, locking it this time to keep Chase from pushing anymore. Her face, her image, her screams drowned out by the muddy waves—the roar of the tsunami that had changed his life forever.

  4

  She’d followed his fights, every one. His career, spanning ten years, had taken him from Dallas, to Nashville, to Jersey, to the west coast. In his months off, he had a home in Greensboro, Alabama. Why there, she had no idea. It was a small house on sizeable land with a fishing hole where he supposedly spent time fishing, or so the media reported, though that seemed more along the lines of a story his PR team had spun to make him more relatable. Of course, as she thought about it, she wondered whether he’d ever fished at all.

  He had no wife, no children, and a family he rarely saw. He kept to himself, he trained, he fought. He had people around him, but he was so alone. It was there in the photos, for those who followed—those who knew him and were really looking.

  “Mary, customers out front!”

  The bell jangled as Mary worked her way out to the front counter. This was a small mountain tourist trap with overpriced sandwiches and even pricier gifts, not far from LA.

  “You want me to stay?” said Harry Rankin, who had worked there every day since opening the shop three years earlier. He had dark hair and a great smile, genuine, sweet, that lit up his face. He was nice, in his late thirties, married to her sister, and Mary figured they took pity on her, a struggling artist who lived in a one-room cottage at the back of their property, rent free.