Beef Cake (Donner Bakery Book 4)

by Smartypants Romance

  Whoa.

  “I’m assuming you didn’t dress this way for me, though,” Helen says. Her eyes follow mine to the cage and then past it, to where Gunnar is standing with his brother on the other side. His muscled arms and chest stretch out a white t-shirt as Cage wraps his knuckles in tape. The two brothers seem to share a moment. Cage ruffles Gunnar’s hair, like he’s twelve, and they both laugh it off. When the guy from the door walks up to join them, I know my assumption was right: he’s Vali.

  “How many brothers are there?” Helen asks, her voice sounding a little distant. “And is there one my age?”

  My chest fills with air and I laugh. It feels good, like I’ve been strapped in a corset and someone just cut the laces. Not that I’ve ever been in a corset, but I can only imagine. It’s just what I needed: something to take the edge off and distract me from this fight—from myself.

  I lose track of Gunnar as people begin to move around, obviously getting ready for the event to start. My heart does this funny flip thing when I think about him in the ring. The announcer begins to pump up the crowd, getting them primed for the bout getting ready to take place. Helen explains there will be five fights in total, with Gunnar going last.

  Awesome.

  A few minutes later, the lights dim as music starts to blast through the speakers, causing the venue to erupt in applause. Spotlights bathe a dark hallway in light. The cadence of the music increases and my heart keeps rhythm. Ba-bum, ba-bum, ba-bum.

  When a guy comes out of the hallway, arms raised in the air, the crowd goes wild.

  “From Knoxville, Tennessee, weighing in at two hundred and thirty-five, Trevooooooor ‘The Train’ Tremellllllll.” It’s exaggerated, and for a moment I smile at the excitement. Everyone is so into it, buying into the hype and cheering as Trevor “The Train” Tremell makes his way into the ring. A man in a striped shirt checks his gloves and looks in his mouth before patting him down, like he’s checking for weapons.

  Then, the lights drop and the music changes. A guy in a white robe appears in the hallway. His head is bent as he walks slowly into the arena, a signature song reflecting his vibe filling the air—somber and ethereal. When the beat drops, he flips his hood back and punches the air.

  Theatrical much?

  “Isn’t this exciting,” Helen says, clapping with wide eyes as she takes it all in. When I don’t say anything, she turns to me and leans in. “You okay?”

  Before answering with an automatic lie, I check myself. This is Helen and there’s no need to pretend, but I reply, “I’m fine.” And I mean it. It’s not so bad, more like a show; like a movie. Everything is larger than life and it makes it easy for me to separate myself from all of it.

  I’ve never been to a sporting event, not even a high school football game. It just wasn’t my scene, but I can imagine they’re all like this—lively and energized.

  I can do this.

  Trevor “The Train” Tremell knocks his opponent out in less than thirty seconds.

  I’ve never seen anything like it. They dance around each other for a few moments and then, BAM. It’s so fast I can barely see it, like lightning. My heart practically leaps out of my chest. The nurse in me wants to rush the cage and tend to the guy lying there as the referee pounds the mat beside him, counting down to his fate.

  “Five, four, three . . .”

  Closing my eyes, I bring my hands up in a praying motion. “Please don’t get up, please don’t get up.”

  “Two, one.”

  Everyone around me goes crazy but I just exhale, thankful one fight is down. Hopefully, Trevor’s opponent is okay. I wouldn’t doubt he has a concussion. When I open my eyes, I see him standing and my heart finally settles. He’ll be okay. It was just a hard hit, precisely placed for the most damage.

  Trained fighters.

  Who wants to hurt someone for fun?

  Gunnar. That’s who.

  My eyes flutter closed and I pray away the next four fights, his included. I just want to make it through this and go back to the bubble we’ve been in over the last week. It’s been good between us. I finally feel comfortable enough to share things with him; not everything, but some things. And the few secrets I’ve shared, my nightmares included, he’s taken in stride—not judging, not treating me differently.

  He’s just been there—supportive, caring, and listening.

  “I’m going to get a drink,” Helen announces. “Do you want anything?”

  Shaking my head, I hold my stomach, which is still unsettled. “No, I’m good.”

  “When did you eat last?”

  Shrugging, I give her a look that says, “Don’t mother me.” She likes to do that sometimes, but I don’t want her to tonight. “Earlier, but I’m going to wait on Gunnar.”

  Her smile is slow, but she likes that answer and excuses her way down the row, not saying anything. I know she likes Gunnar and I know she thinks we make a cute couple. She’s told me. But everything between Gunnar and me feels new and fresh and private. I find myself wanting to store up every moment we share in its own special box inside my head, saving them for days that aren’t as good as the ones I’ve had over the last month.

  Since he’s walked into my life—literally, right into my ER—everything has been different.

  He’s pushed me out of my routine and out of my comfort zone.

  I’m no longer living a solitary life with moments of companionship. Gunnar has become my companion, maybe more. Definitely more. My feelings for him, which were so guarded and reluctant in the beginning, have been there all along and are beginning to bloom like a late-spring bud. The protective outer layer is peeling back, and beneath it is something that feels beautiful and special.

  Once in a lifetime.

  “Brought you a Coke,” Helen announces as she makes her way back to her seat. “I can’t have you fainting from low-blood sugar on my watch.”

  Shaking my head, I accept the drink and indulge her by taking a sip. It’s good. The fizzy cold liquid sugar slides down my throat and is probably just what the doctor ordered. I use it as a distraction through the next couple of fights—taking a sip, watching the bubbles, picking at the edge of the cup. It’s easier to control my impulses if I don’t watch.

  Before the fourth bout starts, I’ve finished my Coke and have a good excuse to go to the bathroom, so I do. I take my time; there’s a bit of a line and I insist on two elderly women going ahead of me. They’ve been there and done that and are still standing to testify. I respect that.

  “It’s so exciting,” one grey-haired woman says, locking herself in a stall. “My heart was beating out of my chest, but I haven’t had this much adrenaline coursing through my veins since we went skydiving in eighty-five.”

  Skydiving?

  “And did you see the muscles on the one in the blue shorts?” the other grey-haired woman asks. We’ll call her Ethel, because she has a red hue to her grey. “Can you imagine the things he can do with those muscles?”

  Her wistful tone has me biting back a smile.

  Old women, man. You’ve gotta love their lack of filter.

  A stall opens up and I take it, thankful for the privacy when the other finally replies, “I know what I’d like him to do with those muscles.” Both ladies crack up laughing, water turning on and drowning out their cackles as I allow myself a quiet laugh in the bathroom stall.

  I slip back into my seat, and Helen informs me the fourth bout ended while I was in the bathroom. Once again, it only went one round and ended in a knockout. I concentrate on taking slow, even breaths—in through my nose, and out through my mouth.

  When the lights drop one last time, the music starts and my heart pounds in my chest.

  Helen must sense my struggle because she reaches over and squeezes my arm gently. “It’ll probably be over before you know it.” Her smile is encouraging and meant to calm, but it doesn’t. I’m not sure anything would calm me right now, except for the announcer coming out and letting us know there won’t b
e a final fight. I can only imagine what the crowd would say to that. There’d probably be a riot of sorts, demanding what they came here to see.

  “Gunnar ‘The Show’ Ericksonnnnnnn…”

  Snapping my head up, I see him step into the ring, his eyes scanning the audience before landing on me. He doesn’t smile; that’s not part of his persona while he’s up there. I can tell. He’s different—focused, in the zone. The fun-loving, easy-going guy I’ve come to know and love isn’t here.

  Love?

  Do I love Gunnar?

  I definitely care about him and for him. His well-being means a lot to me. And at the end of the day, regardless if it’s been good or bad, he’s the person I want to see. If that’s what it means to love someone, then yes, I love Gunnar.

  Bringing my hand up, I rub at my chest, right where my heart beats wildly beneath the surface.

  I love Gunnar.

  How did that happen?

  When did that happen?

  “Are you okay?” Helen asks, drawing me out of my thoughts. Blinking, I turn to her as I swallow down this new realization. “Frankie?”

  “I’m fine,” I tell her. It’s the same response as earlier, I know, but it’s all I can manage.

  I’m fine, I’m fine, I’m fine.

  “It hasn’t even started yet,” she says matter-of-factly. “Loosen up a little.” Helen’s tough love approach has snapped me out of a lot of things over the years, but I don’t know if it’s going to work today. “This too shall pass,” she continues. “It’s an event, Frankie, a moment, not a life sentence. You’re not going to die from this, and neither is anyone else. I don’t know what goes on in that head of yours, but sometimes, you’ve just gotta tell those voices to shut the hell up.”

  I take a deep breath, nodding.

  She’s right. I know she’s right. I’m an intelligent, well-educated woman. Ninety percent of the time, I’m also rational and level-headed. But then, something happens that shakes me to my core and I have zero control over it. I can’t explain it away or stop it from happening, even when I so desperately want to.

  When the buzzer sounds and the bout begins, I try to keep my focus on Gunnar, willing him to end this quickly and then feeling extremely guilty for wishing pain on a complete stranger. I didn’t even hear the other guy’s name. I was too busy locked up inside my brain.

  At first, I’m able to steady my composure, almost going into a zone, my eyes trained on Gunnar’s strong-set jaw and feeling in awe of the power oozing off him. His muscles tense and react as his feet begin to move, bouncing around the mat, as he and his opponent face off.

  But then.

  Everything suddenly feels like slow-motion—like quicksand.

  Gunnar’s opponent throws the first punch but it doesn’t make contact. The crowd starts getting louder and everything speeds up, my senses on full alert. We’re so close I can hear Gunnar grunt as he twists his body, his right fist coming around so fast the guy can’t deflect. Sweat flies as his head snaps back, but then he’s back for more.

  A second later, it’s Gunnar’s head flying back as his opponent surprises him with a kick.

  The look on Gunnar’s face is lethal, bloodthirsty, and I wish I could unsee it because it stirs my deepest fears, the ones born in my nightmares. When he lunges out, releasing his fury on his opponent, all I can see is a whirlwind of fists and sweat mixed with blood. The cheers and jeers from the crowd are amplified and everything breaks into chaos—around me and inside me.

  Flashes of reality mixed with fantasy flood my mind, and I have trouble deciphering where one ends and the other begins. My insides begin to tremor, like when you’re so, so cold and you can’t get warm, so your muscles tense in an effort to generate heat. But my stomach is burning with acid, and the stark contrast is too much.

  I have to get out of here.

  I can’t do this.

  “I have to go,” I say to Helen, or whoever’s listening, as I grab my bag and force my way out of the aisle and out of the venue. When I push through the glass doors, I gasp for breath like I’ve been running a marathon. My lungs are burning.

  My throat feels like it’s closing and I have to remind myself that I’m fine—I can breathe, I’m not dying. I’mfineI’mfineI’mfine.

  Somehow, I make it to my car and start it up, resting my head on the steering wheel for a moment, trying to control my breathing . . . counting heartbeats . . . But when that doesn’t do the trick, I back out and get as far from the venue as possible.

  It’s dark and I’m approaching the edges of Green Valley before my body finally starts to relax, but then I feel exhausted. My muscles feel spent and my brain and heart have practically given out.

  When I pass the old corner store, I breathe even easier. I’m almost home. That’s my goal at this point: get home. Then, I can allow myself to think about what happened and what it means… and about all the other questions and problems plaguing me.

  How can I ever look at Gunnar the same?

  How can I compartmentalize that?

  The answer is simple: I can’t.

  I can’t imagine living through that, time and time again. So, if I can’t imagine that—can’t even go there, have no desire to, and would rather cut off my right arm than sit through that again—then what am I doing with him?

  My heart breaks at the thought. An elephant has taken up residence on my chest and it’s physically challenging for me to draw breaths.

  Breathe, Frankie.

  Breathe.

  I can’t ask him to give up that part of his life for me. It’s not just a hobby, it’s his livelihood. It’s what brought him to Green Valley. It’s what he’ll do after he leaves here . . . after he leaves me.

  The roar of a motorcycle cuts my thoughts short and I feel the fresh rush of adrenaline burn through me before relaxing back into my seat.

  They’re no longer an issue.

  They can’t use me.

  As I pull up to the stop sign, the bike idles behind me, practically right on my bumper, and I roll away from the intersection slowly. When I turn, so does he, and I wonder who it is and why he’s following me.

  I’d gotten the impression the order to no longer use my services had come from the top, whoever that is. After all these times of me helping the Iron Wraiths, I’ve only caught names in passing. I don’t know who’s in charge. There’s never just one person who finds me. Sure, I’ve seen the same faces over and over, but our interactions are more like business transactions, with me always getting the short end of the stick.

  Instead of turning down my street, I keep going to the next.

  He follows.

  When I turn back out on the main road, he follows.

  Deciding to just get this over with and put an end to this miserable, weird, exhausting day, I pull into the parking lot of the Piggly Wiggly and throw my car in park. I’m not getting out, because I’m not that stupid. He can come to me. But I sit and wait with my window rolled down. The sound of boots crunching small pieces of gravel has me closing my eyes.

  A man in a leather vest walks toward me, but I’m small . . . so, so small. He’s huge, towering over me, and I’m crying. My throat hurts from trying not to cry because he told me not to, but I can’t stop it. He reaches for me, but then someone stands in his way, blocking him from getting to me.

  Blinking to try and clear the memory, I swallow as two hands appear on my open window, half-finger black gloves covering dirty hands.

  Blonde hair flies as my mother is violently hit and thrown to the ground beside me. I scramble over to her, crawling on my knees but feeling the burn from fresh cuts on my legs. “Mommy . . .Mommy . . . please get up . . .get up,” I beg, trying to shield her from the man standing over us. But I’m too small and he’s too big. He pushes me out of the way and grabs her by her shoulders, sitting her up, only to slap her and making her bleed. My vision goes blurry and everything goes dark.

  “Frankie?”

  Shaking. My entire body is
shaking again as I struggle to turn the memory off, trying to focus on the issue at hand.

  “You’re not supposed to talk to me anymore.” My words come out wobbly and I don’t sound like myself. It’s far away. Everything seems so far away. “He said you’re not supposed to talk to me . . . don’t follow me anymore.”

  The boots shuffle against the gravel again and I cringe against the unwanted visual that now accompanies the sound. “I’m not gonna hurt you . . . and I’m tired of people telling me what to do.”

  I glance up to see a somewhat familiar face. The headlight from his bike illuminates him and the badge on his leather vest. Crow. Can’t say I’ve ever heard anyone say his name before. When I’m at the compound, I keep my head down, do the job, and get out. So, it’s no surprise that I didn’t know it until now.

  “What do you want with me?” I ask, tears threatening to break. I’m not typically a crier. Over the course of my life, I can only think of a few instances where I’ve actually shed tears—when I failed my first test in college, the night before my nursing exam, and when my first patient died. All were moments where I felt completely overwhelmed.

  Which is exactly how I’m feeling right now.

  “What do you want with me?” I ask again, my voice sounding a bit unhinged. When I look up and make eye contact, Crow is watching me warily as he takes a step back. “You’re tired of everyone telling you what to do. What does that mean?”

  “I just want you to know who your father is.”

  Chapter 21

  Gunnar

  I knew something was wrong when I searched the crowd for her after the fight and found her seat empty. Something in my gut—some connection to her—told me she’d left. Then I saw the look on Helen’s face and I knew it wasn’t good.

  Helen’s usual no-nonsense, all-business demeanor is missing tonight. In its place is a more real, expressive Helen. When we lock eyes, she shakes her head in silent communication—she’s not here. She’s gone.

  Looking past Helen and toward the back of the venue, I scan the crowd for any sign of Frankie. If she’s still in the building, I wouldn’t hesitate jumping this cage and going after her, but there’s nothing.