Dodging Trains

by Sunniva Dee

  The longer we’re apart and the less Keyon wants me, the more I love him. It hurts, yes, yes, but love hurts, and if you love someone, should you not do everything to make them happy?

  Am I not the girl who lends her body out for fun, for a shallow rush of power, then runs home to overthrow her soul like the encounter was but a mid-summer stroll?

  I think that is me.

  I’m confident with what I am capable of, the girl who’s dealt with rejection on levels most people only peruse on TV. Over the years, I’ve constructed an impenetrable shield. It’s present, at the ready, and I can raise it on seconds’ notice.

  It will be harder to face him when the one rejecting me is the man who broke me into love, that crazy person who loved me so violently I begged for mercy and asked him to stop.

  Our time together was so short, and here I house all these feelings. I’ll do anything he needs. If he needs rest, I can make him sleep. I can turn off my soul and let him exhaust himself on my body. I can reduce myself to controlling a man’s desire, knowing I could say no like I used to.

  Maybe Las Vegas will be an exorcism for me too.

  KEYON

  Dawson and I don’t see eye to eye these days. It doesn’t matter. I’m here, in Vegas, set up, and ready to go. I’m too lightweight, he grumbles, the only thing he’s right about, so I’m carb-loading while keeping my liquid intake reasonable. Markeston wears a new, concerned face I need to look away from. I don’t need nay-sayers.

  I’m at the gym, kicking ass on the treadmill, because the outdoors doesn’t agree with my overworked lungs. Between the dry desert air and the pollution, I can’t take chances before this fight.

  Marlon “The Hammer” Jackson is a big guy with more bulk than me. In addition to speed, strength, and technique, weight will be a deciding factor when it comes to who wins; it’s easier to keep your adversary down if you’ve got bulk to back it up. I’m taller, which with the wrong man could do him a disfavor. I’m not the wrong man.

  “Take a break,” Dawson growls, eyes piercing me. “You’re burning the carbs off faster than you can take them in. Have you checked your heart rate?” He nods toward the screen I’m hooked up to. “Two hours straight, and you’ve been between two-twenty and two thirty-six, ninety-five percent of the time of the time. That’s idiocy.”

  I stop abruptly, rip my monitor off, and snarl my way over to the weights. In general, I have little patience before a fight, but these last days have been particularly taxing. My team has turned into a bunch of whiny pussies, even the never-daunted king of sarcasm, Jaden.

  “Dinner in your room,” Dawson barks twenty minutes later. “It’s eight o’clock, and you’re going. It. Is. Served.” I drop the weights and glare at him. He’s got a look though. I haven’t seen that look in ages. Even I know when to back down from Dawson.

  I stalk ahead of him with Jaden muttering some smartass comment behind me. I’m not listening. “Give me my phone,” I say.

  “Your phone’s upstairs,” Dawson counters. “As is dinner.”

  I huff. Whenever I stop working out, I start worrying about Paislee. Mack gave me an update yesterday. She spends her spare time at her mom’s and isn’t accepting random dates, not even with him.

  I’m a self-centered prick, and I hope to God he’s not making shit up. All I know is Mack didn’t reply to my text this morning, and if there’s no news waiting for me upstairs, I’m calling him.

  “Whoa, you’re letting me eat alone? Aren’t you my babysitters?” I snap at everyone. They’re backed up in the hallway outside my single like a bunch of douches, and they have stupid expressions on their faces too—fucking surprise-party faces. Can’t wait to get my hands on that Jackson guy. Which reminds me: I can re-watch a few of his fights while I eat.

  My biceps twitch. There have been a few involuntary spasms going on thanks to the rigidity of my workout regime. Would be annoying if I slept at all. Plenty of time to sleep after the fight.

  “You’re off-balance,” Dawson states.

  “Shut up,” I say.

  He’s pulling his quiet, obnoxious wise-man stare-down on me. I scowl at him while I pull the key card from the slot in my door.

  I relent. “Shit. Sorry, Dawson. I’m just worked up.”

  “All the time,” he agrees before he launches into, “and Keyon: you need that sorted out before the fight tomorrow. You have exactly twenty-four hours. Eat. Sleep. Meditate. Re-fucking-lax.”

  Wow.

  I exchange glances with Jaden, who’s as shocked as I am. Dawson never swears.

  “Yes, sir,” is all I can say. Then I open the door and head inside.

  The smell of food makes my intestines contract. I’ve been fed all day, small pieces of whatever while I’ve busted my ass, but I must not have accepted enough. There’s a whole table set up, decked out with small, metallic domes, nice dishes hidden beneath them, I’m sure. There’s bottled fizzy-water. White wine? I don’t get it: I stop drinking alcohol weeks before big fights, and Dawson would never encourage differently.

  I stride on, my nostrils flaring with another scent, a feminine, sensual, and familiar one. My stomach contracts again.

  The sight meeting me beyond the table is painful. In a slinky, red dress with thin straps over her shoulders sits Paislee. She’s made of shiny hair and eyes too big for her face.

  Paislee. Bent forward over her knees, hands joined like she’s praying, she’s waiting for me at the edge of my bed.

  My girl has makeup on but not the strong kind she used for Halloween. It’s a moist red on her mouth and a golden something on her lids. Her eyes glisten and shimmer in the light, more than that eye powder, and—I can’t fucking believe she’s here.

  “Damn, they’ve got balls,” I growl.

  “Who?” she whispers, steeping her hands under her chin, eyes bright with self-doubt. Oh God, it’s pure elation—she’s in front of me—just, I hate seeing her like this, so vulnerable.

  I used to build her up, wanted her to understand how crazy amazing she is. Why those eyes, why the insecurity, why—

  I know why.

  They put us in this situation. They had her come here, set her up in my room, and now it’s live or die. Goddamn assholes.

  Why didn’t they drop off a fighter groupie? A round-card girl? A goddamn whore? It’d be fucking easy to deal with that. I’d just do her and catch a half-hour of sleep.

  “Why did they send you?” I’m desperate. I don’t want to hurt her, use her, and her eyes fill with tears.

  “I shouldn’t have accepted. I don’t know what I was thinking, Keyon. Dawson thought it would be good for you.”

  She stands quickly, pumps her delicate chin up and looks past me toward the door. Her shoes are on the carpet, alone and red like her heart. Once she slips into them, she’ll walk out of here. She’ll leave me alone with my rampant brain.

  I step in front of her, blocking her view of the exit. “How’s Rigita?” It’s a stupid-as-shit question, but it’s better than letting her leave.

  “How do you think it is, Keyon? It’s freezing and dark. Mom says ‘hi.’”

  She tries to pass me, her gaze resolute, but I slide my hand up her bare arm and still her. My Paislee stops. Her lashes lower, covering her irises. I don’t know why this hits me right in the solar plexus, but it does. I never wanted to cause her grief.

  “Please. I’m just under a lot of pressure right now. I didn’t think you’d be here. You surprised me, but it’s a good surprise. I—I love it.”

  Her eyes open. The wariness is still there, the lack of belief in herself. It’s my fault. God, she’s so beautiful. This woman is the most beautiful person on Earth. I swallow, feeling my Adam’s apple bob in my throat.

  “Have you been okay since…?” I touch her cheek, watch the edges of her dark eyebrows drape upward in the middle.

  “You know I haven’t,” she murmurs, letting me caress her lips. “You know all about me. You’re in contact with Mack all the time. He’
s your spy.”

  It’s my turn to close my eyes. When I open them, I’ve got her in my arms. My fingers tap a pattern up her spine until I have her against me, hips, ribs, every ridge, her breasts pushing into my body.

  “Why did you come?” I whisper.

  “They told me you’re not doing so hot.”

  I don’t reply, just pull a section of her mane in between my fingers and tug, possessing its resilience and softness, strands of this woman.

  “I wanted to be here. Because maybe you needed me,” she mumbles against my neck. I dip my head. Smell her hair. It’s flowery, and I inhale deeply, wishing life wasn’t complicated. My body reacts to her the way it always does. She notices too, and presses closer, molding to me.

  “Have you slept any?” she asks, concerned as she tips her head up to look at me. “Dawson says you haven’t.”

  “It hasn’t been a priority.” The words sound ridiculous.

  “Why not?” She doesn’t break before her question.

  I let out a breath. Paislee holds my secrets. She’s aware of what I became back then. What could it hurt if I tell her what happens to me now?

  “Because I dream, I relive shit, and I can’t do a thing about it. I wake up in cold sweats every time I fall asleep.”

  Small fingers snake their way into my hair. “It does that in the beginning.”

  “It’s not in the beginning. It happened half a decade ago.”

  “Your brain only just realized, so it is new. It’ll get better.”

  I hear her, but I don’t want it to be true. What she says makes me sad and frustrated. This girl in my arms, she knows though. She’s been through it too.

  “You have to sleep,” she tells me like I’m a child. “And sometimes it’s easier to sleep with someone around.”

  I think about the last someones I’ve had around. They didn’t work for me worth a damn. Amy and—I don’t even remember the other girls parading through my bedroom lately. After the first few, I realized I couldn’t have them in my bed when I woke up gasping with horror.

  “Let’s eat, sweetie,” she murmurs to me, after how I’ve treated her, after how I’ve let her down. “Come. Come.” She loosens my grip around her body and takes one of my hands with both of hers. She walks backwards, slowly, as if I’m about to rip free and take off. She nods at me, eyes expectant, and I follow quietly, obediently.

  At the table, she draws out a chair, the screech of its legs against the floor making me start. Every nerve in my body has been trained to react quickly. I’m a predator, a wild animal not to be cornered, and she treats me like one.

  Metal domes retreat from amazing meals. Wafts of steak, chicken, mashed potatoes and gravy reach my nostrils, making me inhale compulsively. My mouth waters, and my eyes move between the girl loading vegetables and meat onto my plate, occasionally nodding a silent question as she holds up spoonfuls. I bob my head “yes” to it all, because in her hand, everything looks good.

  She eats with me, and we don’t say much. Just, my eyes can’t leave hers, and she withdraws hers only to refill my plate. I drink water. She has wine. At one point, she tips her glass against my mouth, and I pull in a small sip too.

  There’s a thickness in my throat that wasn’t there before. It’s this moment, how perfect it is. We sit for a while, she nibbling on her food while I devour three portions of chicken and steak and seafood. In the end, I cause the chair legs to screech too, as I make more room between myself and the table. My meal pushes against the walls of my stomach, against too-tight abdominal muscles, making them protest. I groan, pained from so much food.

  I open my eyes at the quiet trickle that is her laughter.

  “Hmm?” I say, one side of my mouth rising at her finding humor in something.

  “You,” she says, simply. “You’re like a little kid who overate at Thanksgiving. Super cute.”

  “Cute, huh?”

  “So cute.”

  I sigh heavily. “Come and comfort me. I’m about to cry. Make me feel better.”

  Paislee gets off her chair and climbs into my lap. I gather her in my arms and nuzzle her neck, landing kisses on her until she shudders. “Cold?” I tease.

  “Very. You should tuck me in.”

  I get up with her in my arms. I must be standing too quickly, because she yelps. I hold her against me with one arm while I draw the bedding open for us. Then I drop her inches from the mattress and take in the sight of her as she hits it, long locks spreading like she’s flying, fanned out over the pillow in the end. There’s a small puff escaping her as she does, lips spread. It’s all so fucking big I want to devour this entire experience.

  That dress, small, covering what it needs to but revealing enough to drive a man nuts. I toy with a thin-thin strap as I commit her face to memory. “Can we remain untucked for a while first?” I’m not as playful as I sound.

  She nods her head on the pillow, fast, like there’s nothing she wants more than remaining untucked with me. I cradle her cheek in my fist and watch her eyes slide shut at my touch.

  “Love,” I say to myself. “So much love. I don’t know, Paislee, what you do to me.” Then I lower myself over her.

  I let my guard down and fell asleep. Now I’m paying for it, spasming in remembered agony. Paislee’s here. She’s so close, unafraid, unsurprised. “It’s okay. It’s over,” she says, and I don’t have to explain myself. “Kill him the next time.”

  “I can’t chase him down,” I breathe. “He wouldn’t hang out on the same hunting grounds today.”

  “Yes, but you can change your dream! Come here.” She wants to cuddle me like I’m a toddler, trying and failing to encompass all of me with her small frame.

  “Change my dream, huh?” I want to scoff, but in some doctor’s office, I skimmed an article about people doing just that.

  She kisses my temple. No pity exudes from her, which makes me relax. “Yep, do it. It takes a while, but I pulled it off so I’m living proof. What would you do in that dream if you could change it?” Of course she knows what I’d do, but she sounds genuinely intrigued.

  I snort. “Kick his damn ass.”

  “Oh yeah, baby, you would,” she whispers. “Tell me the whole story.”

  So I do. I tell her how I’m peeing, how the door is forced open and this redheaded troll barges in. How he starts telling me I’m pretty. I’m not scared, no, I fucking shout in his face that he’s fucking ugly, and that he needs to get his ass out of here before I bash his brains in.

  I tell her how he smirks, that long hands come out to get me, but despite the small size of the bathroom, I grab one of his arms, twist it backwards—he wants to tap out, but of course I’m not letting him. I tell her how I crack his shoulder, describe the disgraceful howl of pain he emits. I look at his mouth, and I hate it too, so I punch him in the face, repeatedly, and it’s pure delight when he spits tooth after tooth after tooth.

  I stomp on him. The train creep is a bloodied mess on the floor. People are knocking on the door, but I tell them I’ll be done in a minute. Paislee encourages my violence, laughs when I put his head in the toilet and flush, when I enjoy the sight of his blood making the metal bowl swirl ketchup-pink around his head.

  She laughs louder when I jerk his pants down, leaving his white ass on display for whoever enters first after I exit. I turn to leave, but then I have a good idea, because he should never molest another child. So miraculously I have a pair of scissors. Miraculously they’re sharp enough to cut his balls clean off.

  I describe how the blood makes swirly rivulets on the floor, circling the drain. It doesn’t reach me—I’m untouchable. So I straighten, stare at my sixteen-year-old self in the mirror and read accomplishment and victory in my eyes.

  “What about his butt?” she says, evil, so evil. “Are you gonna leave it like that?”

  I like the way she thinks.

  “I almost forgot. There’s a toilet brush in the room, one with a long, thick handle. Turns out the train creep doe
sn’t like his own medicine.”

  “You could have used his penis. Just cut it off and plugged him with it,” she says, straight-faced, and that’s when I start to laugh out loud.

  The fear as I woke up, her cruel humor, our love from an hour ago, the food, the wine—this night, tomorrow, my life. All of it together is overwhelming, and I haven’t laughed in so long. Now I can’t stop.

  My stomach clenches, and I tear up. She’s laughing too, my beautiful, lovely girl who’s been through as much and more. When I can’t snap free and I squirm in my fit, she climbs onto me and pins me down with delicate fingers through mine, kissing me and giggling, “Hush, baby.”

  She changes my focus then; slowly, she makes my body relax with light strokes of her tongue in my mouth. She sinks down, her hips moving in quiet undulations.

  I grow, needing and thinking that I’ll never stop needing her. “You want my baby in you?” I ask, drunk on her.

  “I want anything you.”

  She fucks me slowly, the way she likes, and tonight, again, it’s perfect and makes me come quicker than I ever do. I arch when I spurt, jutting up against her, and she clamps her body around me, a small monkey with arms and legs secured so we can tremble together.

  “Sleep,” she whispers to me later. “Sleep. Sleep.”

  “What if the dream returns?” I ask, trusting her with my lack of wisdom.

  “It won’t come back. You just dreamed it, we’ve talked about it and invented a great rewrite. Your subconscious has had its fill for tonight.”

  Deep down I realize she can’t know for sure, but despite this knowledge, I shut my eyes and I fall asleep with a small, warm body nestled tightly against my own.

  PAISLEE

  I wake up with a quiet knock on the door, like someone would rather not interrupt. I let my gaze flick over the room. Our meal is still on the table, a small crime scene of foods, glasses, bottles, napkins, dirty plates, and cutlery. It makes me smile. That boy was a hungry boy. His hunger was stilled last night.

  The knock on the door returns, louder this time, and I skim Keyon’s shoulder with a hand. His mouth is slack, his eyes moving in dream beneath his eyelids. There’s a smile at the corner of an eye. When someone looks youthful in sleep, it’s because they’re happy.