Strike (The Beat and The Pulse #10)

by Amity Cross

  “Hi, Callie.” Seeing it was Ray, the head honcho, I smiled.

  “I’ve just come to clear out the stock in the back,” I explained. “Some of it should be salvageable.”

  “We’ve got a skip bin in the alley, so feel free to use it,” he went on. “They’re coming to collect it in the morning.” Glancing around the shop, I saw they had been hard at work with the demolition of the charred and burned-out sections of the building. “Demo is almost done, and tomorrow, we’re starting on the rewiring and plastering.” He looked pleased with the progress.

  “They weren’t kidding when they said things would start moving,” I murmured, picking my way around the drop sheets and tools the tradies had left when they had knocked off for the day.

  “Another week and we should be all patched up, painted, and ready for the final install.”

  It looked like The Fitzroy Cake Company would be ready to open in about a month’s time. It should’ve excited me, finally opening the doors to the public, but I didn’t feel like celebrating. I didn’t feel like anything in particular. It was all pretty meh.

  Smiling halfheartedly, I thanked Ray and let him go home to his family for the night, then turned my attention to the stock room. The scene of the crime. The place where I’d first met Mark.

  Trying not to think of it, I began pulling down boxes and containers from the shelving. Most of the cardboard boxes had smoke damage, but a great deal of the contents were salvageable. Some of the containers of sprinkles and decorations were melted from the heat, so they had to be thrown out, but it wasn’t quite as bad as I first thought.

  Opening the back door, I was in throwing distance to the skip bin and delighted in the bang the boxes made as they landed among the rubble. Imagining it was Mark’s head, I threw another box. Bang.

  “Callie.”

  I froze, my hands shoved in a box of paper patty pans. My heart twisted at the sound of Mark’s voice. A little birdie sat on my shoulder and tweeted, ‘What took him so long?’

  “Get out,” I snapped, not even looking up.

  “I didn’t want you to find out like this…” he went on.

  “You said you’d made mistakes, but I never thought your fist ‘mistaked’ right into a woman’s face,” I retorted. “No wonder you didn’t want to talk about yourself.” I snorted.

  “I’m so tired of trying to defend myself,” he said. “Nobody wants to listen. They just want to point fingers and blame.”

  “Then explain it to me,” I replied, turning to face him.

  He stood just outside in the alley, practically shaking, his jaw tense…and didn’t say a fucking thing. It was a metaphoric slap in the face.

  “Can’t explain the truth, huh?” I rolled my eyes.

  “I knew this was going to happen,” he said, his eyes darkening. “No one else heard you calling for help. What was I supposed to do? Keep on walking? I didn’t give my name because I knew this bullshit would come out and it would hurt you, but you just wouldn’t let it go.”

  “So it’s my fault now?” I exclaimed, throwing my hands into the air. “I want nothing to do with you. I don’t want to be like her.”

  “You’re not listening.” He lowered his gaze and shook his head.

  “I can hear you loud and clear,” I declared. “You saved my life, and now it’s your stepping-stone back into the UFC. You said it yourself, Mark. You walked over everyone and everything on your way to the top. You fell off the wagon, and now here’s your chance to jump back on with a bonus fuck on the side. At least you had the decency to use a condom.” I glared at him, my heart broken completely in two. “Now it’s your turn to listen. I won’t be anyone’s stepping-stone. I’ve worked too hard to let anyone trample on my dreams. Unlike you, I’ve got integrity. I do things the honest way. Shit, and bashing a woman? You’ve got some nerve coming here trying to guilt me into forgiving you. That’s how these things work. The cycle of violence doesn’t stop at a couple of backhands.”

  He stared at me, his expression cold. There was no warmth in his eyes, no movement on his lips…there was nothing at all. I wasn’t sure what I was expecting—more of a fight maybe—but his lack of emotion led me to believe everything I’d just said was true.

  “Get the fuck out of my shop and my life, and never come back.” I turned and opened another box, pulling out the contents and stacking it into a plastic tub. “If you do come back, I’m calling the cops and getting a restraining order.”

  There was no movement behind me for a moment, and then there was the sound of his retreating footsteps. I knew he was gone because the air had turned cold, and my skin was prickling with goose bumps.

  My hands began to tremble, and I squeezed my eyes shut. Taking a deep breath, I swallowed my tears and got back to work.

  I’d dodged a bullet, so why did I feel like the biggest piece of shit out there?

  Squashing down the wave of nausea threatening to overwhelm me, I slammed the storeroom door closed and locked it.

  14

  Storm

  I was in the mood to do something stupid. Real fucking stupid.

  Leaning against the bar at The Underground, I considered getting plastered before my fight with Crowbar. That would be really idiotic. Practically suicidal.

  I never hurt anyone. I wanted to scream it at Callie over and over until she heard me, but she was determined not to listen. She’d made her mind up, and that was that. She’d listened to the lie, and it was enough for her. I didn’t try to explain because it was pointless. I’d seen that look before.

  Thinking of her body next to mine, my jaw tightened. We’d only spent a handful of days together, and I already knew she meant more. We could’ve been like Hamish and Lori one day. We could’ve been in love.

  What the hell did I want with that? I snorted and began grinding my teeth. Who wants to fall in fucking love? All it ever brought anyone was a heap of trouble and hurt feelings. I wasn’t cut out for it, anyway. Whatever.

  I didn’t need anyone.

  “You’re a real dark horse, you know that?”

  I glanced up at Faye and scowled. “Don’t let the stories fool you, Faye. I’m still a dick.”

  “Get over it, Storm,” she retorted.

  “Stop trying to make me into something I’m not, Faye.”

  “You’re unbelievable.” She shook her head and walked off, flicking her hair over her shoulder as she went.

  Now that word was out about the fire, The Underground was buzzing with a different kind of Storm flavored gossip. It should’ve made me happy, but all I could think about was Callie. Get the fuck out of my shop and my life, and never come back.

  The hatred in her emerald eyes cut me right to the bone. The venom in her parting words had poisoned any hope I’d had left inside me. Never come back.

  Glancing over my shoulder at The Underground, a woman smiled and battered her eyelashes in my direction. Looking her over, my immediate thought was she wasn’t Callie. Glancing to my right, another woman was leaning against the bar giving me her best ‘come fuck me’ eyes. Not Callie, either. None of these women were.

  Cursing under my breath, I put my head down and carved a path through the warehouse before pushing out back. At least it was quieter, and there weren’t any random vaginas trying to find their way onto my cock.

  Callie, Callie, Callie… Now it was her turn to haunt me. I didn’t understand it when she’d said the same thing in her social media post, but now? She was under my skin and was itching like hell.

  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.

  15

  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 the 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 feelin
g 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.