Dances with Monsters

by D. C. Ruins

  She found herself busy at the café, as Bunz had spent a few days at home with the flu, and in between stopping in to check on her best friend and bring her hot homemade vegetable stock and loaf after loaf of Italian bread, every moment of her spare time was devoted to her dance. Having perfected it to her own critical eye, she was now in rehearsal mode. She had always suffered from horrible stage fright, and she wanted to be able to execute the dance effortlessly, perfectly, in her sleep, so that muscle memory would take over once she was on stage and she could compartmentalize her stage fright.

  Bunz was back at work on Thursday, the day before Drew was set to leave. As she went through the motions of the day, slightly less busy since she didn't have to put in extra-long hours to do the baking and run the front, she realized something.

  She hadn't thought of the trial at all this week, and not much more in the previous weeks.

  She wasn't sure what that meant—did she no longer care? Was she so afraid and anxious about it she blotted it from her mind?

  All she knew was that she had the letter she'd received, the official subpoena, telling her to be at the New York City Criminal Court on Monday at nine o'clock in the morning.

  Be there or be square.

  That evening, though she knew she needed to be packing for the weekend, she lay on her back on her couch, Rocky curled above her on back edge of it, staring at the ceiling, and thought long and hard about the trial. She made herself think of what it would entail, envisioning herself sitting on the mahogany chair on the witness stand next to the judge as she told the jury exactly what Jackson James had done to her almost a year ago, in detail. And he would be sitting there across from her, with his horrible dark, almost demonic-looking eyes, remembering what he'd done as he listened to her, too. She wondered if it would affect him at all, then, with disgust, realized that if it did it would probably just turn him on.

  His defense would cross-examine her, trying to poke holes in her story. Or maybe they'd realize there were no holes to be poked, and would insist that the man was out of his mind, hadn't known what he was doing.

  He'd known.

  He was out of his mind; of that, Drew was sure and wholeheartedly concurred. However, he had known exactly what he was doing when he'd spent almost half a day raping her, brutalizing her, beating her, making her beg for mercy and plead for her life, ripping into her soft flesh with his teeth and his hands and his weapons. A memory of the absolutely agonizing pain she'd felt, pain that she'd never before experienced and prayed to God that she would never experience again, washed over her and she could feel it like she could feel it back then, ripping over her skin, tearing down to her bones, making her wish she actually would die, just so it would stop and she would be free of his torture.

  She forced herself to think of all these things, curious in a detached way about her physical and emotional reactions. It was like she was studying herself, and she thought long and hard about the way her stomach clenched up and a feeling of incredible dread washed over her. Her heart rate increased and she could feel it everywhere she had a pulse on her body. Her breathing increased and shook and involuntary tears stung her eyes as her entire body clenched up and shuddered.

  She thought of her bottle of anxiety medication, on her kitchen counter, untouched since the day she'd stopped taking them, when Heath had first come over for dinner—the night he'd learned of her terrible secret. It seemed like so long ago. She wanted one. She wanted the whole bottle. Anything to make these feelings of sheer panic and anxiety go away and leave her. Anything to make her stop feeling like she was about to lose her life at every moment; that every stranger she looked at was plotting against her, making plans to rip her flesh apart and leave her for her family to find.

  As tears squeezed out of her tightly shut eyelids, she struggled to draw deep breaths, inhaling and exhaling loudly as the intakes of air shuddered between her dry lips. She felt an ache in her knuckles and realized that her hands were clenched into fists, her nails digging into her palms. In fact, she realized her entire body was tight and wound up with stress. She forced herself to relax, concentrating hard on making each muscle relax, one at a time. The exercise took a very long time, but when she was complete, she felt a small measure of peace.

  Next to walking out of the hospital and being in public, around people—enemies, as far as her shattered mind was concerned– for the first time after the attack, she knew the trial would be the hardest thing to date she'd ever have to do. But she was determined to do it. Even if it killed her, even if she broke down on the stand, even if she passed out or lost her mind—she'd do it. She'd never forget what Jackson James had done to her, the lingering damage he'd caused that would haunt her probably for the rest of her life, the reminder as her sisters continued to bear children, and their children bore children, that she never would be able to do the same, because he'd taken that from her. She'd be damned and no better than him if she didn't testify just because she was scared, and as a result he got off and did it to someone else. It had to stop with her. It would stop with her.

  Having devoted all the energy and emotion she could tolerate to those thoughts, her mind shifted to Smackdown. To Heath.

  Curiously, she felt more twinges of anxiety as she thought of it. Perhaps it hadn't been wise to think about her attack just prior. For a moment, Heath was just a faceless male body with brute strength that would tear her to pieces if he so chose.

  But then she pictured his face, and the smile he'd given her in the car when she'd told him she would go with him. She thought about the way his eyes had lit up and crinkled at the corners, and the way both sides of his mouth had curved upward into a genuine smile of pleasure. Seeing him smile, really smile with his whole mouth, was so rare that she had never really noticed it before. She had always figured he would have a nice smile—he was a beautiful man, after all. It made sense. But seeing it, really seeing it, feeling its warmth and basking in its glow, watching as it completely transformed his face, accepting that it was directed at no one but her, caused by no one but her—it had almost taken her breath away. And the owner of that smile, that face, would never, ever do anything to hurt her. Of that, she was certain. She was safe with him.

  Dimly, she realized she was calm now. Her heart beat was at a normal rate. Her breathing was relaxed, deep and even. Her muscles were no longer wound up and tangled tightly in themselves. In fact, she was smiling faintly. The thought of his smile had made her smile. The thought of him made her smile. She also realized she missed him. This was do-or-die week for him, she knew. She'd stayed out of his hair all week other than stopping by the gym a couple of times to bring him something to eat. He'd been gentle and sweet with her like always but she could tell his mind was on business, and she respected that. They'd talked on the phone each day, and sometimes they would text each other into the evening, but not too late, because she knew he needed his rest. He'd been going hard this week, pushing himself, increasing his workouts, sparring every single day with whoever would take him on, watching the film of his potential opponents obsessively to memorize their fighting preferences, their strengths, their weaknesses. She'd never known anyone to be so devoted to anything, and she couldn't wait to see his hard work pay off. There was no way he couldn't win. She'd secretly begun to think of him as "Superman."

  As the noise of Rocky's sleepy purrs and snores met her ears from above her head, she glanced at the clock on her cable box and was dismayed to see how late it had gotten. She still hadn't packed for the weekend and Monday's trial. Tomorrow was a press day in Buffalo, Heath had told her, and the press kick-off started at noon but he wanted to check in at the hotel they'd be staying at first and get settled. That meant that he'd be picking her up at eight o'clock the next morning. John would be driving up with Connor and Lana later on. Carter Steele, Heath's manager, was already in Buffalo, awaiting their arrival. He'd been the one Heath had contacted to get her an extra pass to the fights and a hotel room close to Heath's. He'd told Heath
he'd make sure he saw to Drew's every need and want while she was there, the best of the best treatment for the best fighter at the tournament. Drew had heard this herself since he'd been on speakerphone in Heath's office and she'd rolled her eyes at Heath. The words had been so dramatic and Drew was sure all that meant was that she could get coffee when she wanted it and maybe a front row seat. Heath had just smiled back at her.

  She wasn't really sure what one wore to an MMA tournament. She'd been so unsure, in fact, that she'd looked at clips on YouTube to gauge her options. She had been amused to see that most of the girls there were dressed pretty scantily. She assumed they were not officially affiliated with any of the fighters but had aspirations of becoming affiliated with their beds later on, if they were lucky. She saw endless amounts of cleavage, bottoms hanging out of skirts and short-shorts, figures encased in super-tight dresses. It was laughable.

  She selected several outfits for the tournament. She figured she could have a little fun with her choices without going overboard or being boring. Then, she sighed to herself as she picked out a somber black skirt suit and a crisp white blouse and plain, low-heeled black pumps for the trial. She folded the items carefully and placed them in her bag, wishing she didn't have to pack them at all.

  She packed a small toiletry bag but left it out of her duffel bag, knowing she'd still need it the following morning. When she felt she had everything in order, or as much in order as it was going to be, she called to Rocky softly. After a moment he came loping into her room and jumped on her bed. She followed suit and let out a long sigh as weariness settled into her the way Rocky settled into the crook of her arm, his back curving against her chest and stomach. Before she knew it, she was asleep.

  ***

  Heath pulled up to Drew's apartment complex the next morning. He hopped out of his car and buzzed the secure-entry door. After a moment he heard a click of the door unlocking and pulled it open. He took the steps to her apartment three at a time and rapped lightly on the door when he reached it.

  She opened the door and greeted him with a smile, her dimples digging into each cheek as she looked up at him. He could never resist the sight of them, and returned her smile. She was dressed in an old Clash T-shirt, expertly ripped and shredded, and she wore skinny jeans with black sequined Chuck Taylor sneakers. He thought she looked like a cute little London punk, the toughness of her outfit offset by her sweet, happy smile. She always seemed so genuinely glad to see him, and it always made him feel great.

  It was a feeling he wasn't quite used to yet.

  She had a couple of bags to maneuver, a large duffel bag and a tote bag, plus her purse. Heath shouldered the large duffel bag and couldn't help rolling his eyes.

  "You do realize this is just a weekend thing?" he asked as she locked up behind them. "We're not going away for a week."

  She gave him an odd look. "I'm aware," she replied. "Can't you tell? I'd have so much more if it were longer than three days." Her face clouded slightly. "Well, four, I guess."

  Heath thought of the trial, and noticed the stress that came across her face, and leaned in to kiss it away. Her brow immediately smoothed as she focused completely on him, as he'd intended and hoped.

  "Come on," he said lightly. She followed him down the stairs and out of the building. She helped him load her bags in the car and then he opened her door for her. Her face brightened at the sight of the steaming cup in her cup holder.

  "Is that for me?" she asked when he got settled behind the wheel.

  "That's for you," he replied, starting the engine and pulling off. "So who's taking care of Rocky? Since your family is coming to New York on Monday."

  "Well, my mom is going to come by and feed him every day until Monday," she replied. "Since my dad doesn't like cats and won't let her bring him over. Then she's just going to load him up with food on Monday before they leave. He'll be okay for a day by himself." She leaned her head back against the headrest of her seat and smiled at him. "Why, you worried about him?"

  Heath shrugged, feigning nonchalance. "No way. I just wanted to make sure you'd have your little buddy to come home to, that's all."

  She laughed and sipped her beverage. "Sure. It's okay, Heath. You can love him."

  He grunted in reply, unable to keep a smirk off his face. He made it to the interstate in due time and settled in. It would be about two and half hours to Buffalo.

  Drew stretched in her seat and ran a hand through her thick dark hair, bringing it over one shoulder. He kept his eyes on the road but sensed from his peripheral vision that she was looking at him.

  "You seem so focused," she commented, sipping her latte again. "Are you feeling pretty good about this? Nervous at all?"

  "I don't really get nervous," he replied. "The only time I felt any nervousness was right before I fought Connor because I know what a beast he is. But even then I was just so pissed off that I just pushed it away. I'm honestly looking forward to it being over."

  "Really?" she asked. "You don't enjoy it?"

  "I mean, I do, I guess," he said. "Because I'm good at fightin'. It's what I do, it's how I make my living. But the whole thing with these tournaments, the interviews, the press, the pictures, the televised fights. It just sort of makes it all seem so…Hollywood. At the end of the day we're all guys who just want to do our best, make our living and get home."

  "Only one of you gets to make a living, though," Drew pointed out. "Right?"

  "Well, only one of us gets the purse," he conceded. "Sometimes managers can work it out so that their fighter gets a percentage of the ticket sales."

  "Did yours?"

  Heath shook his head. "I don't do any of that," he replied. "I make enough from what I do on a day-to-day, and I'm considering some endorsement deals."

  "If you win the purse, what'll you do with it?" Drew asked.

  Heath gave her a sidelong, playfully sly look. "Why? You plannin' to steal it from me or somethin'?"

  "Trust me, sweetheart," she retorted. "I do not want your money."

  "What if I could make all your dreams come true?" he teased, but he was thinking of her studio.

  "Then I'd be paying you back every red cent," she answered, giving him a stern look. "Enough about that. Answer the question."

  "Well," he mused. "I'll be giving some to Aida. For the kids."

  "Joaquin's wife," Drew said.

  "Yeah. I've sent her enough so far to get trust funds started for them. Joaquin would want them to go to college. I'm hoping I can win this purse and get the funds set up fully for them, give her something to live on comfortably. Then I guess I'll invest some of it. I don't really have any debt or anything. Maybe put some of it into the gym."

  "That sounds responsible," Drew commented. "Speaking of Joaquin, I saw the memorial you have for him—and your mom—in your apartment."

  Heath shrugged, feeling instantly uncomfortable. "Yeah."

  "I think it's nice," Drew said sincerely. "To remember them that way."

  She was watching him again. He nodded in reply.

  "Do you…do you pray at it a lot?" she asked. "What's your faith, anyway?"

  He let out a short bark of laughter. "I was raised Catholic, if that's what you mean," he replied. "My faith these days, though, is skepticism and anger."

  She tilted her head. "Why?"

  Heath sighed. He really didn't want to get into any of it, but she'd given him so much of herself that it was only right. "I haven't—I haven't made peace with losing Joaquin, or Mom," he replied quietly. "I'm workin' on it, but I don't feel it yet. I guess I just feel let down by God. By life."

  "Let down how?" she asked softly. He knew she wasn't contesting him; just probing for more information and better understanding.

  "My mom was my rock," he said simply. "Then she was gone. Joaquin was my rock after her. Lost him. Growing up, I had an old man that beat the shit out of me and Connor. Connor had always been my rock, too—then he chose Lana and bailed. Or at least that's how I saw it then; I
understand a little better now. I mean, I don't dwell on this shit. But when you've lived with it for so many years—it gets hard to shake."

  "I can see that," Drew said with a nod. "I totally can see that. When you experience nothing but disappointment and loss you start to question whether anyone 'up there' gives a shit about you anymore. And if they don't give a shit about you…why should you give a shit about them?"

  He glanced over at her, and met her gaze. For the first time, he felt truly understood.

  "What about you?" he asked. "Your faith? I'd think you'd be the most skeptical and angry out of anyone."

  "Oh, I have faith," she said with a decisive nod. "A lot of faith. I believe."

  "Oh, yeah?" he said, feeling a mixture of grudging admiration and disbelief. "How's that?"

  She shrugged. "Don't get me wrong. When it first happened I was angry and skeptical like you. Constantly shaking my fist at God and demanding to know why me. After a while, I had to take on a new perspective, or else I would have killed myself." She glanced at him again. "Not joking. It's unbearable to live life feeling like you're cursed, like you have nothing else to live for, that your quality of life is just gone. I had to do some serious soul-searching and eventually, I decided that I had to start thinking in terms of reason. Everything happens because of a reason." She paused carefully. "You going through what you went through with your father happened for a reason."

  "And what reason is that?" Heath asked, unable to keep the skepticism out of his voice.

  "Because you were strong enough to handle it," she replied simply. "Look at you. You've been through some hard times and you've made it through each and every one. You're successful and healing from your wounds. You've got a loving family."

  "A slightly fucked up family," he countered, although he knew he wasn't exactly being fair.

  "I wish you could see your father through an outsider's eyes," she said. "Like mine."

  "And what do you see?" Heath asked her, glancing at her before turning his eyes back to the road.