Dances with Monsters

by D. C. Ruins

  Heath sighed heavily and shook his head. He rubbed the scruff of beard on his lower face, raking his index finger back and forth over his bottom lip for a long moment until he shrugged. "Probably for the best. He was always a dirty bastard anyway." He glanced up at Connor and a small, self-mocking smile tugged at his mouth. "Guess I'll have to come off my high horse and do those fucking endorsement deals after all."

  "The mighty have fallen," Connor teased back lightly. Their faces both grew serious then. "Heath, you'll be okay, though," he added reassuringly. "You've got options, you've got savings. You're fine."

  "I'll be fine, yeah," Heath said. He shrugged. "I'm just thinking about Aida and the kids."

  "I will pitch in whatever is needed," Connor said firmly. "Seriously."

  Heath shook his head. "No, man," he said firmly. "They're my responsibility. Not yours. I'll figure something out." He shook his head again and looked off. "Fucking bastard, Carter Steele. Son of a bitch."

  "Hey!"

  The loud, gruff shout pierced the stillness on the patio and Connor's head snapped around in its direction, Heath's doing the same. Connor was startled to see a tall, stocky older man stomping across the patio toward them.

  "Fucking hell," he heard Heath mutter under his breath.

  "Dad?" Drew called at the same time, sounding shocked, and Connor suppressed a groan.

  "Baby, you okay?" her father demanded, cupping her face in his hands before glaring angrily at Heath. "You!"

  Heath had stepped forward toward the man. "Sir –"

  "What's going on?" John demanded, rising to his feet.

  "Don't 'sir' me!" Drew's father bellowed back. "Don't give me any of that shit! I told you—keep my daughter safe from this bullshit and what happens? I get the news that her identity has been shared with the general fuckin' public two days before she testifies. How in the fuck does that happen?"

  "Sir, I take the blame," Heath said quietly. "I should have –"

  "You should have, but you didn't!" Drew's father pulled Drew to her feet by her arm, her eyes going wide.

  "Dad, what –"

  "You're coming with me and your mother, now," he said. "I'm not leaving you with this man for one more second."

  "Sir, what happened yesterday was a mistake," John interjected, lifting both of his hands. "Heath had nothing to do with that—it was a freelance journalist who's had it out for him since day one –"

  Drew's father seemed to notice John for the first time. "I don't care what business your son has with journalists—I do care when my little girl gets caught in the crosshairs!" He pulled Drew along as she protested, completely confused and upset. "Don't you ever come around my daughter again! Not in New York and damn sure not in Pittsburgh. You're done!"

  "Dad, I want him there!" Drew cried shrilly. "You can't do this!"

  "Baby, this is for your own good," her father said roughly. "He can't keep you safe. I refuse to allow anything bad to happen to you –" His voice choked and for a moment he said nothing, just blinking rapidly into his daughter's face. Connor felt a sudden surge of empathy for the man; Heath didn't deserve at all the dressing down he was receiving, but Connor knew what it was to have a father's love for his daughter, his little girl.

  Heath stood silently, knowing that to say anything else would be to say too much. He just watched them, and Connor felt awful at the look on his face, watching Drew being taken away from him.

  "Let's go," her father said finally, and he tugged Drew into the hotel. "Get your things. We're leaving for the city right now."

  Drew's eyes had filled with tears as she looked back at Heath. Her mouth opened to speak but she didn't say anything. They shared a long look before Heath nodded silently at her, telling her to go. Drew uttered a choked sob and let her father pull her into the hotel, the glass patio door shutting behind them.

  Chapter Thirty

  Heath sat sullenly in his dressing room back at the First Niagara Center. He was lying on the floor with his legs against the wall. It was his favorite way to stretch, to relax, to focus on what was coming. It helped him calm his thoughts and get into the mindset he needed to be in to be successful.

  The problem was, none of that was happening now. His thoughts were swirling and he felt anything but relaxed or at peace.

  He hated the fact that Drew had left. He hated the fact that he'd disappointed her father, and he really hated the fact that to some extent, he agreed with the things that had been said about him. Much like he'd told Carter, he'd had one job, and that was to make sure Drew was taken care of. He'd failed. Regardless of how it had happened…he'd failed.

  She'd sent him a text a little later on, telling him that she could have forced her own hand in the matter and refused to accompany her father, but she and Mr. Carnevale had had a long talk in her room as she was packing up, and her father had broken down in tears in front of her. It scared and upset her, she wrote, and allowed her to see just how badly her circumstances affected her father, who had always been the rock in the family and her backbone throughout the ordeal. So, in order to keep the peace and for the sake of her father's sanity, she had quietly left the hotel. She wished him luck, told him she'd be keeping up with what was going on through media outlets and Lana, and hoped to talk to him soon. He hadn't been able to respond yet, simply because he couldn't think of anything to say in reply. Nothing seemed to be good or appropriate enough.

  And so, he said nothing.

  Luckily, his family seemed to be able to sense his mood and wisely left him alone. John would come in soon to wrap up his hands. Beyond that, Heath wanted to be left alone with his thoughts. They turned angrily to problem with Carter. He hadn't expected it, but wasn't surprised when Carter had given him the ax. It sucked, but he knew financially he was fine with or without the job. He hated the idea of not being able to work with Rex or Jameson anymore, but that didn't mean they couldn't hang out.

  The more Heath thought about it, the more he began to view the end of the partnership in a positive light. For some time, he'd been wondering why he was working for someone. There was no reason why he couldn't be successful on his own. Even though he had "co-owned" the gym, Carter had always retained the majority percentage of ownership. The name was "Carter's Gym"—it had never belonged to Heath.

  He decided he would open his own gym, and Carter Steele could go suck a dick.

  He'd mulled over the idea previously, but it had been much simpler to take the partnership deal with Carter rather than to start from scratch. But the more he thought of it, the more he realized that was precisely what he needed to do. He needed to branch out on his own, be responsible for himself and work for himself. If he ever had a partner, he would look no further than his own brother, but Heath wasn't convinced he couldn't do it himself. The past several months at Carter's, Heath had single-handedly taken care of all aspects of the business. He could do it again, and he could do a better job since it would be his. Really and truly his.

  There was a knock on the door, and Heath figured it was probably John. With a sigh, he rolled off the floor and went to the door. He pulled it open and was surprised to see not only John, but Connor, and behind him were Bryan Callen and Drew Sheridan, the commentators. Heath felt the same fury he'd felt the day before stirring in his gut as he glared at them.

  Drew didn't miss it and lifted his hands in the air. "Look," he began. "I came to apologize. I was given that information about your girlfriend and we meant no harm."

  "That's fuckin' hilarious," Heath said icily.

  "Honestly," Bryan chimed in. "Marty Brown was supposed to give us the scoop on your and Connor's relationship these days—he was prepaid by the network for that interview. So when he didn't get that, he got something else."

  Heath stared at him levelly, and merely blinked. "And fuck whoever he hurt in the process, right?"

  Bryan sighed and shook his head. "No, of course not," he said. "Look, is she around? We'll make an apology to her."

  "She's gone now,"
Heath practically snarled. "So save your bullshit."

  "Listen, we were just passing on the information," Drew said in a way that made Heath want to break his neck. "People saw you two together, people saw you come get her from the crowd, people are curious. And everyone knows about the Jackson James case; no one knew she was the victim, though."

  "Yeah," Heath said darkly. "This little thing called protecting a victim's identity. Way to fuck that up."

  "Look, we came down to talk to you and apologize," Drew went on. "To let you know we meant no malice, we just gave the information we were given. Period."

  "And where was the apology?" Heath demanded. "To me, this all sounds like a bunch of fuckin' excuses. Get the hell out of my face, and if you ever report on anything regarding my personal life every again I will fuck you up. Both of you. When there won't be anyone to hold me back. Got it?"

  Drew looked at him levelly. "You need to check that temper, Riley," he said softly. "That's gonna get you in deep shit one day."

  "Wanna make it today?" Heath asked bluntly. He clenched his fists at his sides.

  "Son," John said warningly.

  "Get out of here," Heath said again, his voice quietly dangerous.

  The commentators both swallowed, nodded, and turned and left.

  "Let me guess," Heath went on, glaring at their retreating backs but addressing his family. "Smith told them to come down and 'apologize' or they'd lose their jobs."

  "Something like that," Connor said wryly. "Heath, you have to stop threatening people."

  "I don't give a shit," Heath countered, annoyed. "They're fucking with my life. And as far as Marty goes…"

  "He is nowhere to be found at the moment," Connor said. "I looked. He's always at these things but he must know he fucked up because he's not here. I even asked some of the fighters if they'd seen him and none of them have."

  "How would he even have gotten that information about her?" John asked.

  Heath shrugged. "He's a reporter," he said. "He's got contacts, and it's not like he has any scruples. I'm sure a few bills here and there to someone at the courthouse could get him whatever information he needed. Or he ran her name through some kind of database." He shook his head. "It was never about her anyway. He just did it to fuck with me. He probably was hoping for some big skeletons in her closet, something that could embarrass me if he shared it; he probably felt like he hit pay dirt with what he did find." Heath bit his words off with disgust; screw the commentators. Marty Brown was a lowlife piece of shit—that's who he really wanted to get his hands on.

  "Sorry about Drew and her dad," Connor said softly. "I know how much you wanted her here."

  Heath's guts twisted but he shrugged. "It's fine," he said evenly. "Her family needed her. She went." He turned his back on his brother and father, hoping they'd take the hint and not talk about her anymore. Now that she was gone, under these circumstances, Heath really and truly missed her. Not having her here had put him in a completely different mood and mindset than the day before. He knew he couldn't afford to think of anything but the task at hand for the day, with three bouts ahead of him, but he couldn't stop.

  ***

  The day only got worse from there.

  Despite the "apologetic" manner in which Bryan and Drew had visited him at his dressing room, they were now on a mission to berate him and his performance as much as possible. They were seated right next to the cage, they had microphones, and they apparently thought he was deaf.

  He was struggling against his first opponent of the day, one of the amateurs that had progressed from the first bout. The kid was wily, strong and fast, and Heath had underestimated him when he'd studied footage of the kid in action. Either that, or this kid had made huge leaps and bounds in his training since the film was shot a few months ago. Regardless, he was putting up one hell of a fight and now in the fifth round without the TKO that he was so infamous for, Heath was growing increasingly more pissed off.

  "Well, the One-Hitter-Quitter certainly isn't living up to his name today, huh, Drew?" Bryan called out merrily behind him, and it took every ounce of self-control Heath had not jump over the edge of the cage and strangle him. "Maybe it had something to do with the departure of his girlfriend early this morning."

  "I did notice she is not in attendance today," Drew agreed. "Some fighters just can't handle having their significant others here with them at things like this."

  Are you fucking shitting me! Heath bellowed in his mind.

  The sudden surge of anger proved to be just what he needed to put the amateur down. He blocked the flurry of punches from the kid, shoved him back and leapt out of the way of a sweep kick, before feinting to the left and bringing his knee to the kid's face before jumping onto his back and putting him in a chokehold until finally, blessedly, he tapped out.

  "Finally!" Drew called sarcastically. "That's fifteen minutes of my life I'll never get back."

  "You know, you come to expect a certain standard of performance from a fighter," Bryan agreed. "And when he falls short, well…it's just boring."

  Heath whirled around and glared down at them, heaving breaths silently. They both looked back up at him, their faces wearing a mixture of slight fear and defiance. After a long moment, Heath stalked out of the ring, out of the arena, and back to his dressing room. He refused to allow anyone to enter or speak to him until it was time for his next bout.

  He didn't have to wait long; his next card was called sooner than he'd anticipated. He was facing off with Richie Marsden, one of the two most prolific fighters there, other than him. If he beat Richie, he would move on to fight against Clay "The Punisher" Cavasso in the final round. These two were the ones he had been most concerned about, but he just knew he sincerely needed to be at the very peak of his game right now. He couldn't be distracted by thinking about Drew or paying attention to the two asshole commentators behind him.

  He wanted to knock Richie out as soon as possible, but the man proved to be quite a challenge. He was a little faster than Heath, though Heath knew he was stronger, and he seemed to have tireless energy, where Heath felt himself growing weary. Though whether it was mental exhaustion or physical was hard to tell. The first three rounds between them were brutal; they both shed blood, they both were getting lumped up, and both were trying to go for the knockout punch that would end this dance and allow them to progress to the final round. But Heath refused to get knocked out; it had never happened, and it would never happen as long as he had any control at all over the situation.

  Finally, in the fourth round, when Heath's back was pressed against the mesh wiring of the cage, he tucked his chin and ducked a lightning fast left jab from Richie even faster, and as Richie's fist connected with the wiring, Heath's shot up and out in a brutally forceful and knife-sharp uppercut. Richie's head snapped back, his eyes rolling, and blood and at least one tooth flew from his mouth as he stumbled backward and finally toppled over on his back.

  "A knock out!" he heard either Bryan or Drew shouting from behind him. "Praise Jesus!"

  "Not exactly a one-hit quit," the other taunted, "but it'll do. Heath Riley advances to the championship round and one step closer to that two-million dollar purse."

  "And there he goes, storming out of the cage as he always does," the first taunted as Heath slammed the door open and ran down the steps. "Can't be bothered to stay and appreciate the fact that he has fans."

  Heath snapped his head over and found them both looking at him. He gave them his middle finger and hustled off to his dressing room, wishing they would both get in that cage with him for five minutes.

  ***

  In the end, it was Heath against Clay "The Punisher" Cavasso.

  Clay reminded him a lot of himself. He seemed to be very quiet, keeping to himself and avoiding the reporters and the fans. He also chose not to have any walk-out music, and was silently focused on Heath the second they went eyes-on with each other.

  Now, they studied each other across the ring intently. T
here was no real animosity, no anger, no misdirected violence. They both knew they were there to do a job, to get paid, and to leave it at that. Heath intrinsically knew that Clay regarded him the way he regarded Clay—just another man there to go to work. Nothing more, nothing less.

  That made Clay his most challenging opponent yet.

  Five five-minute rounds, with a minute break between each round. The next thirty minutes wouldn't define Heath's future, but with his recent decisions and overall goals, they damn sure would have a heavy impact. Thirty minutes until he found out which direction his life would take, unless he could get in a knock-out. However, he knew from the hours he'd spent intently studying Clay that it wasn't going to be easy. In fact, Clay, much like him, had never been knocked out. Clay did a whole bunch of knocking out, but he'd never been on the receiving end of it before.

  The bell was rung, and Heath and Clay went to war.

  After the first couple of rounds Heath knew that Clay was the last one standing with him for a reason. After ten minutes, Heath was already tired, and he could tell Clay was flagging too. They were equally matched in strength, speed and skill. Heath hated to admit it, but this match seemed like it was going to come down to pure luck—whoever was truly the best man, would win.

  Heath heard the shouts of the audience, heard the voices of the commentators, but he blocked out the details of what was being said. He could not focus on it, was unable to focus on anything but the man in front of him. However, as the third round went underway, he became aware of a figure at the base of the ring, hands clutching through the mesh wire of the cage.

  Connor.

  He was right there, encouraging Heath with wordless shouts. Sometimes he shouted words but Heath couldn't make them out—he was too busy fighting against himself. Clay was like his mirror; they punched the same way, they predicted each other's moves accurately. It was turning into an exhaustive stalemate as they struggled to land punches and kicks and block others.