by D. C. Ruins
Heath felt the air whoosh out of his lungs when Clay caught him with a surprising, punishing body shot to the lung the instant before the bell rang, signaling the end of the third round. Two left. He stumbled backward, his back hitting the cage, and he felt Connor grab his ankle and shake.
"Wake up, little brother!" Connor bellowed. "Be smart! This guy is like you, like me—he is always two steps ahead of you. Now you gotta be three steps ahead of him. You can do this! Now, go!"
John had joined him and tended to the little cut that had erupted over his right eyebrow, and squirted some water in his mouth. The bell rang again for round four, and Heath sighed inwardly and moved into the ring.
This round went better for him; he wasn't sure, but he thought that Clay's energy was depleting a bit more quickly than his own, and he used it to his advantage. Though he still wasn't able to get a knockout or a tap-out, he was able to land a great number of his punches and kicks, and gradually more bruises blossomed over Clay's body, his nose bloodied, and Heath gave him a cut over his brow to match his own.
"That's it!" Connor shouted enthusiastically. "That's it! He's getting tired, Heath—pay attention to that. You notice how he's favoring that left side?"
Breathlessly, Heath nodded.
"Use that shit to your advantage," Connor went on. "That last punch you threw in his kidney—that one humbled him. He keeps grabbing at his side. But you need to concentrate on those feet of his—he's fast as shit. Can you do that? You need to get him off his feet and get that tap-out. You're not gonna knock him out, that's clear—it ain't gonna happen. You need to get him to the ground and make him tap-out. Get him off his feet. You hear me, little brother?"
Heath nodded again, and the bell rang.
"Round five!" Connor was shouting as Heath got to his feet. "Play time is over, Heath. Bring this shit home!"
Heath had been keeping a rough score in his head throughout the whole fight; he knew that in terms of points granted, it was probably a rough tie. The last round had worked well for him, but the first three rounds were mostly in Clay's favor. That was too close for comfort for Heath; he couldn't not win. He just couldn't. He had a dragon to slay, and so he re-entered the battle.
The round was playing out almost like the last one had. Clay was hurting, no doubt; his side, where he'd taken a brutal body shot, was giving him fits. His arm would unconsciously go to clutch at it when his fists weren't guarding his face. Heath hated to play dirty, but he knew a few more body shots would put Clay down for good.
He caught his last wind, and went on full attack-mode, launching a flurry of kicks and punches against his opponent. Clay caught him with a couple of surprises, including a sharp left hook to his ear which left him hearing ringing, and a hard roundhouse kick to his ribs which sent him reeling. If they weren't outright broken, they were cracked; Heath knew that much as he doubled over, assailed by white-hot sharp pain.
"Get up, Heath!" Connor yelled. "Get up and put him down! End this!"
Heath's last thought before launching himself back into the fight was how strange it was how clearly he could hear Connor's voice, but everyone else sounded like they were speaking gibberish.
He flew at Clay and registered the look of tired defeat and acceptance in his eyes before he nodded back apologetically, almost imperceptibly. He rained blows on Clay, punching his body in places he knew would hurt, throwing an elbow into the back of his head, kicking his knees out from under him. When Clay was on his knees, Heath lashed out with a stiff sharp jab, then doubled over in agony when Clay buried his fist in his gut. As Heath fell forward, Clay chopped down hard on his shoulder. Heath caught his weight on his hands and threw out a knee, managing to break Clay's nose, before they both toppled over.
The bell rang. It was done.
"Heath!" Connor shouted, moving around the ring to his side. "Heath, you okay?"
"Good," Heath gasped out. "Great."
"Just hang on," Connor said, then disappeared. A moment later, he and John were in the ring, hauling him to his feet as Clay's people did the same to him. John dragged him to a corner of the ring to minister to his injuries.
"Ribs," Heath croaked. "Broke or cracked."
"Tough little sonofabitch, that kid Clay," John said, pressing a Q-tip dipped in alcohol to the cut above his brow. "But you got this in the bag, Heath. I'm proud o' you, son."
"You are a fucking beast," Connor said admiringly. "A fucking beast." He ruffled his little brother's hair affectionately.
Several moments passed as the judges tallied up their points to score their fight. Heath knew better than to expect anything but he felt confident about his performance. He'd roughly scored both himself and Clay in each round and he felt that ultimately he was in the lead for points. Maybe not by a huge margin, but he led. It came down to simple mathematics where the scoring was concerned, and he waited for his name to be called. It wasn't out of cockiness, it wasn't arrogance—it was what it was.
So he was utterly dismayed and shocked when he heard the name of Clay "The Punisher Cavasso being hailed the winner and Champion of the first annual Smackdown tournament, taking home every dime of the two-million dollar purse. Clay's people rushed into the ring, his family, his wife, screaming ecstatically as the entire arena erupted into noise. Clay himself looked completely confused, his eyes flying to Heath.
He was stunned.
"No way!" Connor was shouting angrily. "No way! I counted the points! No fucking way!" He stared at Heath in disbelief, who could only look dully back at his brother.
"This ain't right!" John shouted, pointing at the judges. "You know this ain't right!"
Heath looked over to where the judges were; all three of them were looking at him, talking behind their hands. Then, simultaneously, they each looked away and got up from their table.
"Hey!" Connor rushed to wall of the cage, shouting at the judges through the wire mesh. "Hey! What the fuck are you doing? You know this is wrong!"
One of the judges stopped in his tracks and glanced coolly back at Connor. The judge glanced around then chuckled before walking off.
"Goddamn it!" John raged.
"Let's get the fuck out of here," Heath muttered. Without waiting for any commentary from his father or his brother, Heath made his way to the entrance of the ring, then turned suddenly. He crossed the ring to where Clay stood, being interviewed by Bryan Callen, still looking utterly confused.
"Good job, man," Heath said quietly to Clay. Clay looked at him, opening his mouth to speak. Whatever he wanted to say never came out as if he thought better of it.
"Thanks," he managed, shaking Heath's hand. "Thank you. Hey—you, um, you put up a hell of a fight."
Heath gave one nod of acknowledgment and walked out of the ring.
What a fucking bust, he thought angrily, then chided himself for being a sore loser. He was just disappointed, he knew. He'd had major plans for that money, but it was nothing that needed to end those plans. They would just be redirected and slightly postponed. It wasn't even so much that he felt like he was invincible—he'd lost before, and he'd taken it like the man he was. But something about this situation didn't sit well with him. It had been a close fight, to be sure, but it hadn't been that close.
The uneasy feeling that grew in his gut intensified, and doubt started to worry at his brain. When he was back in his dressing room, he glanced at his big brother's face in the mirror and saw the expression of confusion and unease on his own face mirrored on Connor's.
"Something about that seem utterly fucked up to you?" Connor finally asked, folding his arms. "I scored all your rounds in my head. Both you guys. And you came out on top, Heath. There's no way that kid won. There's just no way."
Heath shrugged, pulling off his wraps. He didn't feel like talking about. He didn't feel like doing anything right now but going to sleep. He winced as he checked his face out. Besides the cut that didn't seem to be able to stop bleeding, he had a lump on his cheekbone and his lip was slightly split a
t the corner. His body ached and his neck and shoulders were sore. His ribs hurt like hell and drawing in breaths was painful. He knew he'd need to see the medic and get them taped before he left.
John walked into the room holding a cold bottle of water, and handed it to Heath. He nodded his thanks and drained it quickly, taking the two ibuprofen his father handed him as well. He glanced at Connor again and felt a surge of annoyance at the absently concerned look on Connor's face as he stared at the floor.
"Let it go, Connor," he said impatiently. "Kid won. Apparently fair and square."
"Bullshit," John grumbled. "Fair and square, my ass."
"John, please," Heath muttered. "It is what it is, now." He looked at Connor. "Right?"
His older brother met his eyes, and Heath saw deep suspicion and something else in them, as though a light bulb had just gone off in his head.
"Yeah," Connor said lightly. "It is what it is." He pulled his phone out of his pocket and began punching buttons furiously.
"Who are you texting all pissed off like that?" Heath asked absently, wincing as pain tore through his abdomen when he tried to draw a deep breath.
"Uh, just—just Lana," Connor said quickly. Heath's eyes narrowed at his brother. Just then the door flew open and Lana rushed inside.
"That was fast," Heath said coolly, noting the look of near-panic on Connor's face at the sight of his wife.
She looked at him in total confusion. "Huh?"
"Nothing, babe," Connor said quickly. "Listen—we'll get out of your hair. John—you ready to leave after this? Heath—you got your car, right? Can you even drive? John could drive your car while you rest. You want to come over for dinner tonight? Hang out with us, with the girls?"
Heath shook his head, stepping into his Nikes. "Not tonight, but thanks. I've got somewhere to be in the morning and I have a ways to drive."
"Where?" Connor asked curiously. Heath glanced up at his brother.
"New York City."
Chapter Thirty-One
Drew sat outside Court Room # 27 on Monday morning in the New York City Criminal Court. She was dressed in her severe, crisp black skirt suit, low black heels, with her hair pulled back into a bun and no makeup. Her sweating hands were clasped tightly in her lap, and her feet pumped against the floor as nerves hummed inside her.
She glanced up, seeing her mother, father, sisters, brothers-in-law, and Uncle Gino standing before her. Her nieces and nephews were dressed like they were going to mass and were all uncharacteristically quiet as they held onto their mothers' hands. Bunz sat next to her, reaching out intermittently to pat her knee.
Her whole family was there; everyone who was important to her.
Almost everyone.
Drew locked eyes with her father and he gave her a slight nod, which she returned with a small smile. Things were different between them now, after their talk in her hotel room. She knew she hadn't been able to succinctly summarize for Heath in a text message what had happened, but it had changed things permanently between her and her father; solidified them.
She'd been fuming on the elevator ride up to the room, needing a few moments of silence to gather herself. She'd been grateful for the other patrons in the elevator to prevent her from losing her temper with her father. She had led him down the hall to her room and as soon as the door was shut, she'd lit into him.
"That was completely out of line, John!" she'd exclaimed, whirling to face him and putting her hands on her hips. "First of all, he had nothing to do with my story getting leaked, and second of all, he didn't deserve you talking to him like that! He's done nothing but be a good man to me and try to make sure I've been okay, and you –"
"Drew, save it," her father had ordered, folding his arms. "I got a phone call early this morning from some guy telling me that Heath had leaked the story to the press to get more attention for the fights. What did you expect me to do? Just sit back and let that happen? Let him get away with that? Hell, no!"
"What?" Drew had practically shrieked. "That's complete bullshit! He never did that! He would never do that to me! Who called you?"
"I-I don't know," her father had admitted. "I didn't catch his name. I just got so pissed off –"
Drew had sighed, digging her fingers into her temples. Between Carter and Marty Brown, there wasn't a great deal of variety as to who the culprit could be.
"Listen, Dad," she'd said finally. "Heath had nothing to do with the information that was leaked out. You had no right to come screaming up to Buffalo, curse him out, and yank me around like I'm a child. I promised him I would stay here and support him, and that's just what I'm going to do."
Her father had looked at her for a long time, his face expressionless, and Drew had felt tension coil in her stomach. She was a woman grown, this was true, but her father had an unfailing ability to unnerve her. Her, and her sisters. Although they were all in their thirties or nearing them, they could each be reduced to trembling, teary messes with a certain look or word from their father.
So it was with incredible shock that Drew had watched her father slowly lower himself to sit on the edge of her bed as his face crumpled into tears. All of the fight went out of her in a whoosh.
"John," she'd gasped.
He'd lifted a hand. "Drew, I'm sorry," he choked. "I just—I always need to make sure you're okay."
"Dad," she'd said softly, going to his side and kneeling on the floor. She grabbed for one of his large, weathered hands. "What made you think I wasn't? I know what you heard—but why didn't you just call me?"
"It's my job to protect you," her father had said as tears coursed down his face. "It's my job as your father and I failed you before. I'll never let it happen again." Drew's heart had wrenched at his words and she sat back on her heels, helpless to do anything but hold his hand. She'd never seen her father cry before and seeing it now broke her heart. "Everything I said to Heath—I could have, should have been sayin' to myself. I couldn't keep you safe back then. But I gotta do what I can to keep you safe now. You, your sisters. That's what a father is supposed to do." He'd buried his face in his free hand as his shoulders shook.
"Daddy," Drew had said, her voice cracking. "Dad, don't. It wasn't your fault."
"It was," her father had said, a choked sob escaping his throat. "It was. You're my little girl, and I couldn't protect you."
Drew had shot up onto the bed beside him and thrown her arms around his neck, hugging him fiercely. "Don't you do that," she warned, her low voice shaking. "Don't you do that. What that man did—none of us could control that. It was going to happen whether you were there or not. I believe it was my fate that it happened. Don't do this, Dad."
Her father had wiped a hand down his face, brushing away his tears and Drew had leaned her head on his shoulder. He patted one of her hands clumsily as they stayed that way for a while. Finally, her father had sighed.
"He didn't deserve that, baby," he admitted softly, and Drew knew he meant Heath. "I should—I should go apologize."
Drew had kissed his cheek. "You should, but it can wait until we get back to Pittsburgh. Okay? Let me get my stuff packed up."
Mr. Carnevale had looked up at her in surprise. "You're not stayin'?"
Drew shook her head sadly, silently forfeiting the war she'd intended to have. "I—I should be with you guys right now," she had replied quietly. "This is a hard time for you and Mom and everyone else like it is for me. We should be together. As a family."
And so, she had reluctantly packed her things and left with her father, casting a long look back at the bed she'd shared with Heath the night before as she shut the door behind her. She had sent Heath a text, hating herself for leaving him, but she knew how much her parents needed her. She had known that her ordeal had hurt them worse than it had hurt her, but seeing her father break down in front of her had torn her heart. Her father had always been loud and boisterous, one of the sources of her strength, and to see that strength crumble before her had humbled her. She knew Heath could
relate to that, but she still hated that she was leaving him on this day. She'd hoped he could forgive her.
She knew the outcome of Smackdown now, and was terribly sad and angry over it—something didn't sit well with her about the outcome. She hadn't talked to Heath last night; he hadn't returned her texts and she couldn't blame him. She knew she'd broken her promise to him to stay and he was probably incredibly disappointed in her. She hoped he would be willing to talk in person when she got home tomorrow.
But for right now, she couldn't think of anything else aside from what she needed to do in a few moments. She'd caught a glimpse of him, of Jackson James, earlier when they were all making their way upstairs to their courtroom. No one else had seen him, and no one had seen her see him. But she saw him, just the same, and it terrified her. He looked exactly the same and his cold, dead dark eyes had bored into her. She couldn't be sure, but she'd thought he'd smiled at her.
The door to the courtroom opened up and a hush fell over her family.
"Drew Carnevale?" the female bailiff asked, looking at her. Drew nodded and slowly ,unsteadily rose to her feet. "Please come with me. You've been called as a witness in the State versus Jackson James trial."
Drew swallowed hard and looked around at her family. She saw concern, fear, and love on their faces. Bunz reached out and squeezed her hand, and Drew returned it weakly.
"We'll be waiting right in the next room, baby," her father promised. He pointed down the hall. "That one there. Okay?"
"Okay, John," Drew replied. She turned and followed the bailiff into courtroom, her stomach tightening with every step.
The room was small and had hard wooden floors. There were a few rows of benches behind two long tables, set in opposition of each other on either side of the aisle that led from the area she was standing now to a set of doors at the back of the room. There was a judge's bench and to the side of that, were a dozen men and women she'd never seen before. There were a couple of lawyers present, to hear her testimony and question her. There were guards and a couple of NYPD officers.