“Sorry, darling. Your brother is just as stubborn as you are. He said if he didn’t go back in, they would figure out he was undercover and things could get worse for you and your family because they’d dig deeper to find out exactly who he was.”
That sounded like my jackass brother. If he died, I would kill him again.
We ended the call and I went looking for Striker outside. I found him on a sculpted stone lounger with his empty plate and a beer bottle to the side, his eyes closed.
“Umm…”
His beautiful blues opened though they were shrouded in darkness. “Yes?”
“I’m not sure what to call you. Striker, Connor King, Mr. Black.”
“They’re all me.”
“What do you prefer?”
“Call me whatever you want, Elizabeth.”
That felt like a slap, and I stepped back. “Well, thank you.”
“For what?”
“For everything. For saving me when you didn’t have to. Cooking. Being you.”
“You don’t have to thank me.”
“I do. And I am. Thankful, that is. And I hate to ask for another favor, but I need to let Anderson know I won’t be in for a few days.” I had no idea how long we’d be here.
“Taken care of before we left. He’s aware you and I are going on an impromptu vacation.”
“Is that what this is?” That wasn’t really the question I wanted to ask.
“It isn’t really a honeymoon, is it?”
Icicles could have formed from his words for all the frostiness he sent my way.
“Thank you for that too,” I said, because it was true. “It worked, by the way. The press never reported anything about me. I guess it helped that someone more relevant than me made the headlines that week. It turned out to be a good week. I also got notice from my gallery’s landlord that they would be doing work on the front of the building. I have free rent until it’s done, because of all the scaffolding.”
The moon, round and full, made it easy to see no surprise register on his gorgeous face.
“You knew,” I said, putting it together. “Tell me you’re not my landlord?”
“Actually, I owned the building long before I knew you. Real estate is a passion of mine.”
“And you did this—” I would have finished with “after I told you to get out of my life,” but he cut me off.
“As a wedding present.”
“But it was a fake wedding,” I said, sounding meek and on the verge of tears. How could I have misjudged this man so thoroughly?
“Something you might have learned about me is that I would rather help someone out of a bad situation than live a day in luxury. Money means nothing. And I know that’s easy for me to say, but none of us chooses the cards we’re dealt.”
“Connor,” I said—maybe for the first time.
“I think there were enough revelations today, don’t you think? I’m tired.”
“You can have the bed.”
He shook his head. “I’ll probably go sleep on the boat.”
Wow. He wanted to be that far away from me?
I gave him some space but took his empty bottle before I left. I cleaned up the kitchen, as it was the least I could do. When I ducked my head out the door to ask if he needed anything else, he was gone.
I went into the bedroom and got under the sheets. It took some time to find sleep, and only a few hours later, I was awakened by the sounds of heavy breathing—not the sexual kind. I followed the noise to the living room. As the sounds changed to whimpers or a struggle of some sort, I picked up an egg-like sculpture and approached the glass.
Outside, in the hammock, Connor tossed and turned with flaying arms. I went out to him, touched his shoulder, and got the fright of my life.
Nine
Past
With every punch, I thought about my calls to home. I’d explained what had happened to me, but it hadn’t changed a thing. My parents believed the school and Mr. Payne over me. Nothing I said or did had gotten me a ticket out of this school. Mom warned me to be a good boy, and Dad told me things would get better. I’d make friends.
I hadn’t. Instead, I spent most nights trying not to fall asleep so I wouldn’t end up here in the fighting ring. Tonight, I’d failed because napping in class wasn’t a substitute for sleeping and only got me in more trouble. Staying up for days on end wasn’t possible either.
Tonight was different. For the first time, I had a good shot at winning. The thought about what I would do as a victor cost me a blow to the head that had me seeing stars. The ugly smile on one of my tormentor’s faces surrounding the ring spurred me on.
I only had to throw two more punches before the boy, slighter than me, fell. He curled into a ball to stop me from hitting him again.
The cheers started. “Pussy. Pussy. Pussy.”
Mr. Payne’s declaration of “Finish him,” stopped any further chanting.
I looked at the rubber things the boys our age were to use on losers—since we weren’t yet capable of doing without, like the older boys. All I saw there was pain. When I looked back at the loser, fear filled his eyes. I couldn’t be that kind of winner.
I shook my head, unsure what would happen next. No one before me—that I’d seen—had refused. Ruin—his nickname—grinned as he stepped into the ring. In seconds, I was face-first in the dirt.
Before the worst of it began, I mouthed sorry to the other boy. I thought his name was Lonnie. But he was quieter than me. Either he hadn’t heard me over the chanting, which had begun again, or he was busy trying to find that place inside himself to hide from what was happening.
I didn’t wait to find out and hid in my inner spot. The place where I wasn’t in the ring but back home in my room, with cars and planes. Anywhere was better than here.
The next day in the halls, I passed the group of older boys who liked to cause pain. They laughed and made kissing noises at me.
“There’s Jamie, the pussy.”
Everyone laughed, most not knowing what that word really meant. I hadn’t. My parents didn’t, or they didn’t care.
My name is James, I said in my head. Not paying attention to my surroundings made things worse because Mr. Payne was suddenly there.
“There are ways this can stop, Jamie.”
“My name is James.” There, I’d said it.
“But everyone calls you Jamie, and doesn’t it fit?”
“I have to go,” I said.
He caught my arm, holding it hard enough to hurt. “I can make this stop if you do something for me.”
There was nothing I would do for him expect stomp on his foot, which I did. When he let go, I ran.
“You will pay,” he said, and I did.
When I felt a hand on my shoulder as I lay in bed, I fought until I heard my name. But not my name.
“Striker.”
I opened my eyes.
Ten
Connor
Blinking off the remnants of sleep, I felt the arm I held and let go. Lizzy pulled back and rubbed the spot where my hand had been.
“Sorry,” I muttered, rolling out of the hammock to get to my feet. “Are you okay?”