DARE: A Bad Boy Romance (5 page)

Then he did, but not in the way she’d expected. Trey erupted a horrid belly laugh that echoed around the house. “Priceless.” He clapped her sarcastically. “I’ve gotta hand it you, babe, you’ve got the innocent act down real good. Another sap might buy it, but I know you, remember? I fucking
know
you. I knew you when you were a money-grubbing little piece out of high school, following me around the amateur circuit like some doe-eyed groupie when all along you were sniffing around for what you knew I was going to earn. You come off all innocent, sweetheart. But I say any girl with no job and a rack like yours is playing at least one guy at all times. Innocent? Yeah, whatever. You’ve taken my money for years and you’ve put out whenever I’ve asked for it. In my book there ain’t nothing innocent in that equation.”

“You son of a bitch!” Before she knew what had happened the silver trophy was flying through the air at him. One of his most prized trophies, the nearest one she’d plucked from the mantel. He ducked just in time. It shattered the big mirror into bits.

He took a step away from her, like a cocky predator who realized he was treading on uncertain ground. She had her claws out, and he’d never seen her like this. Not ever. He didn’t know what to make of her.

Holly snatched another trophy and cocked her arm ready to throw.

“Even think about throwing that and I’ll kill you.” He meant it. She resisted, but she didn’t put it down. For some reason, it felt like her deterrent. As long as she held onto it, it might spare her a beating and a half. Instinct was all she had to draw on at this point, now that she’d shown her claws.

“For Christ’s sake, Trey, where’s all this coming from? I mean have you
ever
loved me?”

He pulled his face in such a flippant, childish way that it was as though she’d just asked him if he wanted to hold hands with her in front of his football chums in junior high.

“Well, have you?” she reiterated.

He looked her in the eye and shook his head.

Holly leaked a warm, bitter tear.

“Let’s just say you got what you wanted,” he said. “At least you thought you did. You thought this was your gravy train for good. Me? I’m just getting started. I see something I want, I go for it; I don’t sit around whining about it. Let’s face it, if it wasn’t for me, you’d be a fat, divorced soccer mom fucking your way up the social ladder in some suburban hellhole. But you’d get there somehow. You’d jiggle that rack until some rich divorcé came running. I think that’s what you wanted all along: this lifestyle, spending other people’s money, never having to get out there and make your own way.

“But you’ve had your last meal ticket, Holly babe. I’ve had enough of your shit. Renata knows the score. At least she’s honest about what she wants and whom she’s had to screw to get here. But you? I don’t think you’d even admit it to yourself. You’d just go on sobbing your little heart out to the next poor rich sap who had a thing for bouncy broads. You’re so—”

“I’m leaving.”

He raced across the room to block her. “You’re not going anywhere.” Something flared in his eyes as he got near her. Holly cocked her arm again. This time she swung.

Trey caught her by the wrist. Squeezed. The biting pain forced her to drop the trophy, which he caught. “I’ll take that,
sweetheart.
” The way he said that—it was the blackest thing he’d ever called her, and it struck her heart, dead center. “If I didn’t need you to make me look good tonight, you wouldn’t still be standing right now. No one throws my own shit at me!”

Holly lifted her arm in case he attacked her. Instead, he put the trophy back on the mantel and gave her back her purse. “Just remember, you were this close to having your fat ass dragged to the pool and drowned. So be on your best behavior tonight. Smile and flaunt those tits and put on a good show, and everything will be okay.”

Though she was shaking uncontrollably, Holly still had the wherewithal to ask, “What happens after that?”

“We’re done. We’re finished. I don’t want you cramping my shit anymore. Okay?”

She gave her most pathetic, supplicating nod and followed him out. But already, behind the timid exterior, she was thinking ahead, plotting ways to make her break. If not tonight, then definitely tomorrow, without ceremony, before he had a chance to blow his insane top completely and take her with him.

Tonight she would put on a show, her final performance of their last act together.

After that, improvisation. For the rest of her goddamn life.

Homes for Heroes is proud to celebrate the homecoming reunion and betrothal of Sergeant Emma Snow and Private Jose Garcia Etcheverria

Tonight’s Guests of Honor

Holly found the accompanying placard at the banquet hall’s entrance to be slightly misleading. These were both soldiers who’d served and been wounded in Iraq. They’d also been high school sweethearts, and the selected photograph showed them in each other’s arms at their senior prom. Both were fairly attractive, full of fun and love and hope for the future. But that was not what they looked like now.

Private Etcheverria had paid his dues as a semi-pro MMA fighter before joining the Army, which was partly why he’d been singled out as the honoree tonight. Many of the best fighters in America were here to salute him, one of their own, and to help raise money for this charity, one Holly had always liked, as it helped disenfranchised and wounded veterans re-enter civilian life with a dignity their government often did not care about helping them achieve. Private Etcheverria had stepped on a landmine somewhere on the outskirts of Mosul and had lost both his legs.

His girlfriend, now fiancée, Sergeant Snow, had suffered a serious head trauma during a firefight in Tikrit a few months earlier. Her rehabilitation had been long and painful. During that time, and throughout Private Etcheverria’ s difficult treatment, the two of them had not seen each other; their only link was by email, and even then, due to her impaired sight, Snow had had to dictate her messages for a nurse to type on her behalf. It must have been agony, Holly reckoned. To know the person you loved was going through hell but that you couldn’t be with them to hold their hand through the ordeal because you were going through a private hell of your own.

To come through an experience like that, be handicapped for life, and have the strength to want to pick up the pieces when you got home:
that
was the stuff heroes were made of. This couple deserved all the help and all the accolades they got. They’d fought for their country, had lost a lot personally, and had almost lost each other, but they’d ultimately won happiness and a fresh start. Homes for Heroes had helped them build a brand new house with all the facilities they needed. Included was a state-of-the-art wheelchair, a home care assistant to aid them whenever required, and a promise to pay for any further medical treatment that their Army insurance did not cover.

She felt good about being here tonight…for them.

But she disliked the choice of that senior prom photo, and this was the reason why: it cheapened the ordeals they’d been through. The kids in that image knew nothing about life. A marriage proposal then would no doubt have been magical and fairytale and all the rest, but so what? Millions of couples got married every week. What was special about these kids was that they’d gone to hell and back
before
finding—or re-finding—that magic,
before
seeing that happy-for-now ending. They’d suffered and endured so much, and it was who they were
now
that was inspiring people all across America.

The photo should show them as the couple they were now, with all their scars and disfigurements and the innocence gone from their eyes. Just like Holly and Trey were on the inside. The biggest differences were that Holly had never been through a life-or-death ordeal and she did not have her happy ending.

This was her ending. Here. Tonight. On the arm of the man who’d threatened to kill her. What she chose to do next would tell her a lot about herself, and to be honest, she didn’t know herself well at all. How could she? She’d only ever been with one man and look how he’d turned out.

Sergeant Snow and Private Etcheverria might not be the most glamorous couple here tonight, but Holly, for her part, envied them that love that they had never let die. It must be a rare thing, to have one’s love returned, undimmed, after a trauma like that. Trey had pissed his away, or had it beaten out of him over the years. If he’d had his concussions treated properly, if he’d stayed off the steroids, would he be a different person now, more like the guy she’d fallen for in high school?

The more she wanted to feel good about the two soldiers and their engagement, the more depressed she felt for her own train wreck of a life. She tried peeling away from Trey, but he wouldn’t let go of her. “First we have dinner,” he reminded her. “Then we mingle.” With all the misery that implied.

Holly desperately looked around for a friendly face, someone to rescue her from this role as high-priced escort. No doubt there were other escorts here tonight, but she wagered none of them were under threat of death if they didn’t perform.

“Oregon, my brother. What up?” One of Trey’s old rivals, Oleg Titov, strutted toward them with all the confidence she’d remembered. His redheaded trophy wife, Helena, was with him, looking striking if a little too overly made up. She’d gone way overboard with the blusher. Oleg and Trey had remained friends for years, but Holly and Helena had absolutely nothing in common, not even a dislike for the brutality of MMA, which Helena, in all honesty, seemed to get off on. God knew what she and Oleg got up to in bed. Rumors of wildly kinky S&M might only be rumors, but nothing would surprise Holly about Helena Titov. She had all the poise and hardness and dis-inhibition that Holly had always lacked.

“Titov, you son of a bitch. Where’ve you been hiding?” Trey let go of Holly’s arm for the first time in order to slap a hug around his Ukrainian friend.

“I been to tournament in Europe—first in Dresden and then, ah, what was the other one, darling? Not Madrid…”

“Lisbon,” Helena reminded him. “In Portugal, on the coast.” And to Holly: “He won both tournaments by knockout in the finals.”

“Congratulations, Oleg,” said Holly. And to Helena, while the men were busy catching up: “Which one did you prefer as a place to visit: Dresden or Lisbon?”

“Lisbon for the weather, Dresden for everything else. We enjoy nights in Germany. But how have you been, Holly? We hear of trouble at Trey’s last fight. Did it frustrate him?”

Bitch.

“Um, maybe a little. He gets over these things though. You know how these guys are. I think he wants a rematch.”

“I’ll bet,” Helena said with a twinkle in her eye. “And one with Dare Bowden as well, from what we hear.”

“Nah, I don’t think so. Dare Bowden was just trying to help out. There are no hard feelings.”

“I see. No hard feelings from Trey, or none from you?”

“Let me know what you mean by that, Helena.”

“Ah, maybe my English let me down. I simply mean Trey seemed angry—we watched the footage—whereas you appear to have reacted differently.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Have either of you spoken to Dare Bowden about it?”

Holly sensed the Ukrainian witch was feeling her out, trying to divine her loyalties. It made Holly uncomfortable. She backtracked over her meeting with Dare last week. Had someone seen them together? Had news spread about it? If the Titovs knew, or even just suspected, would they say something to Trey?

“I think it’s best we stay away from him,” Holly replied as diplomatically as she could.

“I think that would be wise.” Again, the subtle wording. Not an accusation exactly, but a warning. How much did Helena know? Did Helena know
anything
? Maybe it was just paranoia eating away at Holly. Not that she
didn’t
have a right to be paranoid after Trey’s outburst earlier.

“You look beautiful,” Helena told her, though Holly had long since learned to take any of her compliments with a pinch of salt. Someone like Helena told you what you wanted to hear, nothing more, nothing less. She was as artful and as cold as they came.

“So do you,” Holly replied.

“Gentlemen, shall we?”

The “gentlemen” broke from their male bonding session to accompany Holly and Helena into the dining room, where hundreds of well-dressed patrons and sports celebrities were threading their way to their various tables.

Just as they were about to take their seats at the round dining tables, something happened to make Holly’s night even worse.

At the table next to hers stood Dare Bowden. Her heart lifted. He looked suave and cute and more like a sexy bodyguard than a celebrity. In his left hand was a beautiful bouquet of flowers. On his right arm, the skinniest, palest, most doe-eyed waif in the entire room. He saw Holly, then Trey, and promptly ignored them both. Not even a secret nod to acknowledge, well, anything about her. It was as though she didn’t exist.

At that moment, she’d have preferred not to.

***

Between a rock and a hard place, frustration. The pre-dinner speeches were interminable. Next to her, Trey smiled and clapped and laughed on cue. Not more than ten feet away, Dare Bowden, seated side-on from her so that she had no choice but to glimpse at him in the periphery of her vision, did the same: all on cue. She felt so claustrophobic, everything about this night seemed pre-planned to make her miserable, to torment her. Her pulse began to thump in her ears. She had to concentrate on the length and depth of each breath to make sure it gave her enough oxygen or else she’d have an anxiety attack; she knew one was close. The air in the room was charged and jealous and hateful and getting more rarefied by the second.

Holly escaped the only way she could think of…in her champagne glass. She’d never been much of a drinker, but tonight she had no choice. Small sips at first, so as not to attract attention, but it tasted so damn good and by the end of her first glass—on an empty stomach, mind—it was anchors aweigh.

“Why aren’t you clapping?” Trey asked her, no, threatened her. From now on, every word out of his mouth was a threat, either until she survived the evening or until he flipped his lid and went buggo in front of everyone. Either way, she had hell to look forward to all night.

She clapped and whistled, then signaled for the waiter to fill her glass. Another speech, another flute bottomed, and things began to swirl. The round table spun. As she glanced round the hall, the opulence blurred into a twinkly slipstream that made her smile at last.
This
was her way out. How to dissolve reality and dip in and out at will. The more she drank, the more the weight on her heart lifted. Emotions evaporated like vapors in a silent, windless tornado. There were droplets of them left: hate, jealousy, old love, old joy, fear, imminent relief. Holly wiped away her tears and imagined her life to this point wiping away with them. It left her feeling…nothing.

Dinner came and went. The food was tasty, but there wasn’t much of it, and as soon as it was gone, she couldn’t remember what she’d eaten. Conversation came and went. Some of it was witty, but there wasn’t much of it, and as soon as it was finished she couldn’t remember what she’d said, if anything. Trey nudged her now and then, to keep her attentive, and she nudged him back, giggling. A black, vengeful giggle. The best she could do for now. The real revenge would come later, she felt, whatever that was.

“Where did you and Trey Oregon meet?” a voice asked her through the fog.

“Mm?” she saw that Trey’s chair was empty. He was nowhere to be seen.

“I asked how you two met. I heard that you’ve known each other a long time.” The speaker was in his sixties. He looked like a senator or something, white-haired and inoffensive.

“Yes, ages. I—we went to school together. I mean we schooled together…or something. And we were together ever since. You could say Trey and me, we’re in some kinda clinch, on the ropes, and the bell’s about to go for the end of the match.
Ding-ding!
And the loser is…” Her aim was a little wonky, but she managed to point a finger at herself. Holly almost spluttered a laugh. “I’m sorry. Did I answer your question, Senator, sir?” She flicked him a salute, at which point his wife pulled him away.

Holly stumbled to her feet, glanced round the slowly spinning room, trying to locate Trey. Not that she gave a shit if he was with her or not; she just wanted to know where the ape was, so she could give him a wide berth. He had to be here somewhere, but where?

She stopped another man as he passed. He was black, tall, and looked like a fighter or a football player. “Excuse me, I seem to have lost my glasses. I can’t see far without them. Can you tell me…I mean have you seen Trey Oregon?”