Feuds (27 page)

“You're dead either way you look at it,” Noah grunted between jabs. Cole didn't bother answering. Noah was trying to get in his head. It was obvious. “You'll die here or you'll rot in jail.”

Cole hesitated. How did Noah know he'd just come from prison? The hesitation was enough to allow Noah to push him against the sides of the cage. “Guess your girlfriend didn't like it when she saw photos of you kissing that Prior slut,” he growled, his face next to Cole's ear. His arm was positioned against Cole's windpipe, nearly cutting off his access to oxygen. “Maybe I'm actually doing you a little favor.”

Something inside Cole clicked. Something wasn't right. Noah's words sank in.

Davis hadn't set him up.
Michelle
had! For an instant, his heart stopped. It was as if someone had hit pause for a millisecond. Then his vision cleared, and he was filled with an intense rush of adrenaline fueled by the need to see Davis, to find her and clear everything up as soon as possible. The adrenaline was enough for him to dislodge Noah's arm from his throat. He gained a little bit of leverage and managed to upset Noah's balance just slightly, regaining his own offensive stance, but it was too late.

He felt a sharp slash against his forearm, and the pain that followed was enough to make him gasp. The smoke cleared and he saw it: a gold knife, slim but razor-sharp, clutched in Noah's sweaty palm. Cole lifted his eyes to Noah's face. Noah's own eyes were wild and desperate. He thought back to the stories about Noah's prison time. Noah wasn't just fighting streetwise or dirty. He was fighting to kill.

The gold handle of the knife was etched with a familiar-looking crest. Cole's memories flashed through his head: there was the knife, glinting in the pocket of a sports jacket. There was the knife, every time Parson Abel tapped out his cigar and reached for his wallet in order to withdraw Cole's prize money. The same etched logo: a star above a scorpion. The same exact knife.

I've got a lot of money riding on this fight.
Cole heard the words echoing in his brain, ricocheting around the sides of his skull. Parson had a lot of money riding on the fight. But not on Cole's victory. Not after the last fight, anyway. On this one, Cole realized in horror, Parson had money riding on the underdog. Cole forgot about everything as the truth of it sank in. All he could see were Parson Abel's beady eyes, his trademark cigar, his dimpled chin, and the way he was probably salivating with greed at that very moment. Everything faded—except the truth, now crystal clear.

He forgot about Noah, until Noah kneed him in the chest, sending him flying backward.

And then he was back in it.

Everyone was on their feet, going crazy with bloodlust. No one seemed to care that there was an illegal weapon in the cage. Cole leaped to his feet, barely avoiding a kick to the skull. He still had speed on his side, but he had to get the knife out of there.

He drew on his own knowledge of martial arts, vestiges of the research he'd done on Noah's fighting techniques, to land a karate chop to Noah's wrist, and then a second blow in the same place. The knife clattered to the floor of the cage. Cole and Noah rolled over each other punching wherever they could connect as they both scrambled for the weapon. Cole landed a right hook to Noah's temple, stunning him. Noah was on his back, and Cole used two or three seconds to roll atop him, pinning him. Noah struggled under his weight. He was still strong, still fighting. The knife was on the floor between Noah's head and his massive shoulders. Cole knew he had to get it, even if he didn't use it. He couldn't fight if Noah had it. He'd die.

Using all of his strength to hold Noah down, Cole leaned over and bit down on the knife handle, hard, just as Noah pushed Cole upward and over, shoving him backward. Cole held on to him, and they were both falling together, Cole on his back and Noah, having lost his balance, falling toward Cole. They both realized the same thing at the same time, but by the time they did, it was too late.

Cole had maintained his grip on the knife between his teeth. Noah was hurtling toward Cole's chest, powerless against the weight and velocity of his own body. Cole registered the panic in Noah's eyes just as the tip of the knife plunged into Noah's neck. It punctured and moved deeper as Noah's weight fell on it, its hilt sliding backward into Cole's throat at the same time. Noah let out a choked gurgle, blood pouring from his wound. Cole shoved Noah off him as hard as he could, releasing the knife from his mouth. His throat and teeth ached. His mind felt numb. Noah rolled to the ground, his eyes wide and lifeless, while Cole spit Noah's blood onto the floor.

The crowd went wild.

Noah.

Noah was
dead
.

Cole lurched to the side and vomited. They were long, hacking heaves that wouldn't stop. His sickness was the deep and searing kind, born of self-loathing. He hadn't meant to kill Noah. He hadn't meant for that to come of it. He had won, but the floor had fallen out from under him. The door to the cage clicked open, and three shirtless men entered the small enclosure to remove Noah's body. Cole dragged his gaze to the crowd. An eerie silence had fallen in the minute he'd taken to recover. Cole felt a sense of horror welling up from the pit of his stomach. What had he done? What would happen to him now?

But as he focused on the individual faces of the audience—the Gen girls in their bikinis, the Prior businessmen in their elevated seats—he realized they weren't looking at him, or the mess on the cage floor. No one was. Instead, their eyes were trained on the glass-enclosed loges where the major FEUDS donors sat. Cole could just make out the forms of several policemen surrounding the center loge. Then he saw Parson's form rising from his seat. Fury and relief and confusion overcame Cole in a rush as he saw Parson extend his hands, saw the Prior policemen clamp handcuffs over his wrists.

Now there were murmurs in the crowd, whispers, and rustling. Why had Parson been arrested? Cole couldn't make sense of it. If it was about FEUDS, stacking the bets—there was a good chance he'd be next. Cole took his chance while the crowd was still focused on Parson being led away by the police. He ran.

*   *   *

Cole ran until his lungs were burning more than they'd ever burned during any fight. He was certain he'd run for several miles by the time he saw Davis's sign. But it took him a long while to recognize it for what it was.

His mind felt thick with every emotion known to man: horror over what he'd done to Noah; dismay at what was almost certainly a loss of the FEUDS money now that Parson had been arrested; devastation at seeing his dream for his family ripped away; fear at his inability to control himself in the arena; confusion over what exactly had happened with Parson. But most of all, a strong undercurrent of hope. Because Davis hadn't sold him out. It meant somewhere in the city, she still loved him.

He'd never stop loving her. He wouldn't have stopped even if he'd always believed she'd sold him out, if he'd moved to another continent. Distance couldn't betray what he felt for her; it was so vast and selfless. It was what was propelling his feet through the streets of Columbus—streets he was technically banned from—when a flashing light began to beam in the sky.

Why hadn't she shown up? Why hadn't she come to him, knowing he'd be there? How would he ever find her now? He needed a sign from her. Anything. It was a moment when, if he'd believed in prayer—if he'd thought God existed—he would have prayed with all his heart. Instead, he hoped. And finally, after the light in the sky flashed for the third, then the fourth time … he knew.

This was his sign. It was her. The light was Davis, calling him to her. He couldn't explain the certainty with which he felt it; he just knew.

 

17

DAVIS

She wondered how long it would take for someone to notice the spotlight and tell her to stop. How long would it take for someone to discover she wasn't asleep in her bed, how long could she sit here, shivering, before she could accept that he hadn't read her sign at all—and he wasn't coming?

It had been at least an hour. The sun had fully set, and all that was left was the clear night sky, dappled with clusters of stars. There was a chill in the air, but although Davis knew she should go inside and warm up—accept that Cole hadn't and wouldn't see her signal—she couldn't bring herself to leave the hospital rooftop. She'd never managed to replace her DirecTalk, and she didn't even know if Cole had a working one of his own. There was no way to reach him. No way except this. So Davis flicked the switch on, flicked it off, over and over, a mechanical manifestation of her hope.

Her arm was stiff and sore, her fingers frozen and practically powerless to manipulate the switch. Still, she forced herself to keep going. Her eyes were growing heavier by the minute, so much so that she didn't even trust herself to climb back to her room. Not that it was possible. Above the mini roof deck where she sat, there was a fire escape that led three more stories up. Her room was two above that—she'd had to dangle and drop onto the next lowest fire escape. Now, with her limbs stiff and cold, she couldn't hope to hoist herself up again. She'd have to enter through another floor. Once her father found out she'd managed to escape again, he'd probably take extra measures to make sure it couldn't happen a third time. Davis felt a strange sense of anxiety mixed with an awful lethargy that threatened to overcome her. She felt her arm drop to her side. She couldn't keep up with the signal; it was too much. She folded into herself, huddling in the corner of the roof deck, willing herself not to fall asleep. Trying by sheer force of determination to keep her eyes open. It was dark on the roof now that she'd stopped operating the spotlight.

When she saw the hand, dirt-encrusted and bloody, wrapping itself over the top of the wall nearest the fire escape, she thought it was a nightmare. She shrieked, scooting backward on the roof until her back hit the wall. Then the rest of the form emerged, climbing up the fire escape and over the low wall that bordered the roof. It was ominous and bloody in the dark, and … familiar. Davis opened her mouth to scream again.

“Davis! Don't. It's me.” Cole's voice emerged from the hulking figure. “It's me.” He moved toward her, and all of a sudden her entire body was trembling, and she let out several choking sobs. It was him. He'd found her.

She moved toward him, all fears evaporating. “What happened?” she asked as he pulled her to his bare chest. She was on her knees and he was reaching for her, then kneeling down also, until they were both hugging like that, the cold pavement pressing up through their legs while they knelt on the roof. Somehow, it felt like heaven. It felt like everything was going to be okay again. She was gasp-sobbing into his chest; he smelled like sweat and dirt and she realized there was nothing better than Cole in any state at all. When he was with her, she felt okay.

But the blood …

“What happened to you?” She pushed back, scrutinizing his torso for wounds, which seemed to be everywhere. “Oh, my God. The FEUDS. Cole.” He turned away, but from the pain she caught in his eyes just before he did, she knew something wasn't right. That was when she noticed he was breathing hard. His movements seemed jerky, and all of that calm composure he'd always had was gone, replaced by something panicked and animalistic. He took two ragged breaths in and she waited, keeping her hand on his forearm.

“He's dead,” he told her, clenching his jaw. He blinked rapidly; he was clearly fighting tears. Davis's heart stilled.

“Who?” she said. “Cole, who?”

“Noah. Guy from the FEUDS. Davis,” he whispered, moving toward her—and this time it was he who needed comfort—“I killed him.”

She tried not to pull away in shock, but she couldn't keep her face impassive.

He laughed bitterly, hopelessly. “How can you look at me after this? Of course you can't. I didn't mean to,” he said, his voice thick with desperation. “He pulled a knife on me … I didn't know what I was doing until it was over.” He stopped, fighting for breath. His next words came out in a rush. “I'm a monster,” he spit out, choking on a sob. “I must disgust you.” He pulled away from her, kneading his forehead with one hand. And then he cried, freely.

Davis had never seen a man lose control. But she wasn't afraid or repulsed. She'd always needed him more than he needed her, but here he was, asking for her help. She moved toward him, wrapping her arms around his shoulders and burying her face in his neck. She didn't care about his blood or the way he looked or what he'd done because his heart was pure, and it was hers. “Shh,” she told him, running her hands through his hair. “It's going to be okay. You didn't have a choice. You'll be okay.” She meant it. She didn't know how, but she'd do anything to make it happen.

He wiped his eyes roughly and kissed her cheek. He ran his hands through her hair. “This is all I wanted,” he said. “I saw your signal and I—I didn't know for sure it was you, but I felt it, and I went after it, and all I wanted was to see you again. I had to run, I had to see you. And now … Oh, God.”

“What, Cole? It'll be okay, I promise. Whatever it is, we'll work it out.”

He shook his head violently. “How can it? Not after this. I'm as good as dead. Parson, the police—they'll never rest until I'm hanged.”

His words pierced her. It couldn't happen. She was filled with a profound urgency. She wouldn't let it happen. She put one hand on his face, one on the back of his neck, forcing him to look at her. “Cole,” she said. “You're not a monster. And you're not going to die. We're together. You know how we make things work when we're together. No one can stop us. You can't give up.” He laughed a little, palming his eyes.

“I won't,” he whispered, meeting her gaze. “I'll never give up if you're beside me.”