Shattered (13 page)

“Please,” I whispered as Anderson and Fusco
retreated to opposite sides of the ring. “Oh please, oh please, oh
please...”

“Gentlemen,” the announcer shouted, “The
fight starts...NOW!”

The blast of the horn blared through the
arena, its intensity matched only by the crowd’s excitement.
Anderson shuffled from foot to foot, bouncing on the balls of his
feet. An easy smile splayed across his face. It was pretty clear
that he didn’t take the other fighter seriously. But Fusco, on the
other hand, looked ready to do serious damage. His muscles shifted
and collected with an intensity I’d never seen before. He began to
circle around the perimeter of the ring, his eyes boring into
Anderson with what could only be called hatred. The two men stood
across the ring from each other, neither willing nor ready to make
the first move. The tension crackling between them was unbearable,
and the entire arena was vibrating with anticipation.

I gasped as Anderson suddenly broke away from
the wall and tore across the ring. In a few long strides, he was
closing in on Fusco. Anderson cocked back his powerful fist and
swung at his opponent, but Fusco ducked under Anderson’s arm and
skipped away like it was nothing. Anderson slid on the sandy ground
with a surprised expression on his face. He slammed his shoulder
into the unpadded wooden wall, a sickening crunch ringing out
through the arena.

He staggered away from the wall, dazed by the
collision. I was on my feet before I had a chance to think,
watching helplessly from afar. Fusco was approaching Anderson, a
maniacal smile spread out across his face. Anderson pulled himself
together, his focus narrowing at last. He’d gotten some sense
knocked into him, it seemed, but was it too late?

The fighters circled each other in the center
of the ring, deliberating and adjusting, daring the other to
strike. There was a delicateness in the way Anderson was holding up
his arm that made me worry for the state of his shoulder, but I
doubted that anyone else could see. Could he still take Fusco with
a handicap like that?

In a heartbeat, Fusco coiled himself up like
a spring and flew at Anderson. Anderson lunged out of the other
fighter’s trajectory, swinging out his right leg to catch him.
Anderson’s foot caught Fusco in the gut and sent him spiraling off
into the sand. Fusco tucked himself into a neat roll and made it
back to his feet, winded but more determined than ever. He launched
himself at Anderson again, coming from the side of his injured
shoulder. Anderson tried to adjust, but Fusco was too quick.
Anderson’s head snapped back as Fusco’s fist collided with his jaw.
I let out a shrill scream that was lost in the crowd’s rabid
howling. I was horrified to hear that they were cheering.
Cheering
.

In that moment, I felt utterly alone in the
throbbing sea of humanity that had gathering to witness the fight.
It wasn’t until then that I realized how heartless these people
really were. It had seemed like they loved Anderson, cared about
him, but it was all fleeting. They loved him when he won, but
they’d love even more to see him defeated in an upset. I could
smell it in the air. And as I watched Anderson’s face twist into a
pained mask, I could tell that he could too.

But he wasn’t about to give up that easily.
He squared off against Fusco, rallying all his strength. Before the
other fighter could get comfortable, Anderson was on him. His fists
and feet flew through the air, landing blow after blow. The
sickening smack of fist upon flesh rang through the arena. Fusco
deflected and tried to strike back, but Anderson’s fury was
overwhelming. Anderson drove his opponent across the floor, chasing
him across the sandy ground. There was a raw animal intensity in
Anderson’s motion that I’d only seen while we were making love.

“He’s going to win,” I said, transfixed by
the action. “He’s going to do it!”

“Let’s hope so,” Robert said from beside me.
I didn’t dare look his way.

Fusco was drawing into himself as Anderson
continued to pummel him. How much would it take for this guy to
finally give up? I held my breath as he seemed to grow weaker and
weaker, his movements smaller and smaller. Just when he’d gone all
but still, just when I let myself think for a moment that it was
finally over, a bloodcurdling scream ripped from Anderson’s throat.
Time seemed to stop as I saw what had happened in the ring. Fusco
wasn’t weakened at all—he’d been luring Anderson into a false sense
of security. In Anderson’s rage, he’d forgotten to defend his weak
side. Fusco had seized the moment and wrenched Anderson’s arm
behind his back, straining his injured shoulder. It looked for the
world like he was getting ready to tear Anderson’s arm off. I
feared for a minute that he really would.

“No!” I shrieked, as Fusco dragged Anderson
across the sand. My fighter had gone stiff, his back arching in
agony. Fusco slammed him down onto the sand, falling with his full
weight on top of Anderson’s body. A cloud of sand rose up around
them, and the crowd was blinded. A thousand people jostled and
shoved, trying to see what was going on. I could very well have
torn the gold railing away from the side of the pit, I was gripping
it so hard.

When the sand finally settled, I felt the air
rush out of my lungs entirely. Fusco was lying in the sand, a
bloody gash opened up across his forehead. Anderson was rising to
his feet as the sand beneath them grew red. Though he could only
bear to lift one arm, he lifted it in victory. The arena exploded
with sound as the crowd realized what had happened. The very air
seemed to vibrate with the force of the audience’s ecstatic glee.
My knees began to tremble as feeling finally returned to my body.
It was over. Anderson had won. My fighter made a slow, labored loop
around the pit, taking in the incredible noise and praise that was
being rained down upon him. As he drew even with our box seats, I
felt sudden tears spring to my eyes.

He stood looking up at me from the ring, his
injured arm and shoulder hanging limp at his side. And though he
managed a smile for me, there was a hurt shining in his eyes that I
knew had nothing to do with any physical injury. Anderson was in
pain, that much was clear, but it was a soul-hurt, heartache. I
wanted nothing more than to leap down to where he stood so
courageously and wrap my arms around him; cradle him to my chest
and tell him that everything was going to be OK.

He tore his eyes away from mine and turned to
make his way out of the ring. I watched as two medics rushed into
the pit with a stretcher for Fusco. The cut across his face looked
shallow, but he was bleeding profusely. A sudden wave of nausea
forced me back into my seat as I spotted the bright pool of blood
that was left in the other fighter’s wake. The crowd’s excitement
suddenly seemed barbaric, mean spirited. Couldn’t they see the pain
in Anderson’s eyes? Did they care at all about whether Fusco would
recover from his own wounds?

I desperately needed some air. The entire
arena seemed to be closing in around me—I felt like my lungs were
on the edge of collapse. I stood up, shaky from the fear and relief
that were vying for authority over my body. Robert stared straight
ahead as I staggered past him. I didn’t dare meet his gaze, or
venture a word in his presence. The anger that had been smoldering
in his eyes before the match was now a blaze that I could
practically feel against my skin. The match had been far too close
for anyone’s comfort.

Struggling for breath, I pushed my way out
into the seething crowd of people. Handsome men in well-tailored
suits cackled and slapped each other on the back, congratulating
each other on bets won. I was sickened by every last one of them.
Didn’t they realize that Anderson was hurt, this person they all
professed to adore so much? No one cared a bit what happened to the
fighters in the ring—they were just there to rub elbows with their
elite buddies and get a little thrill at the expense of young men.
They were disgusting, each and every one.

I finally found the near-hidden door to the
outside world and tore it open. I hurtled into the dark expanse
beyond the arena and slammed the door closed behind me. The
cacophony of the underground stadium was cut off
instantaneously. For a moment, I simply stood still, breathing in
the quiet and calm. I began to put one foot in front of the other,
heading for the red door once again. Anderson would know to come
look for me outside, I was sure. From the look on his face after
the match, he wouldn’t be up for greeting his fans that
evening.

The ground slanting up under me, and I began
to hurry through the darkness, eager to be as far away from the
fight as possible. Just as I imagined I was drawing close to the
exit, I felt a thick, meaty hand slam down over my mouth. I was too
terrified to scream as a vice-like arm clamped down around my
waist. My feet left the floor as someone yanked me to the side of
the hallway, through a space in the wall that I hadn’t known
existed. I was carried through the dark, my legs kicking wildly, my
arms struggling to break free. My captor skidded to a sudden halt
somewhere in the pitch black labyrinth surrounding the arena and
tossed me onto the floor.

My hands and knees collided with cold
concrete, and I let out a scream of pain. The scream caught in my
throat as fingers dug into my hair and pulled. My neck was wrenched
back, and I felt the cool kiss of metal against my skin. A stinging
pain shot through me as an impossibly sharp blade was pressed
against my throat. My body was paralyzed with ice cold terror.

“You are officially banned from this place,”
said a gravelly voice I’d never heard before. “If you dare to step
foot in this arena again, I will find you, and I will kill you. Now
get the fuck out.”

A door opened beside me, and two strong hands
tossed me through. I landed in a heap of rotting trash as the
doorway slammed closed behind me. I raised my hand to my neck and
felt a ghastly wetness. My fingers came away bloody—but the blade
had only wounded me superficially. I scrambled to my feet and
looked around wildly. I was in an alley somewhere—the smells of
garbage and urine thick in the air.

My knees gave out from under me, and I
collapsed onto the filthy ground. A long rip had been opened along
the front of my black dress. I was exposed, terrified, and lost
once again. Fear and shock overwhelmed me, pinned me where I lay.
Sobs tore through my body and echoed against the brick walls of the
alley. It was all I could do to pull my cell phone from where I’d
hidden it inside my bra. I pulled up Anderson’s number and waited
for the line to click.

“Kaela?” his voice said over the phone,
“Where are you?” I tried to will myself to speak, but I couldn’t
stop weeping long enough to get out a word. Anderson’s panicked
voice called out to me through the line, but I was overcome,
inconsolable. I let the hot tears stream down my face, the same
question running endlessly through my mind:

What have I done?

Chapter
Eight

I hadn’t even managed to pick myself up off
the ground by the time Anderson found me in the alley. I’d moved
beyond terror into a state of shock and couldn’t even speak when he
asked me what had happened. The ride home was a blur of lights and
sounds, a hazy and numb trek that I couldn’t recall the next
morning. Anderson must have carried me back up to the apartment and
put me to bed, just as he had the first night we’d met. How had I
stumbled into the kind of life that left me beat and battered twice
in two weeks? Why had I left behind my simple, safe, unremarkable
life in Ohio just so that I could be threatened and put in a near
constant state of danger?

My doubts were growing, especially given the
fact that since I’d arrived on the scene, Anderson’s fighting
prowess had been slipping. From what Robert told me, any sort of
slip up was unprecedented for Anderson. It wasn’t until I showed up
that he’d begun to lose his touch.

Fighting was Anderson’s entire life, he’d
told me so himself. When he was kid back in Brooklyn, he had
established his place in the world with his physical skill. He
earned respect from his peers, protected his little brother Toby,
and gained confidence through fighting. When his parents were
killed, fighting gave him an outlet, a way to express in anger in a
concentrated and non-destructive way. And when poor Toby had been
snatched away in the underground fighting world, the only way that
Anderson could cope was to conquer that same world.

Now, Anderson’s entire future in the fighting
world was at stake. He very nearly lost the last match, and injured
his shoulder in the process. The only thing that had changed about
Anderson’s life was the fact that I was in it now. I was a jinx, a
distraction, and I would no longer be tolerated. I’d been scared
enough when Robert had disapproved of me, but now some mysterious
attacker was after me as well. Whoever had assaulted me in that
darkened hallway could have killed me. I’d been given fair warning,
but something told me that next time, I wouldn’t be given an easy
way out.