Dances with Monsters(4)

Heath had to roll his eyes at the name. It was so obvious that Smith was simply trying to garner the same amount of attention, press and participation that Ultimate Warrior had seen by using a similar name, but he really didn't need to do that. People loved MMA, period, and would come out to see some fights without all the flash.

His eyes dropped a little lower, taking in the details of the tournament. It was to be held in New York in two months. Fighters amateur and seasoned were encouraged to attend as it was going to be a winner-take-all scenario—if you felt you had the stuff, the mettle, then it might just be for you. At the bottom of the flyer he stopped, his eyes settling on probably the most important detail of the entire event.

Two million dollar purse.

Heath eyed it over and over, pursing his lips as his brows drew together in thought. From the money he'd made so far, starting over and rebuilding his life, he'd been able to send Aida, Joaquin's widow, a little bit here and there and she'd always been grateful to the point of tears whenever she'd received it, unannounced, and would always call him to thank him fervently in English and Spanish. If he could win this—and he was confident he could—he could send her enough to set her and the kids up for a good, long time. For a moment he lost himself in a fantasy of college scholarships for both the kids—Joaquin had always said he'd wanted them to go to college—and trust funds. Aida could move into a nicer home and take care of her mother like she'd always wanted to. And he…he could finally feel like he'd made good on his promise to his best friend, though he knew he'd never stop looking out for Aida and the kids. He had promised Joaquin, and he always kept his promises.

He sighed, leaning back in his chair to slam a tack through the invite into the corkboard on the wall behind his desk.

Always.

He pushed away from his desk and rolled his head around on his neck. He'd done the manager thing long enough for the day. Now, he was getting back into fighter mode. He wrapped his hands quickly and headed out of the office, flicking off the lights and shutting the door behind him. He waved off his sparring partner and headed for the bags in the corner, selecting his favorite one and setting to work.

After about fifteen minutes he noticed movement out of the corner of his eye and saw a slim figure sidle up into the area of the bags. Carnevale was back, he noticed, and glanced at the clock on the wall. And he was right on time. He was in his usual gear of baggy sweat clothes, hat and hood pulled up over his head. He chose the most isolated bag, in the furthest corner of the area, and shifted slightly so his back was toward Heath. He set to work on the bag, and Heath could hear sharp exhales of breath on every strike as the kid commenced to pummeling the bag. He watched for a moment before returning to his own bag.

Gotta remember to talk to that kid about competitions, he thought, then began pounding away at his bag again.





Chapter Two


"Drew!"

Bunz Williams' voice floated from the kitchen tucked away in the back of the café, breaking into Drew Carnevale's reverie as she leaned against the wall by the espresso machine, staring out the window onto what was normally a busy Pittsburgh street.

The family-owned Italian bakery and café, Café Carnevale, was empty at the moment. The early evening was dreary, chilly, and rainy, sending would-be patrons scattering for cover from the torrential downpour of rain as thunder and lightning broke overhead. Some might call it a miserable day; to Drew, it was heavenly.

"What up, doe?" she called back in their teasing vernacular. Bunz hailed from Detroit, and the slang phrase was used in greeting in the Motor City, dating back to before Drew had even been born. Since then, it served as their standard greeting to each other and as general queries whenever something worth remarking upon occurred.

"I just…" Bunz's voice trailed off and for a moment Drew could hear nothing but the clattering of utensils against the countertop. She cocked her head, listening. Bunz had a habit of starting a sentence, getting distracted, and completely forgetting about what it was she intended to say. It was one of her most annoying and also humorous qualities.

She'd met Bunz four months ago when she'd applied for the baker's job at the café, just a mere two months after the café had opened, which had been six more months after Drew and her clan had relocated to Pittsburgh from New York. The baker was quirky, artsy, funny and by far the most unique individual that Drew had ever met. She had a short cropped Afro, huge brown eyes and rich, chocolate brown skin that glinted with gold. She wore the funkiest clothing and the most outrageous jewelry and almost always had a smile on her face.

She'd never disclosed what made her leave Detroit for Pittsburgh other than her entrance into a master's art history program at the university; Drew sensed that, like her, Bunz was haunted by some trauma from her past. At any rate, they never talked about either of their pasts, not more than was necessary, anyway, and Bunz refused to tell Drew what her real name was.