"Ready?" he asked, and she was: clutch in hand, hair recurled, her tiny dab of makeup in place. He wore the same clothes he'd had on at the concert, and suddenly she wondered if she'd gone overboard on her own attire. After a lot of debating with herself, she'd finally changed into the sundress she'd planned on wearing tomorrow, white with little pink flowers. It was thin as a slip and left her shoulders and a good portion of her legs bare, but it was such a warm night and it seemed perfect for walking on the beach in the moonlight-far better than the jeans and boots she'd had on earlier. If it came to walking on the beach, of course.
"Ready!" she said brightly, stepping out and pulling the door closed behind her. They fell into step together, heading toward the elevator.
"Is Rowan feeling okay?" he asked. "No morning sickness or anything like that?"
Touched at his concern, she nodded. "She's doing well. It's not a difficult pregnancy so far, which is a relief."
"Good." While they waited, another couple joined them, so they fell silent. All four stepped onto the elevator when it arrived, Savannah taking the opportunity to surreptitiously scrutinize little details about Mike she might have otherwise missed: he wore a brown woven bracelet on his right wrist, and above that, one of the tattoos on his impressive forearm looked to be a quote written in Latin. She tilted her head slightly to see it.
Flectere si nequeo superos,
Acheronta movebo.
As she was looking, wondering what it meant, the young male half of the couple riding the elevator with them suddenly erupted. "Dude, are you Mike Larson?"
"That's me."
"I thought so! I was there in Vegas a couple of years back when you made Santoya tap out. That was the best takedown I think I ever saw, hell, it was the stuff of legend. It's an honor, man." Mike graciously shook his hand when he offered it, then the guy enthusiastically nudged his girlfriend, but she only gave a wary smile, not looking the least bit interested. "Mike Larson!"
"Hi," she said with an awkward laugh.
"Can't believe I've bumped into you on an elevator. Unreal. Can I get a picture? But you probably don't want to be bothered. It's okay if you don't."
"No, that's fine."
Savannah stood back in the corner as he dealt with his adoring fan, remembering a couple of times she'd been out with Tommy when he was recognized. It had always made his day. The ghostly fingers of grief reached for her, but she tried to wave them away-the memories she'd rather keep repressed but that often swamped her anyway.
Tommy, studying hours and hours of Mike's fight footage, dissecting those takedowns, picking apart strengths and weaknesses in his techniques. Rowan, rolling laughing eyes when he began to excitedly go on and on at length about his discoveries. He had come from a wrestling background; Mike, a street-fighting striker with boxing prowess and a black belt in Brazilian jiu-jitsu. Or as Tommy had so succinctly put it, One bad motherfucker.
In the end, it had been one of those vicious takedowns, combined with a blow that was quick as a striking snake, which had begun to spell disaster for him. Most of the night was a hellish blur now, but she remembered that much.
Picture taken, the guy slipped his phone back into his pocket and said, "Tough break with that Dugas kid. I got the PPV. Looked like he was okay and then boom. That's gotta be rough."
"Yeah," Mike said tightly, sending Savannah an apologetic look as she swallowed past the lump in her throat. "It's been hard."
Just as she was beginning to think the ride would never end, the doors whooshed open, and she was the first to flee the space that had been steadily closing in on her since "Dugas" had slipped out of that guy's mouth.
Tough break indeed. He couldn't have known who she was, and she knew he hadn't meant anything by it, but having Tommy's death reduced to little more than an inconvenience for Mike had wounded something inside her. As soon as Mike had managed to lose his fan, though, he was right there at her side as she strode quickly through the lobby, trying to outrun her emotions.
"Hell, Savannah, I'm sorry you heard that."
"Do you hear stuff like that a lot?"
"A little bit," he said gruffly. "I usually want to hit the fucker who says it."
"It's okay," she said quickly, eager to get outside before she broke down. Not that she wanted to break down in front of him either, but it would be better than having everyone in the lobby see. "I'm sure everyone means well."
"I know they do, which is why I let it slide. If you'd rather I set them straight, I will."
"You can't be rude to a fan like that. That guy was so excited to meet you. He was trying to make you feel better. I just . . . couldn't listen to it."
"I know."
A balmy breeze whipped at her dress as they strode through the doors, and suddenly she was rethinking her choice of beach attire. Too late now. Mike led her to a gleaming silver Ford Super Duty at the curb and opened the passenger door for her, even offering his hand to assist her climb. She took it, feeling a little weak in the knees when all the weight she put on him didn't budge his arm at all. Settling in the leather seat, she looked resolutely down at her hands in her lap, deep breathing, rubbing the place where his skin had touched her, trying to clear her head in the ten seconds it took him to circle around the front of the truck and open the driver's door.
She hadn't exactly achieved her goal by the time he bounded easily into the seat, but she could pretend. "Nice," she told him, glancing around appreciatively. Something about it calmed her. He drove a truck just like Tommy had, just like many other Southern men she knew. It somehow made him seem more human after a night of limousines and rock stars and enthusiastic fans in the elevator. "Boys and their toys."
Chuckling, he reclaimed his cap from the dashboard and pulled it over his head. "Shouldn't have taken this damn thing off. Maybe I wouldn't have been recognized."
Oh, he was recognizable from those cheekbones alone. "Just me here now," she said lightly. "You're safe."
"Are you hungry? I'm not sure what I'll have at the house that'll interest you."
"I'm okay. Unless you want to get something."
He shook his head. "I'm good."
She buckled up and watched the hotel disappear into the distance in her side mirror, still feeling the warmth of him on her hand from where he'd helped her into the truck. Such a simple gesture given infinitely more meaning because he was the one who'd done it. Casting a glance at him, his face in shadow again from his cap, she watched the streetlights pass over him as he drove. His right wrist was draped on the steering wheel, and her eye was drawn again to the Latin phrase on his forearm.
"What does this mean?" she asked him, daring to reach over and lightly draw the tip of her finger across it.
He glanced at it and the corner of his mouth kicked up. "‘If I cannot move Heaven, I will raise Hell.'"
And that raised the hair at the back of her neck. "Ah."
"Zane and Damien have Latin phrase ink too. I think Zane's is ‘Fortune favors the bold' and Damien's is ‘The die has been cast.'"
"Did you all get them together?"
"No. They just ripped off my idea."
She had to laugh at that, but the mention of Zane brought around the next topic she wanted to address with him. "I really did have fun tonight. I wanted to thank you again."
"No need. And I'm glad you had a good time."
"So, your brother . . ."
"Oh God, what did he do?"
"Well, nothing that I know of. And Rowan said he was great, but . . . I thought I picked up on something there. I hope he understands she is by no means ready to get back out there no matter how she acted tonight."
"I set him straight about it as best I could. I could tell he liked her, but he respects the situation. I think. He won't be bothering her, and if he does, let me know."
"I mean, she's not a kid or anything, and it's not that I wouldn't want her getting into another relationship. It's just so soon. I guess we're all in mama-bear mode over her because of everything she's been through. Both her parents died, her husband died, now she's facing a pregnancy without him . . . I think I would lose it. I really do."
"People can be stronger than you think."
She thought back to some of the things he'd hinted at when they'd gone for coffee after Tommy's funeral. "Yeah. We have to be." Eyeing the touch-screen monitor set in the dash, she opted to find a lighter topic. "What kind of music do you like?"