Something happens and Rogan loses his grip, Daniels’s arm slipping out of his grasp and almost free of him completely, but Rogan bends forward, smashing his fist into Daniels’s face in four rapid-fire strikes. Even from a distance, I see blood fly as Daniels’s head bounces against the mat with a thud I’m sure I could hear if the crowd wasn’t so wild.
My stomach clenches and, for a moment, I’m caught in a time and a place where I felt the impact of fists, where I was held down so that I couldn’t escape. The fear, the incapacity, the remembered pain flood my body with a sick adrenaline that causes my hands to shake and perspiration to pop out across my forehead.
I blink my lids, forcing my eyes to focus on the present, on where I am, on the fact that I’m safe. But the feelings are still there, too intense to be part of my past. It’s like they leapt out of my nightmares to become a reality to me again.
My chest feels tight as I watch Rogan regain control of Daniels and pull his arm through his legs again. “Arm bar! Arm bar!” the man in front of me yells. Rogan shows no mercy this time. He stretches back, his face a stony mask, and relentlessly contorts Daniels’s arm.
I see Daniels tap the mat with his free hand. The referee makes a gesture and says something that I can’t hear, causing Rogan to release his opponent and jump to his feet. He won.
His stance says he’s the victor. The crowd says they had no doubt.
I study Rogan’s face. Gone is the fierceness of only seconds before, replaced by the confident smile that won my heart. He never had any doubt either. He’s in his element when he’s in battle. And I’m in my own personal hell.
I’ve never been more conflicted.
THIRTY
Rogan
Victory. It surges through my blood. I can taste it on my tongue, sweet and tangy. I can smell it in the air, mingling with sweat. There is no feeling in the world like winning. It makes me feel alive when, for a lot of years growing up, I wasn’t sure I’d survive.
But I did.
Against the odds. And here I am, on top of the world.
My first conscious thought as I do a slow turn of triumph in the center of the ring is of Katie. I squint past the bright lights, scanning the sea of faces for hers, but I can’t find her. My gaze drops to the first row, to where my brother is parked in his wheelchair. I frown my question at him, nodding to the upper rows. He shrugs. He doesn’t know where she went, even though he was supposed to keep an eye on her.
I feel a thin thread of unease unraveling in my gut. I don’t know why she would leave her seat like that. My agent was supposed to bring her to me in the locker room in another ten or fifteen minutes. Now I don’t know where she is. Maybe the bathroom . . .
I pull my attention back to getting through the next hour. After all the regular post-fight shit, I can disappear back into a world where it’s just Katie and me. For as long as we’ve got left.
As usual, my trainer joins me in the ring. I’m surprised when my agent, my publicist, my benefactor and Victoria Musser show up as well. Surprised and pissed off. No one told me Victoria would be here. And why the hell is she? She has no place at my side.
I hide my irritation, putting on a polite smile for the cameras. I hate everyone touching me and posing with me, though. All they want is a photo op. Pieces of shit.
As flashes go off in every direction, I think to myself that it’s probably not that big of a mystery why they’re all here. It’s great press for my agent; my publicist; and Senator Sims, my benefactor; and his son. And, of course, it’s a great photo op for Victoria. Not to mention a convenient plug for the show on which I’ll be starring at the beginning of the season. I guess it’s even logical. For media whores, that is.
If anything, their presence only makes me more anxious to get away, to find Katie. She’s like an island in a sea of sharks and suckerfish. It seems she might be the only person on the planet who wants nothing from me except . . . me. My time, my attention, my love, my touch. And I’m more than happy to give her all those. For as long as she’ll have me.
The circus continues, following me all the way to the locker room where they hover at the door, pounding me with questions. Senator Sims, who has now been joined by his wormy son, is proudly answering questions to my left when a beaming Victoria wiggles her way in at my right.
I have to make myself hold steady and not lean away when she latches on to my side. The media, always observant, doesn’t miss the way she drapes herself over me. I grit my teeth when it takes the questions in a different direction.
“Victoria, does this mean you and Rogan are back together?”
“Rogan, you were at the top of your game tonight. Did that have anything to do with Victoria’s presence?”