Cade
“Thanks again for letting me stay. It won’t be for long.”
“It’s cool,” Kassidy states, driving her mom’s Toyota down to the fish shack. “My parents are hardly ever home, so I doubt they’ll even notice.” Eyes flicking to me in the passenger seat, she continues, “Are you okay?”
I didn’t say a word when I showed up at her door, and immediately, Kassidy’s gaze fell on my bleeding hands. She seemed to understand that I wasn’t in a position to talk. Now, though, after some time has passed and the wounds on my bones have finally congealed, she presses.
“Is it your uncle? I’ve seen him during my shifts at my aunt’s tavern. He has a bit of a temper. Are you?—”
“I don’t really want to talk about it, Kas. He’s—” What? What is he? “Just family.”
I think she got the hint, if her silence is anything to go by. That’s how the rest of the drive continues, quiet. It isn’t until we are no more than a few miles away that Kassidy speaks out again, tears stuck in her throat.
“She’s there, right? You think she’s there…” I don’t want to feed her false hope and tell her that she is, but how do I crush her when she’s already barely hanging on by a thread?
“I want her to be.” It’s the best I can do.
I hold on to that belief until the drive ends, repeating it beneath my breath as Kassidy and I step from the vehicle onto the densely packed field.
“Shit,” she mutters, “it’s crowded tonight.”
“Why do you think that is?”
Twisting, she stares blankly into my eyes. “You.”
Taking off in the opposite direction from the shop, Kassidy disappears into the trees. Instead of following her and trampling over their secret spots, I dive into the crowd, avoiding eyes while searching for Clara’s perky, blonde head.
“Cade! Cade! Cade!”
My name is shouted and cheered throughout the abandoned barn-style shack. I can sense their excitement, but the energy that would typically make my skin come alive, especially after the shit with my uncle, feels like maggots beneath my flesh.
Fighting off the hands that shove me toward the ring, I pull a folded Missing Persons flyer from my pocket and thrust it into everyone’s faces. “Have you seen her?” I ask. “Have you seen Clara?”
I’m met with nothing but no’s, shrugs, and confused looks. “She’s always with me,” I go on to explain, but no one is interested in my frenzied words. All anyone seems to want—scratch that—all anyone seems to fucking care about is me getting in that fucking ring. Who gives a fuck about a missing girl when there’s money to be made, right? Who gives a fuck about my fuckingmissingbest friend!?
Frustrated and on the verge of fucking killing someone, I charge through the hoard, ramming everyone in my fucking way out. With anxiety high and rage through the fucking roof, I press my spine against the wall where I was blown only a little over a month ago. Weeks! Shit! It’s been six weeks since we started doing this.
It feels like a fucking lifetime ago.
Unable to catch my breath, I slide down the wall, head cradled tightly in my hands.
Through the pounding in my skull, I listen to footsteps crunching over rocks, stopping only inches away. “Not fighting tonight?”
Without even lifting my head, I growl, “Fuck off.”
His laughter is light and carefree, no farther away than it was a second ago.
“Did I fucking stutter?” I snarl again, this time lifting my head and rising quickly enough to close the distance. “Fuck off.”
This guy, whoever the fuck he is, doesn’t move an inch. He doesn’t flinch at my teeth in his face or back away as my shoulders begin to shake. This ballsy little shit, dressed in too-nice clothes for a midnight brawl, smiles instead.
“I don’t mean to offend,” he says quietly, “but what a shame it would be for you to waste the opportunity of my time.”
“Yeah? And why is that?” Creating distance, I throw my spine back against the wall, taking in the wide-eyed stranger. The more I glare, the more familiar his features become. I’ve seen his perfectly styled, caramel-colored hair outside of the ring. He watches me with a handheld camcorder at his sternum. No one else ever seemed to notice, but I thought it was strange. “You film me,” I confront. “You get off on that? Jack off to me fighting?”
“No,” he chuckles, lighting a cigarette. “But I know people who will. In fact,” he pauses, blowing smoke into the breeze, “I have someone really interested in your skills. Have you ever thought of going pro?”
The blood rushing around my head suddenly stops, and everything else freezes along with it. I take in this stranger again. His perfectly styled hair, unblemished features, and clothes thatappear brand-new. He doesn’t look like the others from around here. He looks legit. He looks… real.
