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“A little birdie told me before I ate her for dinner.” I ran a hand over my scalp. “Mia?”
“Don’t you mean Spyder?”
“Don’t fuck with me right now. Is she okay? Did she win?”
She jostled the phone before silence descended over the line. She must’ve moved to a quieter place. My heartbeat pounding in my ears made up the difference.
“What do you think happened?” she asked after a moment. “She skipped training yesterday. Skipped it again today. She’s a mess and you’re the reason. I hope you’re happy.”
Happy? No, I was the exact opposite. So opposite that my chest caved in on itself just imagining Mia hurt. Hurt more. Because of me.
I ground my forehead into my palm. I needed the pain to keep me focused or else I’d tear through the city until I found her. “How bad?” When Kizzy didn’t answer, I growled. “Goddammit, you tell me how bad or I’ll come down there myself. And I fucking guarantee you won’t like it.”
“Wow.” She whistled. “That was some speech. Does your hand know you’re seeing someone else?”
For the first time in current memory, I had no response. Absolutely none.
“She won, you fuckhole. She’s fine. A little roughed up, but no worse than I’ve done to her during a sparring session. No thanks to you.”
Relief poured through me, sweet and heady. I sagged into the couch, my free arm falling bonelessly to my side. I could breathe again.
What I couldn’t do was speak. My vocal cords were still paralyzed.
“She won’t tell me what happened with you two last night,” Kizzy continued. “First I heard the swords going, then it switched to the adult version. Damn, I usually hear fewer grunts and groans in the gym. Less swearing and begging God too.”
Only wusses flushed. And me. “She’s really okay?”
Kizzy didn’t answer my question. “Carly didn’t need to hear you ramming her sister’s bed through the wall so I turned the music back on. Then you take off and Mia comes out with sex hair, looking all dejected. What’s the deal, Foxy? Couldn’t find her clit?”
I’m not having this conversation. I’d keep repeating it in my head until I believed it.
“I gotta go,” I muttered. “Uh, thanks.”
The smile came after I’d hung up and grabbed my laptop. Mia had won. Of course she had. That was my girl, kicking ass. She could take care of herself. I just wanted the chance to help.
That didn’t sound the least bit like I was whipped. Nope, no sir.
I closed down the window that still contained school stuff and opened another. The blank line of the browser mocked me, daring me to type her name. Why was I nervous? It wouldn’t pick up anything. Besides, doing this was a violation of her trust.
But since she didn’t trust me anyway, what did I have to lose?
I typed in her name and hit enter. Steeling myself, I read through the first couple pages of entries. Relief bloomed in me for the second time that night. See? Nothing but a couple of random entries in a few fighting blogs. Completely minor. I’d just do a bit more checking around to make sure, then I’d close down the computer and try to get some sleep.
For the hell of it, I typed in Georgia and her name. Carly had mentioned that was their home, plus Mia spoke in a southern accent sometimes, particularly when she got…excited. Narrowing down the location would eliminate the chance I’d missed something, as unlikely as it was.
So she had issues and clearly bad shit in her past. Who didn’t? I wasn’t going to find anything on the web. That niggle along my spine that always saved my ass was wrong this time. It wasn’t intuition. This was just a waste of—
Her picture snagged me and stopped me dead.
Strong fingers wrapped my throat, squeezing tighter until I had to shut my eyes against the wavering pattern of dots that consumed my vision. Only after I opened my eyes again did I realize the pressure around my neck came from my own hands.
I unclenched my fingers, mesmerized by the image of long dark hair, bright lively eyes, and a disarming smile. I didn’t know that Mia, but she’d existed once. Until some motherfucking bastard had killed her and left the shell behind.
Amelia Anderson. Her name wasn’t Mia at all, which explained why Carly kept calling her “Ame” the other night.
The grainy photo I came across in an old Georgia newspaper with the headline—Local Girl Rescued From Basement Prison—stole a piece of me and cast it into an abyss that only existed for other people. I’d been born privileged. Even now that I’d entered the sometimes dangerous world of underground fighting, I was just a visitor. Just a trespasser out on a day pass from my real life, one that existed behind spired gates and came with monogrammed shirts and vanity license plates. I spent time in a cage by choice.
She’d been given none.
