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And then I had an idea.
I changed direction, determination flooding me, and ignored my ringing cell as I drove. An occasional glimpse in the rear-view mirror showed that Blake wasn’t far behind. But that was a good thing, because I needed him for this.
Finally, I arrived at my destination and pulled up outside the Vault’s private parking garage, near the keypad. I didn’t have the code, so I waited, fingers tapping the steering wheel.
Mere moments after his car parked behind mine he was standing at my open window. I didn’t look at him as I spoke. “You have two choices. You can tell me what the hell you’ve been hiding, or we part ways right here, right now. I respect that you needed time. I gave it to you. But you told me that this situation would never touch me. Well, it did. And it took me off-guard. I didn’t know what I was dealing with, I wasn’t prepared, and I didn’t have a fucking clue what she was talking about.”
I met his gaze then. “Like it or not, I’ve been brought into this ‘project’ of yours, just as you were brought into my mess. I didn’t try pushing you out of my situation—I made sure you knew exactly what you were dealing with to protect yourself, and I respected your right to involve yourself. Now you need to do the same for me, or you need to let me walk away without any fuss. Make your choice.”
He didn’t speak. Just stared at me, eyes hard and unreadable. I didn’t back down, though. I wouldn’t. And I let him see that in my expression.
He pushed away from the window and backed up a step. Still, he didn’t speak. Instead, he punched in the code on the keypad.
My heart slammed against my ribs, and I let out a shaky breath. I drove into the garage, whipped my car into an empty space, and climbed out. Standing near the trunk of my car, arms folded, I waited as he parked his Maserati.
Crossing to me, he looked at me in silence for a long moment. “You sure you want to know, Kensey? You sure you want to tumble even further down the rabbit hole?”
“I’m sure.”
He didn’t look relieved. “All right.” He put his face close to mine. “But know this: If you say you can’t deal with what you learn, I won’t just tip my hat and let you walk away from me. We’ll go somewhere and talk. And talk and talk and talk until you tell me you can deal with it, because I fucking refuse to give you up.”
Okay, well that took me off-guard. I didn’t respond, though. Just followed him through the door and into the elevator. When he jammed a key into the B3 button on the number panel and then pressed it, my heart started to gallop. I realized then that a part of me didn’t want to know what happened on that floor, because what if it was something I couldn’t handle? Something I couldn’t ignore?
No, Emma had told me that it wasn’t ‘so bad.’ Blake himself had said that ‘nothing terrible’ occurred down there. And then I remembered another thing that Emma had said …
“I’m hoping you’ll show the same spunk you showed at the garage when you stumbled upon that scene, because I think you may just have the power to hurt Blake. And I’d hate to see him hurt again.”
At that moment, the elevator doors slid open. I stepped out, and I gaped. Not in horror or disgust. No, I just really hadn’t expected this. At all. Really hadn’t expected to see the large space filled with people that were crowded around boxing rings and mixed martial art cages. Their shouting and hooting mixed with the sounds of the fighters grunting and growling.
An underground fight club—or fight floor.
As we walked around, I could hear fists and feet thudding into flesh; hear the clanging of wood as fighters hit the floor hard. Some spectators held beers, others held cash, as they egged on whichever fighter they’d bet their money on. Somewhere, a referee whistled and—
Well, fuck. I blinked, recognizing one of the boxers as a goddamn TV. host.
“You’re not looking at the dregs of society, coming here to brawl,” Blake told me. “These people pay to come here, let off steam, and gamble. Millionaires, politicians, actors, models—hell, even a vicar.”
“Models and actors? But their faces—”
“It can be specified before a fight that the face or other areas are out of bounds.” He studied me closely, searching for something. Probably judgement.
“You didn’t need to keep this from me. I could have handled it, Blake. It might not be legal, but it’s consensual and I can see you have referees and security guards patrolling. I wouldn’t have collapsed in horror about it; I’m not fucking delicate.” And he knew that, so there had to be something I was missing. There had to be … And then it hit me. “The bruises I’ve seen on you. Not your PT.”
“No,” he admitted.
“The weekend of the carnival, you had a big bruise on your jaw—I saw it on the photos.”
“I’d had a particularly bad fight the previous Sunday, and I came out of it with a lot of bruises and swellings. They took their time fading. That was why I didn’t meet with you.”
“You were giving the injuries more time to heal and fade.”
He inclined his head. “I never met with you on weekdays for the same reason. It used to be my routine to come here on a Sunday night and let off steam. By the time I saw you the following weekend, most of the injuries had faded.”
“You haven’t done it lately.” I’d made a passing comment a few days ago that his PT had been going easy on him lately, because there had been no bruises. Now I understood. “You couldn’t fight because I was living with you, and that meant I’d have seen the injuries.”
“Yes.”
“Ordinarily, you fight here a lot.”
“Yes.”
“I could have handled that too.” I didn’t like it, but I could handle it.
He covered the small space between us in one stride, but he didn’t touch me. “What’s the question swimming around your head right now? Ask me.”
“Why would you fight here so often?” Every Sunday was a lot. Considering it part of his weekly routine was odd.
“The answer is … I need it sometimes.”
My brows lowered. “You … need it?”
“I need that feeling of my fist crashing into something. And I even need the pain of a fist smashing into me. In short, I like giving pain, and I like receiving it.”
My stomach bottomed out, because the first thought that floated into my head was: Just like Michael.
“Not sexually. I’m not into sadomasochism or anything like that. I don’t have a temper. I don’t lose my shit. I just … I just need this.” And here, he got what he needed in a controlled, consensual environment.
I swallowed. “I don’t get it.”
“The pain … it helps me. I know how fucked up that sounds, Kensey. I do. Just as I know that learning the person you’re sleeping with likes to dole out pain must be a knife to the gut, especially since Bale is much the same. I read articles about him, because I wanted to be sure I didn’t say anything that would push a button for you, and that’s how I learned that he and I have this fucked-up thing in common. And that’s why I didn’t want us to ever have this conversation.”
I shoved my hand into my hair, struggling to absorb everything—not wanting to absorb it. “Who are you beating up each time you get into those rings and cages? Who put that rage there?”
