Among the Echoes (Wrecked and Ruined #2.5)(4)

We stand for a few minutes in the doorway. He alternates between looking outside and soothing me. Finally, he yanks open the door and carries me out just as a black SUV pulls into the driveway. I prepare myself for more chaos, more pain, and more fear. My heart races even as he whispers, "Those are the good guys."

Three men and a woman jump from the barely parked truck and race towards us.

"What the f*ck did you do?" the first man who arrives barks at Marcus.

"Take her. She needs medical. I have a gunshot wound to the thigh. I think it was clean through, but I’m not positive." He shifts to pass me off, but I scramble to stay in his arms. I have no idea what the hell is happening, but there is only one man I trust right now, no matter how screwed up that may be.

The man pulls me away from Marcus, but I try to hold on like a baby clinging to its mother. My legs are on fire and every inch of my body is sore, but I fight to resume my place in his arms.

"Marcus!" I scream, reaching toward him.

Despite his own injury—I can obviously see that he’s bleeding through his pants—he returns to my side. "Hey, you’re in good hands. This is Agent Greene from the DEA. You’re safe, Erica."

I know his words should soothe me, but they only make me frantic. I’m not safe. I’ll never be safe again, but Marcus made me feel that way, even if for just a minute. I need that right now more than I need the air in my lungs. I need him to give that to me.

He turns to walk away and I lose it, frantically swinging my arms and legs, shaking free of the blanket and the hold the supposed officer has on me. I forget about the pain in my legs and the fear I felt because of this man only hours ago. I rush ahead, slamming into his back as he makes his retreat.

"Please don’t leave me. I don’t understand what’s going on right now. I need you. Please don’t leave me like this. I…" I begin to sob, begging him to stay with me.

He spins around, wrapping me in his arms and pulling me into his chest. "Fuck. Okay. I’ve got you."

"Please don’t leave me," I repeat as my body shakes violently.

"Hey. It’s okay. I won’t let you go until you're ready." He smooths down my hair as I suck in a relieved breath. "But no more Marcus, okay? My name’s Leo James. Just Leo from now on."

I nod against his chest as a blanket is wrapped back around me from behind.

"Clean up is on the way. We need to get you two out of here," a woman says from somewhere nearby, but all I can see is Leo.

"Come. Let’s get you to the hospital." He once again lifts me off my useless legs and climbs into the back of the SUV, cradling me securely on his lap.





Three years later...





"Kill him!" I hear Jimmy yell from outside the ring while pounding on the mat. It's about the only noise I can hear. With over eighteen-thousand people crowding the arena, the cheers are almost deafening.

My opponent throws a combination of punches, catching me off guard with his sudden burst of energy. Just as his last strike hits me, he drops his hand—only for a second. But that is more than enough time for me to land an uppercut to his jaw, snapping his head back in a way that I know will end the fight. He stumbles back before landing against the ropes and falling to his ass.

The ref counts him to seven before waving his hands and calling the fight. The crowd goes wild and my corner rushes in to celebrate. This is nothing new, but I'm proud nonetheless. I haven't lost a fight in over two years. Averaging over fifty million a match and one fight every six months, I've done well for myself. More than enough for me to leave this life and never look back. But for some reason, I always return.

I'm thirty-five years old and my fighting days are nearing an end. Hell, I've made it longer than most. But one of these days, a young, rising star will be quicker than I am and put me on my ass. I better enjoy this while I still can.

"Ladies and gentlemen, your winner and still heavyweight champion of the world... Slate The Silent Storm Andrews."

My glove is lifted into the air while the belt is draped over my shoulder. I stand for a moment, nodding to the crowd with gratitude like the trained professional I am. Thankfully, Jimmy quickly pulls me from the ring. I do what has been ingrained in me over the years and tap hands and pose for pictures with fans as I make my way to the back. People slap me on the shoulder, and it takes more effort not to move away from their touch than the entire eight rounds I just went. I hate this part of my job. Always have. Always will.

"Good fight, man!" Chris, my trainer, says, rubbing my neck. He's allowed to touch me. Hell, I even pay him thousands of dollars to do it.

"Thanks." I push my hands toward Jimmy so he can remove my gloves. "Hey, did you get me a plane for tonight?" I ask my manager, Mitch, who is standing in the corner with an insincere smile plastered on his face.

"You sure I can't persuade you to stay? The fans would—"

"Did. You. Get. A. Plane?" I repeat very slowly in case he suddenly doesn’t speak English.

"You going to finally tell me where in Ohio you disappear to after fights?" He quirks a questioning eyebrow that I swear I heard pop. "A month is a long f*cking time to go off radar, Slate. You should be doing talk shows and endorsement deals after your win tonight. You could make all of us a lot of money if you acted like the superior athlete you truly are."