Lost Girls(48)

He was here. Dylan was here.

The thunder of music beat against my feet and my chest—I hadn’t even realized music was playing until now, a wild techno mix—and I started pushing my way through the crowd, through the boys and girls who chanted Poe, Poe, Poe! I had to get to the front of the stage. I didn’t wait for Lauren or the girls. All three of them were my girls, I knew that now, the Swan Girls were my team and I was their leader. But I didn’t care about them. I bounced as I walked, shoving myself up on my toes with each step, trying to see above the shoulders and heads of tall guys who shouted and growled and cheered.

Was my boyfriend up on the stage? Was he fighting?

I could see two guys up there, one with his back to me, a large, intricate tattoo spreading across his shoulders, a black bird with wings spread wide as if captured in mid-flight. A raven. Even though I didn’t remember ever seeing Dylan with a tattoo like that, I knew it had to be him. I thought about the poem that circled his wrist, the first line from The Raven. Dylan was up there and he was fighting one of the Skulls; his opponent’s head was shaved, a red iron cross painted on his forehead that stretched down over his nose. It made him look inhuman and a shudder raced through me.

This place was both exciting and scary, the rush much stronger than anything I’d ever felt when attending other sporting events. It was more like white-water rafting, wild and untamed.

I made it to the front, although even here I continually had to fight to claim my position, shoving elbows into ribs and knees in crotches. Twice I had to turn around and slam my fist into somebody’s gut to make them back up and stop pushing me against the edge of the platform.

My blood thrilled through my veins, hot and fast.

I watched Dylan’s every move, instinctively understanding his game. Standing and delivering kicks wasn’t how he would win. He needed to take this Skull to the ground and pin him down in a wrestling hold.

“Grab him by the waist and take him down!” I yelled.

I didn’t think about the fact that he would hear me or that my voice might be a distraction. Dylan twisted his head, searching the crowd and finding me, an astonished look in his eyes.

“Get him on the mat!” I screamed.

The other guy took advantage of the situation and punched Dylan in the stomach; Dylan curled over, then took another punch, this time in the side of his head.

I winced when blood flowed down his face.

Poe—Poe—Poe—

It seemed like everyone in the crowd was yelling his name, although some of them had to be cheering for the Skull. The crowd parted behind me, a soft cool breeze wafted forward and I looked over my shoulder. Lauren, Stephanie, and Zoe had made it to the front and they joined me, all four of us linking arms to keep the others back, as if our presence alone could make him win.

He had to win.

He stumbled, blood dripping from his nose and we all thought he would fall, that he would end up on the ground—but not the way he was supposed to, not in a dominant position. We were wrong. Dylan used his forward motion to propel himself into his opponent, to knock the other guy off-balance, a wicked grin on his face as he wrapped his arms around the Skull’s waist, then slammed him down.

Wham.

The Skull’s head hit the floor.

A moment of silence swept the room. We all sucked in a breath and held it, waiting. For the first time I saw the video cameras that were positioned around the room, high up on the walls, some of them scanning the crowd, most of them focused on the fight, all of them pointing in different angles.

Closed circuit TV.

I remembered that somewhere, safe and anonymous in their homes, adults were watching this on big-screen TVs. They were placing bets. Money was flowing, changing hands. We were the event, we were the fighting dogs, and we didn’t even care that we never got paid. Adrenaline was why we did it. I could feel it and taste it, like I was soaring high above the earth, invincible, impervious to pain.

This was better than any drug.

I felt electric, more alive than I had in weeks, blood rushing, my heart a machine effortlessly thumping, thumping, thumping—damn, how I’d missed this. Up until now my life had been boring, everything black and white, instead of color, instead of this brilliant blood red—

The real me had been hiding until now, just like my tattoo.

Meanwhile, an ominous silence continued—the only sounds were the air flowing into my lungs and the high-pitched whine of cameras as they panned from right to left, as their lenses refocused for close-ups. Even the music got put on pause.

Then—as if I was the only person who could step outside of time, outside of this unending moment where the Skull lay on the ground helpless, the wind knocked out of him—I lifted my clenched fist high and I screamed.

“Poe—Poe—Poe!”

Time started again, other people shouted and cheered. A deafening rush of noise bounced off the walls, reverberating, sounding like the cry of an army going into battle. Dylan punched the guy in the gut and the side and the face. He wrapped his legs around the guy’s waist, pinning him in place. The Skull tried to open his eyes, blinking several times, but finally his head thudded back to the floor. Unconscious.





Chapter Twenty-Seven


The crowd cheered even louder, something I didn’t think was possible. Then someone pushed his way through the mob, someone taller and broader than the rest of us. It was a man wearing a dark gray business suit and a red and black lucha libre mask, his identity concealed. He made his way onto the platform and his voice proclaimed over the loudspeakers, “We have a winner!” He took one of Dylan’s arms and lifted it high. I didn’t recognize the man, but his Brooklyn accent sounded familiar. I’d probably heard it here many times.