Lost Girls(51)

I shot a nervous glance at the announcer—silently asking if I should stop, hoping he would say yes because I couldn’t land another punch or kick, I just couldn’t—and he nodded, quickly ascending back onto the platform, his voice bellowing as he moved.

“We have another winner! Odette from the Swan Team!”

Komodo jerked awake on the floor, startled by the announcement. She struggled to get up, arms pressing against the floor, legs moving, but he pushed her back to the mat with his foot. “Stay down,” he warned, his microphone switched off. She grimaced, not ready to stop despite the blood dripping from her mouth, the bruises on her jaw, and the fact that one of her eyes was swelling up. Both of her fists were clenched, although the right one wouldn’t tighten all the way. It looked more like a claw than a weapon. Still, she didn’t want to give up.

“I wasn’t finished,” she growled, her words slurring.

“Another word and you’re definitely finished. For good,” the announcer said, still with the microphone off. Then he gestured toward her team members and another masked man. “Get her off the stage before I kick her out of the club.”

The stage quickly filled with Dragon Tattoo Girls, all of them sporting matching purple tattoos and outfits, their hair in cornrows. I recognized two of them from history class and I think some part of me expected them to act like we were still in school—to look away nervously, eyes darting left and right, shoulders hunched as they turned aside. Instead, they both glared at me as they gently lifted their teammate, icing her wounds, wiping away her blood, then helping her off the platform.

It hit me then, although I should have figured it out sooner, and it hurt more than any of the punches or kicks I’d gotten tonight.

These were the girls who had left the cruel notes on my memorial. Wish you had stayed dead, go back where you came from, hope those kidnappers come back and do the job right this time!

One of my knees loosened beneath me and I wavered, not even realizing that the announcer had my right arm lifted high or that Lauren had come up onstage and wrapped her arm around my waist. When I started to stumble, she held me up, her expression never changing, never letting the crowd know for a split second that she was keeping me on my feet. Another man joined us, his arms spread wide in a victory stance, his lucha libre mask silver and black.

He slipped an arm around my waist, and together he and Lauren led me down from the stage, making it look like they were celebrating my triumph, rather than holding me steady. It wasn’t until I cleared the steps that the strength in my legs returned and I pulled away from both of them, my arms raised to the crowds who cheered again. Lauren followed the two of us, until the masked man turned and gestured for her to stop.

“I need to talk to Odette alone,” he said.

Lauren started to protest, but I stopped her. “It’s okay, we won’t be long,” I said, then I turned to give the man a look that told him I didn’t remember or trust him.

“Good to see you back and safe,” he said as we moved away from the stage. We headed toward the corner, away from the crowds. If he tried to take me into another room or outside, I was going to give him the fight of his life. Already the muscles in my legs and arms were tensing and he must have sensed it. “It’s okay, I’m not going to hurt you.”

I kept my gaze fixed on Dylan who had come around to this side of the stage and now watched the two of us, his arms crossed, his head lowered, looking like he would take this strange masked man down if necessary. Brett and Jim and Mike were with him, too. Just knowing they were there comforted me.

It wasn’t until we were away from the others, in a corner where our words didn’t carry, that things began to fall into place—although, at that point, I was even more confused.

“What the hell are you doing here?” the man wearing the mask demanded. “You could have been seriously injured. Are your memories coming back?”

I stared at him, at his mask, at the unfamiliar eyes that burned inside. After a long moment, I thought I recognized his voice and those eyes, but I wasn’t sure.

“Who are you and why do you act like I belong to you?” I asked.

“You don’t even remember how the system works,” he said with a condescending snarl. “I’m your patron. You and I have worked together for about eight months. I’m the one who paid for all your training, but you could have ended both of our careers tonight.”

“I don’t understand.” I looked around, at my team, at the other fighters. “Everyone here has a patron?”

“Everyone that fights in Gold Level, yes.”

“Why are you wearing that mask?”

“The same reason you have a stage name. This isn’t exactly legal. The system was set up to provide anonymity. Look, you need to stay home until your memories come back. At this point, I’d rather have you quit than get injured in a fight you’re not prepared for.”

He paused, as if trying to keep emotion out of his voice, but his words had already wavered. I couldn’t tell if he cared about me because I made him money or if he just cared about all the people he supported. “You don’t deserve this, not after taking a risk like that, but here.” He handed me a black box that looked a lot like the one I’d left back on top of my dresser. My hands shook when I held it.

“I don’t want—I’m not taking any drugs, I don’t care if everyone else is or if you think I should or—”