Broken Beautiful Hearts(65)

By round three, Dio’s spiked hair is holding up better than the fighter himself. The guy wasted a lot of energy going after Owen in the first two rounds and now he’s paying for it.

Owen is patient and calculated. He waits for openings, and then he nails the guy with a power hit or combination.

I hold my breath every time Owen hems Dio up against the ropes.

“Come on. Go down already,” I whisper.

Owen sweeps Dio’s legs out from under him. When Dio hits the mat, Owen doesn’t hesitate. In seconds, he’s on the mat in front of Dio. Owen makes a fist and wraps his arm around the back of the other fighter’s neck. Then Owen clamps his free hand around his fist, securing the guillotine chokehold.

It’s over.

Dio must know it too, because he taps out—tapping the mat three times—the MMA version of giving up.

The ref calls the fight. “And the winner is Owen Law.”

I shout and clap, along with the crowd.

Lazarus turns in my direction, and I hold my breath. He’s looking right at me.

No … above me.

A caged clock hangs on the wall over my head. Lazarus checks the time, then turns back to Cutter.

My heart pounds and I duck behind a group of college guys wearing Tennessee State baseball caps who are arguing about the weight cap for welterweights.

“I’m telling you, it’s a hundred sixty-five pounds,” one of them says.

“Middleweight starts at one hundred seventy-five pounds,” his friend counters.

The debate escalates. “Fifty bucks says you’re wrong.”

“You don’t have fifty bucks, or I’d take that bet—and your money.”

“Save your money,” I say. The three college boys look back at me. “Welterweight ends at one hundred seventy pounds, and middleweight is above one-seventy.”

They stare at me dismissively, as if I couldn’t possibly be right.

Losers.

As I walk to the exit, I steal a glance at Owen, sweat-soaked and grinning from ear to ear, like he’s genuinely happy. The rogue butterfly in my stomach flutters its wings.

Damn.

I’ve got to find a way to keep that from happening.

First, I have to get back in the Jeep, before Owen sees me.

I turn around and catch a glimpse of a guy in a red T-shirt coming toward me. I know that logo.

“Peyton?”

I recognize the guy’s voice, but it takes me a minute to process—because his voice shouldn’t be here.

“I thought that was you,” Billy says. “What are you doing here?”

My throat goes dry when I look up and see Reed’s friend and teammate staring at me.

“I came in to use the bathroom,” I stammer. It’s not even a decent lie.

Billy shakes his head, watching me. “You couldn’t stay away, huh?”

“Stay away?”

He gestures at the cage. “From the fights. You miss it, don’t you?”

Is Reed here with Billy?

My pulse races and I scan the room, panicked.

“Reed isn’t here, if that’s who you’re looking for. I came on my own. My cousin is fighting. He lives in Nashville.”

“Your cousin. Right,” I mumble.

“Reed misses you. I know he’d want to hear from you. Hell, he’d take you back in a hot second.”

“I don’t miss him.” My tone turns cold.

Billy gives me a knowing look. “Come on, Peyton. Why else would you be here? Or did you start fighting?”

“This would make it kind of hard.” I point at my RoboCop brace, hoping Billy realizes how ridiculous he sounds.

He looks away. “I feel you. I said the same thing after Jen broke up with me. I used to hang at the football field at lunch, like I was waiting to pick her up from cheer practice.”

“I have to go.” I slip around Billy, desperate to get the hell away from him. I want to beg him not to tell Reed that he ran into me, but it’s pointless. At least we aren’t in Black Water.

I focus on the doorway that leads out of the arena.

“He wants you back, Peyton,” Billy calls out.

My stomach knots, and an image of Reed, standing at the top of the stairs, flashes through my mind. I ignore Billy and keep walking—through the open doorway, down the hall, past the woman collecting tickets, and across the parking lot, until I make it to the Jeep.

I keep looking behind me to make sure no one is following me. When I climb into the car, I drop the keys in the cup holder beside me. I’m not willing to turn it on and risk attracting attention.

I sink lower in the seat, wishing I could disappear.

Running into Billy caught me off guard. All that garbage about Reed missing me and—my favorite part—that he would take me back if I just asked? What kind of sob story is Reed selling? After all the lies he told, I’m surprised he hasn’t been struck by lightning.

What if Billy tells Reed his idiotic theory about me hanging out at an MMA semifinal because I miss him so much? Reed will never stop calling me.

Billy probably texted him the minute I walked away.

I spend the next hour sulking in the Jeep. The fights ended a while ago, and the flood of testosterone-pumped guys doing bad side kicks in the parking lot has cleared out. The fighters leave through the side door with their trainers, but there’s no sign of Owen, Cutter, or Lazarus.