Broken Beautiful Hearts(66)

Maybe there’s another exit, and I’m sitting here like an idiot while they’re halfway to Black Water. The side door finally opens. Lazarus and Cutter come out and head straight for the parking lot. I watch the door, expecting Owen to follow them.

Where is he?

Cutter’s truck drives by and turns onto the street.

There’s still no sign of Owen.

Did he catch a ride with someone else?

I’m sure one of the MMA groupies in the arena offered to give him a ride. But Owen wouldn’t ditch me. Would he?

I start the Jeep and back out of the parking space. The lot is deserted, except for a few cars that probably belong to employees. I flip a U-turn and circle around to the back of the building to check for another way out. There’s an emergency exit door, with a dumpster blocking half of it. Only the Incredible Hulk could get out this way—not a reassuring thought after I was in there earlier.

As I circle back to the front of the arena, a nagging feeling tugs at me. Owen didn’t leave the building with the other fighters—or Cutter and Lazarus. Either he lost track of time and he’s taking the world’s longest shower, or something happened.

I park near the side door. If I go through the main entrance, I might run into someone who works at the arena, and I’ll get stuck explaining why I’m sneaking around.

I’m just looking for a guy I drove here—who isn’t my boyfriend, and probably left already, while I sat in the parking lot, freezing my ass off.

That doesn’t sound pathetic at all.

I stare at the dented red door. If it’s locked, I’m leaving, and Owen will have to find his own way home. One hard pull and the door swings open.

Inside, the hallway is wallpapered with fight cards and posters for pro MMA fights, like the UFC matches Reed loved watching on TV. Fluorescent ceiling panels bathe everything in pale orange light. I pass the restrooms, where a woman is smoking a cigarette and mopping the floor in front of the ladies’ room. Other people wearing staff T-shirts dart in and out of the hallway, pushing stacks of chairs or carrying huge trash bags over their shoulders. I don’t see any trainers or fighters.

Come on, Owen. Where are you?

A man leaves the arena with a bag of garbage slung over his shoulder. He’s wearing earbuds and singing along with the music.

I wave to get his attention. “Excuse me?”

“Need some help?” he asks, removing one of his earbuds.

“I’m looking for my friend. He fought here tonight. Are any of the fighters still around?”

“Not sure. They usually clear out fast. You can check the locker room.” He points toward the end of the hallway. “Straight down.”

“Thanks.”

He notices my leg brace. “Are you a fighter?”

“Soccer player.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Didn’t know soccer was such a rough sport.”

“Thanks again.” I head down the hall, feeling less optimistic about finding Owen. It’s probably a result of the Reed Effect—the way Reed turns everything to shit.

The locker room is dark and quiet. Locker rooms aren’t quiet unless they’re empty. Conversations, showers running, doors closing, and footsteps echo inside. But I still don’t want to chance it and walk in on a half-naked stranger.

I take a step inside and whisper-shout Owen’s name. When no one responds, I take another step. This time I call his name loud enough for a person without supersonic senses to hear. “Owen? Are you in here?”

“Give me a minute,” a muffled voice calls out.

“Owen? Is that you?”

A moment later, I hear what sounds like “Hold on.”

There’s something weird about his voice. I’m not waiting.

I storm into the locker room, my steps echoing to announce my arrival.

Owen must hear them, too, because he calls out to me again. “Just give me a minute.” He sounds strange.

“You’ve already had over an hour. That’s how long I’ve been waiting in the parking lot for you.”

“Peyton, don’t come in here. Please…” He coughs and then sucks in a deep breath.

I stop at the corner where a bank of lockers begins. Owen is just on the other side. Why doesn’t he want me in here? And why does he sound so strange? Did the fight take a bigger toll on him than I thought?

Owen coughs again, and I round the corner. “You’d better have clothes on, because I’m—”

The moment I see him, I lose my train of thought. He’s sitting on the floor, leaning against the lockers behind him, still in his trunks. His hands are still wrapped, the white cloth stained red from the fight.

Why hasn’t he showered or changed?

Owen sees me and takes a labored breath. “I told you not to—” he gasps, then sucks in a sharp breath. Even in the dim light, he looks pale.

My heart stalls.

“I’m okay,” Owen mumbles, struggling to keep his eyes open. I rush over to him just as he loses the battle and they flutter shut.





CHAPTER 27

Just Friends

OWEN IS NOT okay.

I take off my brace and carefully lower myself to the floor beside him. I’m not worried about hurting my knee. Owen is in pain, and I don’t want to do anything that might make it worse. I sit facing him with my legs tucked to the side, my thigh pressed against his.