The Song of David(71)

I called into the house, letting Georgia know I was heading out for a minute. I wasn’t ready to tell Millie what I’d just learned. I needed to know more. Judging from her attempt to smash the tape recorder, she had reached an emotional peak. Even still, the tape recorder was back on, clearly none the worse for wear. I could hear Tag speaking like he’d never left, and my anger spiked again.

I walked through the doors of the training gym four minutes later and headed for the office. As Mikey had promised, all the guys were assembled, and the footage was cued. It was a media zoo, just like all weigh-ins. The scale was center stage and one by one, each fighter took his position.

I watched as Tag stripped down with none of his usual smirk and swag. He was hard-faced and serious. No flashing dimples, no chest pounding, no nonsense. He stepped onto the scale in nothing but a Tag Team ball cap and a matching pair of fitted nylon shorts with Tag Team emblazoned in yellow across the butt. He stood as his weight was announced and then flexed his arms for the pictures. He looked lean and cut—thin—though that could be from cutting weight to hit the required 205.

“He looks skinny.” Axel confirmed what I was thinking, although skinny was relative. Tag was big and muscular, ridiculously so, but there was something gaunt and hollowed out about his cheeks and hip bones. “His walking-around weight is easily 220 and he’s at 203. What’s he thinking, sucking off an extra two pounds?”

“He hasn’t been in the gym for three weeks, that’s why!” Cory exclaimed.

“And he’s fighting freakin’ Terry Shaw. This could be a bloodbath,” Mikey moaned as we watched Shotgun Terry Shaw step onto the scale, looking surly and sour and cocky as hell. He shot Tag a look of disdain. Tag just ignored him altogether.

“No.” Andy shook his head stubbornly. “Tag knows what he’s doing.” He folded his arms and stared us all down. “We just don’t know what he’s doin’. But I know one thing. I’m goin’ to Vegas.”

“Me too,” Cory said.

“Count me in,” Mikey agreed.

“I’ll drive.” Axel took out his phone as if the decision was made and reservations were in order.

“I gotta tell Millie,” I sighed.

“What you gonna tell her, Moses?” Andy asked.

“Maybe we should go, see what’s up, before you say anything,” Axel suggested. His face was creased with concern and his big arms were folded across his chest. I had noticed that Axel was pretty protective of Millie, and Henry too, and I was pretty sure all the guys were thinking what I was thinking. Tag had run out on Millie. For whatever reason, he’d split, and now I had to tell her.

I shook my head slowly. “No, I can’t do that. I have to tell her we found him.”

Axel shook his head adamantly, like he couldn’t believe any of it, and the rest of the guys kept their eyes trained on the floor.

My phone bleeped, indicating a text message, and I glanced down at it.



Georgia: Call me.



“Give me a second, guys,” I said, excusing myself. Georgia picked up on the first ring.

“Moses?” Georgia’s voice was tight.

“Yeah?”

“I think we know why he left. Come back to Millie’s. You need to hear this for yourself.”





I AWOKE TO a killer headache and a sense of well-being that completely belied the pain. Millie had let me sleep, though she’d gotten up with Henry for school and had been awake for hours, just waiting for me to roll out of bed. I liked the way it felt, coming awake in Millie’s bed, listening for her in the house. I thought of the ring in my glove box and wondered if today wasn’t as good a day as any to extend an official invitation to join Tag Team.

I staggered into her bathroom, considering how I would pop the question. One look at my reflection—both eyes black, my head swollen and ugly, the stitches across my forehead garish and spikey—and I decided it could wait until I felt a little better.

After a few kisses, a couple of pain killers, and a pile of fluffy eggs that Millie had expertly prepared, I was finally ready to start my workday, though it was almost noon. Millie had a full day too, and we parted at her front door, Millie going one way, me going another. She didn’t want me to drive her to the blind center. She wanted to walk. Surprise, surprise. So I watched her walk away, enjoying the view enormously.

Millie didn’t drag her stick from side to side when she walked. She tapped it, rapping it against the concrete, left foot forward, stick goes right. Right foot forward, stick goes left. Click, clack, click, clack. Maybe it was the dancer in her, but she liked creating a rhythm when she walked. Sometimes she bobbed her head, and wiggled her hips, even though anyone looking on would probably wonder at the blind girl shaking her butt to the rhythm of her walking stick. But she said she couldn’t see them staring, she couldn’t see them laughing, so she didn’t care. Perks of being a blind girl.