Tough Enough (Tall, Dark, and Dangerous #2)(65)

Which I did. All the way through lunch, which was delivered to my door at precisely twelve o’clock. And then, again, right up until the phone in my room rang at three fifteen to inform me that my masseuse was on her way up for my three thirty appointment.

I’ve never had a massage before. Obviously, at this point in my life, I’m not terribly fond of people touching me, but I didn’t want to send her away and make a big deal of it and embarrass both Rogan and myself, so I jacked my chin up and decided I’d suffer through it. I mean, from what I’ve seen, there’s a hole in the table that you can actually hide your face in. It’s perfect for someone like me. At least she wouldn’t know of my shame. But as it turns out, Rogan even had that organized to the finest detail. She came in, asked me to change and wrap myself in a sheet, and then she proceeded to give me my massage right through the sheet. My hair stayed swept over my shoulder as I lay, face down, staring at the carpet. Well, until I got so relaxed that I closed them. Then I wasn’t staring at much of anything other than the backs of my eyelids.

After that, I slithered off her table and made it to the couch, where I collapsed in front of the last episode of TWD until suppertime, which was again delivered to my door. The only way the day could’ve been better is if Rogan had been with me for all those hours. But if I had to be in New York and spend them alone, that was certainly the way to go.

I suppose I could’ve called Kurt, but somehow that didn’t seem like it might be a very good idea, so I refrained. If Rogan had wanted him to be part of my day, he’d have penciled him in.

So now, here I am, walking into a packed arena, just a few minutes before the fight starts. My polka-dot umbrella is in hand, although I have no idea why.

My palms are sweaty, even though there’s no good reason for them to be. I guess it’s just the fact that I’m out of my comfort zone, out of my shell after hiding inside it for so long. But I have to admit that it’s been a nice change of pace.

There was a man waiting for me at the curb when the limo pulled up. He opened the door and asked, “Ms. Rydale?”

I nodded and he offered his hand, which I took and let him help me out. He then led me inside, past all the outer bands of security and ticket-taking hot spots, right to a seat that borders on what people call the nosebleeds. I’m not sitting up in the rafters, but I’m not ringside, either. Not that I wanted to be. Too much attention.

Surprisingly, I have an excellent view. I’m nearly eye-level with the ring, which is a big, fenced-in octagon, just farther away.

I sit down, taking in the energy of the people around me. Many are standing, watching the ring expectantly, and many, especially the women, are carrying umbrellas, which I find odd. Odd, both that they’re carrying umbrellas when it’s been gorgeous outside (and is supposed to remain gorgeous until Tuesday according to channel six) and odd that there are so many women here. I mean, this isn’t exactly the kind of sport I would expect a lot of women to love, but . . . who am I to judge?

When the announcer walks to the center of the ring, the crowd goes wild. I’m not sure why, but since I’m the newbie, I figure it’s better to just go with it. I’ll probably never experience something like this again.

I give a muted little whoooo in an effort to blend in. I’m immediately more enthusiastic about this venue when I see that no one pays me the least bit of attention. A place where I can go completely unnoticed, in a crowd this size, is right up my alley.

A minute or so later, I see people start to point and a preternatural hush falls across the arena. Seconds later, a guitar riff starts to strain loudly through the speakers. It plays for several seconds, like an intro, and then, when the horns of Battle Without Honor or Humanity kick in, a deafening roar erupts from the crowd. Heads turn and people start to jump up and down, but I can’t see what’s going on. I can’t see anything except umbrellas popping open everywhere, being held aloft and shaken to the beat of the music.

Scrambling for mine where it resides under my seat, I open it as well, standing along with the rest of the crowd, looking for the source of the excitement. My gut (and the umbrellas) tells me it’s Rogan.

I finally see him when he reaches the edge of the ring. He’s cloaked in a black satin robe that has a huge green R on the back and what look like raindrops falling through it. Even though the hood is up, I’d recognize him anywhere. That walk, that posture, that mouth and chin, barely visible in the slice of light shining in on it.

It’s Rogan.

I know it.

Stripping off his hood with a flourish, Rogan bounces on the balls of his feet and holds up his thinly gloved hands. He nods to each section of the stadium as he turns a slow circle. Each one goes even wilder when he does. Women screaming, men hollering, everyone chanting. It isn’t until the music starts to die down that I can finally make out the rhythmic words of the fans. They’re crying, Bring the rain! Bring the rain! Bring the rain!

Rogan turns to enter the fenced ring, but just before he ducks inside, he stops and scans the crowd in a more purposeful way. As his eyes pass each section surrounding the octagon again, I even hear a few propositions, girls offering to do everything from have his baby to lick his abs and a few other less publicly appropriate declarations.

He seems to ignore them all as he searches the masses. When he turns in the direction of my section, my heart stutters in my chest and I hold my umbrella steady. Now I understand why he wanted me to bring it. In a sea of black and green umbrellas, my polka dots stand out like a sore thumb. Something he should easily be able to spot from a distance.