Sick Heart: A Dark MMA Fighter Romance
I let out a long exhale. “You know what? Five minutes ago, we took a leap of faith together—”
“Is that what you thought it was?”
“—and two minutes ago, you made the choice to speak. And you kissed me—”
“You kissed me!”
“You kissed me back. And who cares, the point is we were kissing two minutes ago. And now you’re just getting all mean on me.” I point at her. “I know how to read your silence. Even when you’re saying one thing and thinking the other.”
“Oh, do you?”
“You’re being nasty because you want to change the subject. And anger is an effective way to do that. Trust me, I’ve been there. So I see through you, Anya Bokori.”
She goes stiff, and even over the sound of the waves crashing against the steel pillars, I can hear her loud, deep breaths of frustration. Like she’s counting to ten to calm herself down. Then she says, “You know what? That’s the whole fucking problem.” She turns all the way around and stares up into my eyes. “Everyone just sees right through me.”
I point at her. “That’s not fair either.”
“No?”
“I’m trying to know you, Anya.”
“I don’t need you to know me, Cort. You’re out of here.”
“Ohhh.” I draw in a deep breath. “I get it. I’m sorry. I should’ve realized quicker.”
“Don’t pretend like you know anything. Because you don’t.”
“You’re hurt.”
“I don’t get hurt. That ass-kicking Irina gave me—”
“Not that kind of hurt, Anya.” I place my hand flat on her breast. Right above her heart. It’s thumping inside her chest. “This kind. You’re mad because I’m leaving.” She scoffs. And it occurs to me that this might be the longest conversation she’s had in years. Maybe ever. “You’re wasting it.”
“Wasting what?”
“This.” I point back and forth between us.
She frowns so deep. Her eyes go dark, and then they are glassy with the threat of tears. “There is no… this, Cort.”
“Why? Because I’m leaving? What if I wasn’t?”
“You are.”
“But what if I wasn’t?”
“You are. And you’re fucking crazy if you think I’m going to take that away from you. And if you say another word about not getting out, I’ll never speak to you again. That’s a promise.”
She wants to cry. I can see it. Hell, I can feel it. And this realization is like a punch to the gut. Because this is the moment when I truly grasp her hidden darkness. She wants to cry, not because I’m leaving and she’s not, but because she thinks she has changed something in me. And she might become the reason I stay a slave forever.
“OK.” I nod. “Fine. Topic over. But don’t leave yet. Stay down here with me.”
She makes a face. “Down here… where? We’re clinging to a rusty stairwell in the middle of a rolling ocean.”
I smile and point up. “There.” Her face follows the end of my finger to the little catwalk-like platform welded between two pillars. “It’s not much, but we’ll dry off, at least. And we can stretch out and have privacy.”
She shoots me a look.
“Shut the fuck up. I’m not trying to get in your shorts. If I wanted to fuck you, Anya Bokori, it would not be hard to change your mind.”
She huffs.
“But I don’t care about the sex. And I’m insulted that you think I do.”
She lets out a long silent breath, then looks back up at the platform. “How do we get up there?”
I win. “Follow me.”
We swim over to another rusty ladder on the side of a pillar and climb. This one is truly under the belly of the rig. And we have to climb all the way up to the top and then walk along a wide steel beam and climb down another ladder to the platform.
I have no idea what this rusty metal grate affixed to the side of the pillar was used for, but in years past, when I was out here alone, I used to tether my nets to it. Because net fishing isn’t something that can easily be done alone.
On each end there is a platform that is shaped to the side of the pillar, so it curves a little. And when Anya and I lean our backs up against the pillar, we are looking out in slightly different directions, with slightly different perspectives.
“You don’t have to talk,” I say, breaking our silence. “But I would love it if you would listen.”
She turns her head to look at me. And it’s funny. Because I don’t need her words to hear her talking anymore. She’s asking me a question. Listen to what?
“I have this dream. Did I ever mention that? It’s recurring and I’ve been having it since I was a kid. But here’s the thing… ever since I met you, it’s been changing. For as long as I can remember, the people in my dream are blank faces. Usually black blobs, but sometimes they are white blobs. The point is, they are blobs. At least, they were.”