Chapter Ten

Monday afternoon, I show up to boxing a few minutes early to try andavoid an awkward conversation with Elliott.Andre meets me at the front door. I reach to turn the doorknob, but he stops me.

"What happened to your hand?" he asks.

I decided not to hide the injury, since punching with my right hand might break the stitches. "I hurt it on glass."

"You should give it time to heal. Hit with your left."

The gym smells like a combination of sweat and bleach, which has strangely become comforting over these last few weeks. The door swings open again, and I recognize the sound of the heavy footsteps. Elliott nods approvingly at my fresh bandages.

Andre makes me practice solo because of the injury. I perfect my left-handed crosses even though it feels unnatural. I channel every ounce of energy I have into nailing the routine. My mind goes blank of anything and everything that isn't boxing. I practice the same move over and over again until I can't feel my arm anymore, and even then, I don't stop.

"Keep that up, and you'll be competing in no time," Riley remarks. He passes me my water bottle.

I drain what's left of it and continue. Occasionally, Elliott opens his mouth like he might say something, then shuts it. By the time class ends, I'm the last one in the gym except for Andre. He corrects my posture on my hook, then waits patiently in the corner until I can't find the strength to keep moving.

"Let's start some private lessons after Savannah," he suggests on our way out the door.

I stop walking. Private lessons with Andre are exactly what I need to improve enough to compete, but after my hospital visit, I can't ask my dad to pay for anything else.

"That sounds great, but we're struggling to pay for practice as is," I say.

Andre shakes his head. "I'm volunteering. You motivate me, kid."

To his surprise and my own, I pull Andre in for a hug. He relaxes against me, patting my back like my father does. He smells like moss and oak trees, which is fitting for the person who has kept me grounded.

"Thank you," I whisper.

*

"What the hell happened?" Gemma asks, narrowing her gaze on my injury.

I give her the same bullshit story I gave Dr. Taylor. She grabs my hand and inspects it carefully. As she runs her index finger across my arm, I let out a dramatic moan of pain. She drops my hand, and I burst out laughing.

"I'm messing with you. It doesn't hurt that bad."

Gemma slams her shoulder into mine.

"Did that?" she retorts.

We hurry to school, pausing at the entrance to say our goodbyes. I pass the time in my morning classes by sketching flowers in my notebooks. In English, Elliott falls asleep and snores. Mr. Ruse wakes him up by throwing a ruler at his head. The girls crowding his desk do the same three things every day: smirk, giggle, and ask questions with no real answer. Considering none of them get any further with him than the day before, I wonder why they keep trying.

When the bell rings, I'm the first out the door. Elliott rises out of his chair and lingers closely behind me.

"Berman!"

I pause. The voice is like a foghorn. Harris Price. He lurks on the other side of the hallway, leaning casually against the cinderblock wall. He isn't wearing his football jersey today; instead, he's dressed in a blue varsity jacket and sweatpants. My flight instinct kicks in, and I start in the opposite direction. He calls out again, but this time he chooses a new word.

"Psycho!"

I freeze. My fingernails dig into the bottom of my palm. A few of the students around slow down their walk, watching as the quarterback makes his way toward me.

"What do you want?" I ask.

"I saw you at Alex's party," he states. "I tried to say hello."

"I was busy."

From the other side of the hall, I notice Elliott approaching. He steps in front of me, and as he does, my racing pulse steadies.

"Is everything okay?" Elliott asks, glaring at Harris.

The crowd of onlookers grows in size. I slide closer to Elliott.

"Everything's fine," Harris responds. "It's been a while, King."

"It has," Elliott grumbles.

Harris grows bored with him quickly. He turns his attention back on me, piercing eyes drifting over my face and my chest. I squeeze the sides of my jacket together to cover my tank top.

"Are you busy this weekend, Rosalyn?" Harris questions.

I growl, "Yes."

Harris grins, the anger in my voice only encouraging him. His gaze flickers between Elliott and I, and amusement spreads across his rugged features.

"Yeah?" Harris probes. "Doing what?"

I open my mouth to respond, but Elliott beats me to it.

"Me."

I choke. A hushed whisper falls upon the crowd of spectators. Harris shuffles back a step.

"Nice bluff," he says. "I'll believe it when I see it."

He sounds unimpressed, but I can tell by the shakiness in his voice that he's not so sure. The quarterback stomps down the hallway. I get the feeling that he's still not satisfied.

"Let's go to lunch," Elliott whispers.

The moment is over in an instant, and yet I feel like I've been standing here for years. I swallow my pride and follow him out of the hallway. He doesn't take me to the cafeteria, though. Instead, we head straight through the front door out of the school. My mind clears in the fresh air, and the realization of what he just said slaps me across the face.

"You won't answer any of my questions, and now you're implying that you're sleeping with me?" I spit.

Elliott's eyes widen. "You're mad?"

"Yes!"

Across the parking lot, a teacher spots us and scowls. Elliott doesn't lower his voice.

"I didn't think that would piss you off!" he shouts. "I thought I was helping you!"

"I don't need your help." A few lessons with Andre and I won't need a protector. "You can tell me the truth about whatever the hell you're involved in, or you can leave me alone. And by alone, I mean alone. No more stepping into my drama. I'd rather face Harris myself."

Elliott inches backward, running his hand through his short hair. Finally, he says, "There's a fight tonight. Come with me."

I pause. I wasn't expecting him to offer, and now that he has, I'm not sure what to do.

"Fine," I say, because I can't think of something better.

"Fine," he repeats. "I'll pick you up at midnight."

He turns back toward the school, then pauses.

"Is it really that bad if everyone thinks we're together?"

I gulp. Lying to piss off Harris was understandable, but I didn't think there was a sliver of truth to it.

Did he?

The idea both excites and terrifies me. Elliott's loud and impulsive, the opposite of the type of person I would ever want to date, but for a second, I allow myself to imagine the two of us together. And it's kind of beautiful.

"I didn't say it was bad," I whisper.

Elliott lingers for another moment, lips curling into a gentle half-smile, before going back inside. I count to three, then follow behind him. Gemma and Nishi's jaws are on the floor when I walk into the cafeteria. Word travels way too fast within the walls of this school. Preparing myself for an assault of questions, I take a seat.

Gemma goes first. "You really didn't tell me that you're seeing Elliott?"

God, this is a disaster. My skull pounds as the adrenaline coursing through my veins slows its course.

"I didn't think I was," I say, hiding my face in my hands. "I'm so confused."

"He likes you," Gemma counters. I throw my hand over her mouth to quiet her, but she keeps talking. "If you're hoping for my approval, I like him. If I wasn't a lesbian, I'd probably jump his bones."

Nishi laughs at the sudden rush of color in my cheeks. I sink into my chair and wish that I could disappear, but by the end of lunch, I'm apparently more popular than ever. Everyone I pass has my name on their lips.

The stares and whispers continue throughout the rest of the day. During my walk to last period, I spot Maddy in the hallway. She glares. I consider saying something, but by the time that I decide on what, she's already gone.

*

Elliott's car pulls into my driveway a few minutes past midnight.

My lips part at the sound of the revving engine. I wasn't sure if he would actually show. He parks the black BMW and smirks through the car window. I creep down the stairs, then pause at the back door, waiting to hear if I woke up my father. The house remains quiet and still.

My palms dampen with sweat as I slide into the passenger's seat of Elliott's convertible.

"Morning," he says, smiling wryly.

In the darkness, I can barely make out the details of his face. Shadows cover the blue in his eyes, making him look more like Luke than usual.

"You're not going to laugh at my joke?"

"It wasn't funny," I reply.

He puts the car into drive and coasts in the direction of the gym.

"Are you fighting tonight?" I ask.

He shakes his head no.

"Good. I don't really want to see you get your ass kicked again."

"I won!"

It's 12:15 a.m. when we arrive at Midtown, but it feels later. Elliott parks across the street. The cold nighttime air and incoming storm clouds make the hair on my arms stand up.

Elliott pauses before getting out of the car. His cheeks are stripped of color. "Keep your head down," he says.

"Are you nervous?"

He nods. "Yeah."

I guess we really are being honest with each other. We jog across the street to the back of the gym as it starts to pour. Elliott stops before the doorway and faces me. He tucks his hands into the pockets of his soaked basketball shorts.

"Ready?"

"No," I declare before Elliott throws open the door.

The gym is crawling with people. An older man greets Elliott by name as soon as he steps inside. Strangers pat his shoulders and cheer, clearing a path for us all the way to the ring. Two men are circling each other in the center of it. The taller of the two lurches forward, grabbing the other's wrists with his hands.

"Foul!"

The fighter lets go. Elliott points to a guy in a ball cap standing on the right side of the ring.

"That's Jacob," Elliott says. "He refs on occasion."

"Since when are there fouls in illegal fighting?"

"There has to be some rules; otherwise, everyone would end up dead."

I pause. "Has anyone ever—"

"Elliott!"

I recognize the voice. Andre. His mouth falls open when he registers my face. I glance at Elliott, but he just shrugs. Oops, his expression seems to say. Forgot to mention that one.

"Rose," Andre stammers.

"Um, hi."

Logically, it makes perfect sense for Andre to be involved since he owns the gym, but I can't see it. He's so . . . patient.He doesn't have a mean bone in his body. Why would a person like him come to a place like this?

We both stifle nods, not daring to say anything else.

"Shitty lineup tonight," Andre tells Elliott. "Can you fill in next?"

"Against?"

He points to a scrawny, acne-ridden boy in the corner. He's half Elliott's size and shaking like a leaf.

"You want him breathing after?" Elliott sneers.

I elbow him. "You said you weren't competing."

"Not much of a competition," chuckles Andre. "Guys like him show up all the time. They want to prove something, but they end up on the floor."

The boy is almost the same height as me. He seems like someone I could spar with without me ending up a bloody mess. "Well if that's the case, I could take him on," I say, only half joking.

Elliott cranes his neck.

"What?" I mutter defensively. "You said anyone is allowed to fight in these matches."

"You have no experience. You'd get your ass kicked."

"Isn't that how you learn?"

"No," he responds shortly. "Not happening."

I steal another glance at Elliott's opponent. He looks prepared to throw himself off a ledge without bothering to look down first.

"Fine," I concede. "Another time."

"Rose—"

"Match is up," Andre interrupts. "Are you in?"

Elliott doesn't give me the chance to oppose. He takes off his jacket, revealing a blank tank top that shows off his tattoos. His muscles protrude through the thin material. He's always been a bigger guy, but I never noticed exactly how hulkish before.

Elliott and the scrawny boy meet each other in the middle of the ring. Around us, the people of the crowd lick their lips, thirsty for action. The boy lurches forward, startling Elliott as he lands a cross punch that slams into his abdomen. Elliott hits back harder. As the kid crashes to the ground, he grabs a hold of Elliott's ankle and pulls him down with him. The boy climbs on top of Elliott and throws his fist into his nose, but Elliott gets the upper hand without much struggle. He pins him to the floor. Elliott raises his fist, stopping only when the boy lets out a petrified scream.

"Stop!" the boy shouts.

The referee, Jacob, inches toward the ring, but Elliott doesn't need to be told twice. He stands up. Blue eyes stare regretfully at the damage he's caused. He's made an absolute mess of this boy without even trying.

As soon as the first person in the crowd cheers, Elliott's guilt transforms into a victorious smile. He waves to the adoring faces without missing a beat. A middle-aged man dressed in an outfit much too fancy for a mostly abandoned boxing gym passes him an envelope. Elliott slips it into the pocket of his shorts before stepping away from the ring.

"Your nose is a mess," I observe. "You need a doctor."

Bouncing on his toes, his pupils shoot across all directions of the room. He's high off of pure adrenaline. At least, I hope that's all it is.

"I'm not going to a doctor."

"Then come home with me."

Elliott blinks. I raise my brows, challenging him to protest, but he doesn't. He takes his car keys out of his pocket and leads me through the crowd. A woman holds the door open for us, while others sigh and pout at the sight of Elliott leaving.

The King nickname is appropriate. We may as well be royalty here.

"You're hurt," I declare, crossing the street and climbing into the BMW. Blood trickles from his forehead and nostrils. "You said you wouldn't fight and now you're bleeding."

Elliott laughs. He starts the car without putting on his seatbelt.

"I'm fine. Barely a scratch."

"You're deranged," I respond. "More than me, I think."

The convertible races down the empty roads. Elliot parks at his house since my father's car is in my driveway. If he catches me sneaking a boy into my room, I'll be grounded for life—and probably the afterlife, too.

"Be quiet," I whisper, guiding Elliott to the back door.

Elliott rests his index finger over his mouth. He follows me up to my bathroom, pausing in terror every time the staircase creaks. We make it to the top without my father stirring. I point toward the edge of the bathtub, trying to distract his wandering eyes from the clothes and trinkets scattered across the floor.

"Sit."

He does. I grab a pink washcloth and soak it through with warm water. I can feel Elliott's curious stare on my back as I move.

"I saw the way you looked at that boy when the match was over," I whisper.

"What?"

He builds a wall around himself, deflecting my statement with ease, but I press on. "You looked at him like you hated yourself."

"You're digging," he scoffs.

"I'm not."

He taps his fingers against his skinned kneecaps.

"It's not a bad thing," I add. "I would be afraid if you didn't feel guilty."

He's coated in so many bruises and scratches that I'm not even sure where to start. I decide on the blood dripping from his forehead since it needs the most immediate care. The cut isn't too deep, just a nail scratch, and the bleeding stops with a small amount of pressure. Elliott doesn't wince.

"Freshman year, I got involved with some stuff," he begins. "You name the drug; I was taking it."

Elliott has always been a partier. I'm pretty sure Gemma bought alcohol from him on more than one occasion sophomore year.

"I spent everything I had on drugs and drink, so I stole some of my father's money. He noticed."

He grimaces at the memory, reconfirming my suspicion that his bruises have to be from something other than fighting at Midtown—Damon's hand.

"I had to find a way to pay him back. That's when I met Andre, and he introduced me to The Ring."

I still can't believe that Andre was there tonight. All of this—The Ring, Elliott's father, Andre's involvement—feels like something I would've made up in a hallucination or a nightmare. None of it should exist. But the remains of the fresh blood from Elliott's nose and the trembling in his voice are enough for me to know that it's real. Blood this dark can't be faked.

"I got my ass kicked the first time, obviously. I begged Andre to give me another chance. I couldn't go home without the money. He let me, and I won."

I don't want to know what would've happened if he hadn't.

"My dad wanted to know where I got the money from. So, I told him about what I did."

I move the washcloth so I can see his face in its entirety. His bushy eyebrows and rounded lips are shadowed by bruises. His breathing is heavy and uneven; he smells like salt and violence and bad decisions, but I don't care.

"He told me to keep going."

Rage boils the blood in my veins at the thought of Damon encouraging his own child to risk his life. Elliott pulls out an envelope from his pocket. It's filled to the brim with money.

I gasp. "How much is that?"

Elliott cringes, as if biting down on something sour. "Doesn't matter. It all goes to my father."

I run my fingers across the green paper. All the bills are hundreds. There's enough in the envelope to cover at least the cost of my stitches and another month's worth of boxing lessons. No wonder his family has so much money.

"You didn't have to hide this from me," I say.

He shakes his head. "There's more. More than I can tell you in one night. There are layers to all of this. People in higher places that my dad is working with."

"But you want to get out?"

"I'm not sure," he admits. "It's kind of nice to have something I'm good at."

He's good at a lot of things. Saving Gemma. Telling jokes. Assisting Andre at the gym. Biology, considering he's in the advanced class and nobody talks about it. And helping me, reminding me how strong and capable I am.

"Oh," is all I say, because I'm not sure how to put all of that into words without revealing how much I've been watching him.

Gradually, I move the washcloth from his face down to the neckline of his tank. His fingers wrap around the bottom of his shirt, and he pulls it over his head, exposing his bare, battered chest. I hold my breath.

He watches steadily as I clean the remains of blood and dirt off his skin. Like the rest of his body, his chest is covered in black ink. I lock onto the detailed image of an anatomical heart on his ribs. Each line is intricately connected; the crimson blood stains make the design more realistic.

"Rose?" Elliott asks softly, bringing me out of my daze.

"Sorry," I mutter. "I like your tattoos. They seem meaningful."

He pulls up his pant leg, exposing the skin around his ankle. The word "fuck" is etched into his ankle in blue ink. I cover my hand with my mouth to keep my dad from hearing my laughter.

Elliott points to the anatomical heart. "This used to be a slice of pizza until I got it covered up."

"Somehow, I'm not surprised."

He sticks out his tongue. "Whatever."

Silence fills the space between the two of us. My hands absentmindedly dab at the cuts on his chest.

"I should get home," he mumbles. "Thanks for your help."

"Of course."

There's so much more I want to say. But I don't. And Elliott doesn't. He takes his tank with him as he slips out of my bathroom. Haltingly, I pick myself up from the floor.

If not for the stained washcloth on the counter, I could convince myself that this night never happened. That Elliott is someone I dreamt up, the ghost of a person who I might be starting to feel something real for.

But it did happen. And now I can't get him out of my head.