12. Dom

CHAPTER 12

DOM

When we said we'd pretend nothing happened, I didn't think that would mean pretending we barely know each other. Even before we crossed the line, we were growing close as friends. Or at least I thought we were, but ever since I saw Alistar escorting Cam out of the studio and into his town car, he's been cold and distant. Our training sessions have been cut in half and shortened because of his increased rehearsal schedule, which I understand, but I know it's more than that. He's purposefully avoiding me, shutting me out.

It took everything in me not to punch that bastard so hard he'd forget he ever met Cameron Stevens. I can't imagine what kind of excuse he conjured up to make Cam forgive him, but the look of mortification on his face when I stepped out into the hallway and saw them together gave me the idea that I'm the excuse.

Cam probably forgave him because he feels guilty about being with me. I’m an idiot if I ever thought he would leave Alistar, whether it was because of his actions or because of mine. If anything, I just threw him further into his arms. What's worse, Cam refused to get himself drug tested, which means he can't report the crime and have it looked into.

Maybe it’s not my business. Maybe I should leave it alone. But I can’t. I can’t let go of these feelings that have thrown me so off balance since the moment I locked eyes on him.

I know this whole thing is fucked up, and wrong in so many ways. He’s so young. He’s Dwayne’s stepson. The fact that he’s a man is honestly low on the list of things to worry about.

It’s just… him. There’s something about him that speaks to my vital organs in a way that I didn’t know was possible. It’s visceral. And the need to protect him is overwhelming.

"Whoa! Dom! Slow down there, brother!"

A hand touches my shoulder, and I instinctively flinch back, ready to turn and fight. Dwayne holds up his hands like he's settling a wild beast. A wave of dizziness overtakes me, and I have to bend over and rest my hands on my knees, letting my breaths and heart rate slow down. The dizziness recedes, but not completely.

One of the other guys, an upcoming middleweight fighter named Kody, comes to stand by the bag I was just taking my frustrations out on. "You alright, man?" I look up to see him staring at the bag, which is steadily leaking sand.

Dwayne shakes his head, gesturing for me to stand up. "Come on, Dom. Let's go back to my office and ice your knuckles."

Choosing to ignore Dwayne murmuring something to Kody under his breath as I walk towards his office, I push inside and plop down hard on the sofa.

"Don't take my couch out too," Dwayne says, wincing at the sound of the furniture protesting.

"Sorry," I grumble, trying to get my bearings.

"It'll be alright," he says soothingly, sounding like our mother. I resist rolling my eyes when he nudges me to sit up and takes the spot next to me, reaching to unwrap my hands.

"I'm fine." Except the room is spinning.

"Clearly. You wanna talk about it?"

"Nope."

"How about you do it, anyway?"

I watch as he removes the wraps from both my hands, feeling around my knuckles. I don't feel any pain, but then again, I can barely feel anything right now.

"You'll be bruised, but I don't think you did any lasting damage." There's a knock at the door, and Kody steps inside with a small stack of ice packs.

"Thanks," I say to his back as he leaves. He gives me a short nod before closing the door behind him, leaving me alone with my brother again.

Dwayne waits expectantly for me to start talking while he wraps the ice bags around my knuckles, which are already starting to swell. I might not feel it now, but I have a feeling I will later. I'll have to give my hands a rest for the remainder of the week if I want to make it to the fight next weekend. I was feeling pretty good about it, but these last few days some of my old symptoms have been creeping back up. I keep hoping it's a fluke and that I can push through it, but maybe I'm overdoing it. I don't want to admit that I have limits—apparently physically and emotionally. Who knew?

Dwayne's eyes meet mine, their dark color the only trait we share, inherited from our mother. His look kind and concerned, where I tend to come off gruff and unfeeling. I try to play on that now, but it doesn't work on my brother. We might have spent the last ten years apart, but he's always been able to see through me.

"What's got you so upset, little bro?"

I lift an eyebrow at him, but this time he doesn't laugh or joke around with me. He's serious, leaning back on the edge of his desk, arms crossed and staring me down.

"I think the pressure is just getting to me," I say, keeping it simple and to the point.

"Nah, something's changed. Last week you were thriving and making huge improvements. Now you're moodier than you were when you first arrived, and you're making mistakes because of it. Mistakes that could get you hurt."

"I just need to slow down a little?—"

"This isn't physical, Dom. This is mental. Something's crawled up your ass. Either you're going to start seeing a therapist, or you're going to talk it out. Tell me what's been bothering you."

What do I even say? How do I say I've developed a crushing obsession with your stepson and he's ghosting me without hurting my relationship with my brother and his wife, but also without telling Cam's secrets?

"Has Cam been home much?" I blurt.

Not exactly a smooth avoidance of the subject, dumbass.

He frowns. "No, but we rarely see him during the rehearsal period before a new production."

"But is he sleeping at home?"

Dwayne's forehead wrinkles. "Not that I've noticed, but he's an adult. He doesn't need me checking in on him."

"You sure about that?"

"Dom, what are you getting at?"

"I don't like that Alistar guy."

"Emile? He's kind of pretentious, but if Cameron's happy?—"

"That’s the thing. I don't think he is. And I think Alistar is bad news."

"How so?" I can't tell if Dwayne is placating me or picking up on my concerns.

I worry my bottom lip, unsure of how to proceed. How pissed is Cam going to be when he finds out I broke and told his stepdad anything at all? I'm kind of cornered here, though. I’ve been worrying over this issue so much that it'd be nice to get another perspective on it. Dwayne is a lot more level-headed than I've ever been.

"Look, he's an adult. His age has nothing to do with this, and I know he can take care of himself, but—" I pause again, trying to work out how to word what happened at the after party without giving away my part in it.

"Are you worried about the age difference between him and Emile? Because I don't think it matters that much." He reads my expression wrong. "What? It's only ten years, and it's not like he's a teenager. Like you said, he's an adult."

Hysterical laughter threatens to bubble up from the depths of my churning stomach. My face is suddenly burning. So much so that I raise one of the ice packs to my heated forehead.

"That's not it," I assure him. "He, uh… Well, he acts like he owns Cam and treats him like a fucking show dog. Sit, stay, speak." Dwayne's head cocks. "But the real problem is what happened last weekend."

"Last weekend? At the show?"

I shake my head. "The afterparty. I think Cam got roofied, and Alistar did fuck all to help him."

Dwayne stares at me blankly for several moments before uncrossing his arms and walking around his desk. He takes his seat, runs a hand over this face, and then leans forward on his elbows. "He did what now?"

"Cam called me around ten thirty. All I could hear was background noise. I wasn't sure if he called by accident or if he dropped his phone or what. I'm not sure what I was hearing or what was my imagination, because I thought he might be hurt or something, but I know I heard Alistar. I kind of lost my shit when the phone disconnected. I called back, but there was no answer. Then a text came through with an address." I look up at my brother, not hiding my seething tone. "Whoever was with him just dumped him outside." I give Dwayne a pointed look so he knows exactly who I mean when I say whoever . "I found him passed out on the sidewalk and covered in puke. He was completely out of it."

"And you think Emile was with him?"

"I'm almost positive it was him that sent the text with the address. And I know I heard his voice on the phone."

I jump out of my seat, tearing the ice packs away from my hands as I pace his office.

"That fucker dumped him like trash on the sidewalk, Dwayne."

He's too quiet.

"For fuck's sake, Dwayne! How are you so calm?"

"I'm trying to find the right words…"

"Unless the words are that you know someone who can take his kneecaps out before I do it myself?—"

"Calm the fuck down, Dom."

"I can't calm down! He's with that piece of shit, Dwayne. The guy that left him. Anything could have happened!"

"I don't disagree that Cam being left alone and passed out outside is a huge problem, but why do you think he was drugged? Not that it would excuse any of this—because it doesn't—but it wouldn't be the first time Cam has overdone it with the partying. It's been a long time since it's been an issue, or at least one that's been brought to our attention. Cora and I actually thought it was Emile that was responsible for the one eighty he's done."

"He rarely drinks at all anymore, and he said he drank less than the one drink he was given."

Dwayne rubs his fingers over the stubble on his chin. "What was the name of the club?"

" The one with the rooftop bar. Solace? "

"Alright. Let me make some calls."

"What are you going to do?"

He's already looking through his phone contacts. "See if anyone I know has the connections to get their hands on the security footage from that night. We'll find out what really happened and go from there."

Dwayne gestures for me to close the door behind myself, so I leave him to make his calls and go for a run to get some of this nervous energy out. If I don't do something productive, I might make worse decisions, like busting my knuckles on a certain someone's skull instead of a punching bag. The run soothes me some, but after an hour, I find myself standing in front of the De Pointe Elite building, looking up at the floor to ceiling windows that take up the entire top floor. I can almost make out the movement of dancers practicing, and I sit on a bench, watching the vague shapes and wondering which of them might be Cam. He doesn't tell me about his day anymore, about what parts of the choreography he's struggling with, or which impossible leaps are imperceptibly imperfect. I don't get to watch him practice until his eyes are heavy and his movements are sluggish. He hasn't come to the studio at night in over a week.

I’m suffocating without him. Fiending like an addict, down to the incessant itch under my skin because I physically need to be close to him.

My phone pings, pulling me out of my head.

Dwayne: A buddy of mine came through and has an in with the bar manager. I'll keep you posted.

Me: Thanks

Dwayne: He's my stepson. I'm not about to let anything bad happen to him.

Dwayne: Dinner at the house tonight? Cora found some old photo books. Might be fun to go through them together.

Me: Alright, sounds good. See you later.

Dwayne: Love you, bro.

Me: Yeah, yeah

"Holy shit. Do you remember this?"

Dwayne pulls a photo from the album he's been looking through and holds it up. We must have been around eight and nine years old. It was Halloween, and we'd made our own Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles costumes. We'd drawn abs and turtle shells on old t-shirts and wore the elbow and knee pads that we never wore while rollerblading. We're posing for the camera, Dwayne with his toilet paper roll nunchucks, and me with an old broom handle, squatted down in our best fighting positions.

"Man, we thought we were so bad," I laugh. "Please tell me there's a picture of your busted nose after we got carried away rough housing."

Dwyane flips another page, and sure enough, there's Dwayne with his homemade purple mask and blood covering the bottom half of his face. Despite the damage to his face, we were still smiling, holding up peace signs with one hand and pillowcases full of candy with the other.

"Good times."

I snort, but he's not wrong. Back then, life seemed so simple. Mom and Dad struggled to make ends meet, but we were happy and completely oblivious to just how hard it was to keep the lights on and food on the table. Mom worked as a secretary at a temp agency, where my father got most of his part-time jobs. He was a boxer like me, had gotten his start while enlisted in the Army. After serving, he worked at an auto manufacturing plant, picking up matches at a local boxing club on the weekends. He started getting pretty popular locally, bringing home good money for winning fights. Until he knocked out an off-duty police officer.

In a staggering coincidence, he was arrested by that very same officer not two weeks later. My dad was the most strait-laced guy anyone knew, had never touched a drug in his life. It was obvious to everyone around him that the evidence was planted, but he couldn’t prove it. It was his word against an officer of the law.

Thanks to good behavior and being a first-time offender, he didn’t end up serving the entire six-year conviction, but he was different when he came home. Still loving, but less animated, more withdrawn. Because of his record, suddenly no one would hire him. He still made money fighting when things got really tight, but he didn't do it for the love of the sport anymore. He did it because he had to.

Still, some of my favorite memories are him teaching us to box in the backyard. And when I showed interest and even the slightest bit of talent, he trained with me every day. He was in my corner during my first fight, my first amateur title, and helped me go through all the motions to join a professional boxing league.

Dwayne passes me a picture of the two of them standing on the ropes behind me during one of my first professional fights.He didn’t make it to my first championship fight, but I still had my brother.

"You should keep that one."

I nod my thanks, staring at the picture in silence for a long time.

"What do you think Dad would say about this comeback fight?"

"You know what he'd say: You've got it in you, kid. Just remember, if you get knocked down, you get back up. No matter what, you get back up ." He does a perfect impression of our dad's low, gruff voice and thick Georgia accent.

I don't have to look at my brother to know he's remembering the day our father didn’t get up. And I know he’s thinking about the day I almost didn’t. I don't need to look at him to know that he's wondering, not for the first time, if it's worth it.

The longer I'm back home, the more I wonder if my name or reputation actually mean anything to me anymore. But it feels important. Like vindication for everything we’ve been through, for what my father went through. I want respect back on the Connor name, but I also want to do this for Dwayne, for his business and his family. Not that he doesn't have enough money—he made a lot of smart investments with the money we made in my heyday. But training me back into fighting shape, getting me out in that ring, and having his fighter come out on top when no one thinks I can do it would put his gym on the map. He could franchise or expand the management side of his business. And then we could both see our dad's name get the recognition he deserved.

I won't go out like he did.