14. Dom

CHAPTER 14

DOM

The bell rings again, and I leave Dwayne's confused expression and Cameron's tearful eyes behind me. My vision is a little blurry, but I focus in on my opponent. He's a huge, hairy fucker with a crooked nose and a taunting laugh. He knows I'm struggling, and he knows I'm distracted.

I keep my feet planted and force Hugo to come to me, feigning more exhaustion than I actually feel. The moment he steps into my space, I sidestep him and dance around the back of him. As soon as he turns to find me again, leaving his guard open, I take the hit with my left hand. He's not prepared for it, and it lands.

Even over the sounds of the crowd and my loudly thudding heartbeat, I can hear the sickening crunch of his nose. His head snaps back, and he staggers several steps. As soon as his head drops back down, drops of blood rain down on his chest, dripping to his feet. He spits through his mouth guard, spraying it all over the mat, and lurches forward. The movement is slow and sloppy, and I'm surprised the ref hasn't called it yet. I fend off his wild punches and get him in the gut, not wanting to dole out more hits to his face if I don't have to. Hugo bends forward to guard his gut, and I spin to the side. He loses his balance and falls to the mat. He pushes himself to his feet, but the ref calls the match before he can right himself.

I leave the ring while Hugo is still loudly chewing out the ref. It was a fair fight, and he gave me a run for my money. Enough that I'm worrying how much more of a challenge Bo Hoyt is going to pose.

Dwayne is waiting for me when I climb down from the ring, holding out a towel and ready to take my mouth guard. Cam is standing just behind him, wide eyes red and splotchy from his tears. I give him the closest thing to a wink I can manage with my swollen eye, and we head to the back. Pre-approved press and a few fans are waiting just outside the locker rooms. I ignore any questions regarding my personal life and field a few questions about my readiness to fight Bo in just a few short weeks. I keep it light and positive, and when it's getting to be too much, Dwayne is there to move us along.

After I've showered, I walk out to find Cam waiting in the locker room alone.

"Dwayne went to pull the car around back and see what he can do about any straggling reporters," he explains.

I nod and look away from Cam, pretending I don't notice the way his eyes trace down my naked chest. I've been working hard these past couple of weeks to act normally around him, but it's near impossible. I may or may not have resorted to doing things to get his attention on purpose. Like never wearing a shirt and flexing the muscles that have emerged from the shrinking layer of fat I've built up over the last decade or picking him up whenever I find any semblance of a reason to. Because playful teasing never hurt anyone, right?

Keeping my back to the rest of the room, because I'm not trying to tease Cam by taking his eye out, I let my towel drop to the ground. Not daring to peek over my shoulder to see Cam's reaction to my bare ass, I pull on a pair of sweatpants and a tank. When I turn back around, though, Cam isn't even looking at me. He's studying his nails and chewing his lip, looking worried.

I walk over to him and pull his hand away, looking down at his gnarled fingers. One of them is bleeding around the edges. I have the overwhelming urge to put it in my mouth to soothe away the pain, but he doesn't seem like he's in a playful mood and I don't want to go too far.

"Are you okay?"

"Not really." His eyes look darker, more gold than green, behind a sheen of tears. His gaze sticks on my still-swelling eye, and I nod understandingly.

"This is nothing," I assure him. "It'll look better in the morning."

"At least there's going to be a morning," I hear him mutter under his breath.

I don't get to ask him about it, though, because Dwayne calls and hurries us to get in the car while the coast is clear.

Dwayne drops me off on their way home.Despite my physical exhaustion, I stay up late into the night, hoping I might hear music come from the studio. I suppose it's too much to hope that he'd come to me.

Does he know how much his words lit a fire under me tonight? If only he meant that he wanted to go home with me.

Dwayne: Meet me in my office before you head out for your run.

The moment I get his text, I drop everything and run downstairs. Dwayne isn't usually here this early, so it must be important. Which means he either got another fight set up for me last minute, or he heard back about the surveillance footage from Solace. It’s been days, and I’ve been on pins and needles.

"Your contact get back to you?"

Dwayne startles, looking up from his phone. His gaze tracks over my disheveled form. I'm wearing compression shorts, no shirt, I'm barefoot, and I'm still holding my toothbrush. My black eye from the fight is still discolored, but the swelling has gone down. I don't care what I look like right now, though. I want to know if his contact was able to get us the security footage of whatever happened to Cam the night he was drugged.

"Yeah, actually. I got an email this morning. I thought you'd want to watch it with me."

I nod and drag a chair around his desk to sit next to him. He opens the email and gestures for me to take a look.

D,

Here's the footage you were looking for. Video only, no audio. I had it cut down to the parts with your stepson.

Let me know what you want to do with it. I didn't exactly get the sign-off from the owner, so if you want to use it as evidence or report anything, let me know first so it can be official.

FB

That can't be good. I nod to Dwayne to open the video file, holding my breath as it loads.

The footage starts at the front entrance of the club, where Alistar's town car pulls up to the valet. The asshole gets out of the car, still tucking his junk back into his pants, and makes a show out of zipping his pants and straightening his clothes. The knowing grin he's giving the people waiting for him to arrive fills me with rage so hot, I start to sweat. He bends to look in the car, as if he's coaxing out a stubborn child. Finally, Cam emerges, and he looks like he's been crying. My jaw clenches. His eyes are wet and his lips are puffy, which, given how Alistar was just acting, I can guess what from. He also looks upset, like that fucker said or did something to him that he didn’t like.

Cam follows Alistar inside the building, and then the footage switches to them in an elevator. Cam is standing towards the back, arms crossed in front of him. Alistar places a hand on the elevator wall and leans over Cam, coaxing his arms apart with his free hand. Both hands come down on Cam's shoulders, Alistar saying something to him while fixing his shirt, unbuttoning the top few buttons and arranging the lapel to his liking. He taps Cam's chin before turning to face the elevator door as it opens.

The next feed is on the bar's rooftop terrace. Most, if not all, of the dancers from De Pointe Elite are there. My body relaxes a little that I'm no longer being subjected to watching Cam and Alistar alone, until I remember that something happened to him while he was around all those people. I watch the small crowd clap as Alistar steps off the elevator, Cam following a step behind. His face is a blank mask of polite indifference, letting Alistar lead him through the crowd to greet the partygoers. Other than his main dance partner, Marissa, no one bothers to greet or congratulate Cam, which annoys me because he was the star of the show. I may be biased, but he also got the loudest applause and a standing ovation after the performances. The audience loves him. But everyone here is focused on Alistar.

There's about an hour of footage of Cam standing silently beside Alistar that we fast forward through. Other than Marissa kissing him on the cheek before she leaves, he doesn't draw attention to himself or attempt to join in any conversations. At some point, he walks towards the bar. He leans forward to say something to the bartender, but a girl taps his arm and then pulls him into the small group that's standing just beside the bar. Cam looks surprised and uncomfortable, but he relaxes as the conversation goes on around him. He doesn't speak, but laughs when the others do. And when a guy starts handing out drinks, he accepts one. I want to reach through the screen and snatch it away from him when he takes a small sip after they do a toast.

The footage flips back and forth through multiple views of the drinks being handed out. We see a clip of one of the male dancers presumably ordering the drinks, and even behind the bar footage of the bartender making the cocktails. There's nothing obvious that would suggest any of the drinks are drugged, other than Cam being the last to receive his. The same male dancer that ordered the drinks passes him a glass, smiling as he holds up his own to start the toast.

After the toast, Cam mostly just holds the drink, probably to look sociable. He nibbles at the orange slice and cherries that garnish the glass and takes small sips now and then.

The change in his demeanor comes minutes later. The small crowd of people all seem to be giving him their undivided attention. Cam is blushing, but then lifts his hand and snaps, and everyone laughs, including Cam, though it doesn’t look sincere. His fake smile drops when a petite woman next to him says something. They go back and forth for a minute, and I desperately wish we could get audio of the conversation, because I want to know what they're talking about that has him getting so riled up. Finally, he tips the drink back and takes a gulp, then grimaces and decides better of it and places it on a table.

He stumbles a little as he walks away, looking upset. He's got one hand on his flat stomach, pushing himself up on his toes to look around, presumably looking for Alistar. He shakes his head like he's clearing it, then walks to the door. The camera angle changes again, this time showing us a view of the inside of the club. In the background, the door opens, and Cam immediately heads down a hallway to his left. He disappears, but the footage doesn't change right away, making me nervous that we won’t see everything. Five or so people come through the door before the camera view changes to show Cam walking down a dark hallway. He looks especially out of it with the night vision effect of the camera. He's swaying back and forth, looking down at his phone.

Two of the men that entered the club after him close in on him but stay far enough back that he doesn't notice them right away. One of them touches his back, and he face plants into the wall. He reels, trying to look around to see who pushed him, but he ends up steading himself on the wall to get his bearings. He holds his phone up again, and I suppose that's when he was calling me. Before he can even bring the phone to his ear, the assholes are back. The larger of the guys pushes him hard, and he crashes into a dark corner where the camera can't see. What we can see is two of what I’m sure are his coworkers throwing their drinks at him and spitting on him before they look behind them. The footage changes again to a view from the other hallway. It's not close up enough to see Cam's features, but he's crumpled on the ground. The people standing around him walk away, and then a second later Alistar is standing over him. Cam tries to sit up, but then his body lurches, and he vomits all over himself before slumping back onto the wall. Alistar takes several steps back when Cam gets sick, avoiding the spray with a wild gesture of disgust. When Cam is no longer moving, Alistar steps close again and nudges him with his foot. Then he looks down at the small, glowing rectangle that must be Cam's phone, and picks it up. He taps it once, then goes back to staring down at Cam before tapping on the phone some more and then throwing it in Cam's lap.

I shake my head, watching Alistar step back and take several photos of Cam before leaving him there, in a pool of vomit and whatever drinks were thrown on him. The footage follows Alistar back to the rooftop bar, where he rejoins the party like nothing happened. Then the camera view returns to where Cam is passed out in the hallway. An employee finds him there and gestures to another bouncer. They try to get Cam to stand, but he tips to the side. They end up carrying Cam by his arms and feet onto the elevator, out the side of the building to avoid the line of people waiting to get in, and then dump him out front where I eventually found him. Meanwhile, Alistar and the assholes that did this to him were still upstairs partying and having a good time.

Kicking back the chair I was sitting in, I start pacing Dwayne's office. "Tell your guy to do what he needs to make this official. It needs to be reported."

Dwayne leans back in his desk chair. "I don't know if there's enough here to prove anything other than Alistar and every other person we saw on that video is a monumental asshole. We didn't see the drink being drugged. Nothing we saw there would be more than a slap on the wrist. All it proves is that Cam has shitty friends and a shittier boyfriend. But I do think maybe he should see it."

"Cam knew Alistar left him there to rot, and he still stayed with him."

"Seeing it and being told are two very different animals," Dwayne says.

He's right. Whatever excuses Alistar came up with won't stand once Cam can see for himself how callously Alistar treated him before leaving him like that, with zero regard for his health or safety.

There's a gallery area where parents can sit and watch their kids take classes at the community center where Cam works. I knew I'd catch him here. Cora told me that today is the orientation for his spring and summer ballet class when she dropped in to have lunch with Dwayne.

Most of the parents are in the small studio with their kids, going over what they'll need and learning the basic positions to practice at home. There are three other men in the gallery with me. I'm assuming they're dads that didn't want to participate. Before coming back home, I wouldn't have thought anything of it. It'd seem normal and maybe even reasonable to me. Now I have the urge to roll my eyes at their fragile masculinity. I keep it to myself, but I don't do as well holding my tongue when they start talking shit.

"Did you see that little boy in there?"

"Yeah, man. You wouldn't catch my son in a class like this."

"Shit, I can't believe they're letting a guy teach this shit. I wouldn't let a guy like that around my son."

One of them snickers. "We sure he's a guy? He's awful perdy."

"He's probably wearing makeup. That's how they are now. You know, because he's a?—"

"A great teacher," I interject before I'm subjected to however he was about to end that sentence. It's in his best interest that I don't hear what he was about to say.

I make sure to convey my seriousness very clearly when I turn around to glare at the guy, sitting there smug, looking like he hasn't showered in a week. I turn to glare at the rest of the room, staring down these mediocre, sorry excuses for men.

"Holy shit. You're Domenick Connor," the guy in a trucker hat says.

Khaki pants guy looks up from his phone. "The boxer?"

"Well goddamn, I think you're right," Pigpen says, eyes lighting up like I wasn't two seconds from telling him off.

They all start talking so fast, I can barely keep up with who is saying what. I almost regret opening my mouth and drawing attention to myself.

"Can we get an autograph?" I ignore that completely.

"I heard a rumor you've been making the circuits around ATL." That gets a raised eyebrow. "Good to know you didn’t just up and disappear.”

"Nah, man. Dom Connor wouldn't run from a fight."

"But what are you doing back here, though? Shouldn’t you be off in Vegas or wherever all the good fightin’ is?"

Finally, they shut up, and all three of them turn in my direction to wait for an answer. Khaki pants guy is taking pictures with his cellphone down by his leg like he thinks he's being sneaky.

What a bunch of fucking idiots. I suppose I have a chance to teach them a little lesson.

"I'm just hoping to get a word in with my trainer when he's through with class."

They all crane their necks to look through the window. There are two dads in the room, standing back against the wall. None of them are doing the exercises with the kids. Other than them, Cam is the only he in the room. I'm finding it both amusing and annoying that they're checking out the dads as my possible trainer instead of Cam.

"Like I said, he's a great teacher."

"The dance teacher?"

"That's what I said."

One of the guys starts laughing, but stops when no one joins in.

"What's he training you on exactly?"

"Ballet," I say, like it should be obvious. I'll give him this one. It’s not like it’s obvious by looking at me, and they all know I'm a boxer. "It's a great training tool for sports. Good for balance, flexibility, strength."

"Strength, really?" Pigpen snorts.

"Yeah, I said the same thing. Then I got shown up. That kid right there," I point to Cam, "is guaranteed the strongest guy here."

They'd be more offended if I wasn't sitting right in front of them, wearing a gym tank that exposes my arms. Is it weird that I want to flex just to make a point?

"Stronger than you?"

"In more ways than one," I reply, but it comes out weird and I don't need these creeps asking questions. "You ever seen a man do one handed handstand pushups, without anything to support him? He's got more muscle control and core strength than anyone I've ever met. Ballet dancers are hardcore."

Done talking to these idiots, I turn back around to watch Cam. He clearly loves teaching, and he's good at it. All the little kids are watching him carefully, and following his lead. He's patient with them and smiles even when they get it wrong. He's in his element here, just as much as he is on stage.

Ater the class is over, the three guys approach me again for autographs. I only agree because I don't want there to be any chance of complaints getting back to Cam, and I even stand there and let them take selfies with me. I have a feeling I'm going to regret not keeping my mouth shut.

"You did what?!"

Cam is unsurprisingly upset that I told Dwayne about what happened at the party. More than upset, he's livid.

"I didn't know what to do, and Dwayne always?—"

"What you do is let me handle it!" he yells, throwing his arms up in the air.

"And exactly how are you handling it?! By letting him off the hook? By letting him prance you around and tell you what to do? What kind of man lets his boyfriend be treated like that and then just leaves him there?"

"My relationship is none of your business!"

But I'm not hearing it. There's pressure building inside me, crowding in with all the stress and weird feelings and worry over someone who clearly has zero self-preservation skills.

"No. I want to hear how you're handling it.By letting him fuck you? Humiliate you? Degrade you? Is that what you're into, Cam?"

"Stop!"

The sting of his palm over my cheek hurts more than any blow I've ever taken. Not physically. It’s something else. This hurts on a deeper level.

"How fucking dare you?" he says, eyes welling with tears.

My fingers touch the buzzing skin where his hand just was, and then my chest, where the pain radiated to. My shoulders slump.

This time when I speak, it's softer. "Why do you let him hurt you?"

"I…" he hesitates. "I don't know."

"You deserve?—"

"You don't know anything about what I deserve, Dom."

"You deserve a lot of things. But more than anything, you deserve respect. From yourself most of all." I continue. "You deserve better than this."

I toss a flash drive at him and walk away.

The seedy bar hasn't changed since I was young and still new on the scene. I never fought here myself. My dad was too concerned with keeping my nose clean, but I snuck in to see him fight a few times. It was a good way to walk away with a pocket full of cash back in those days, and my dad used it as supplemental income. There was more than one night he'd come home empty-handed and with more than his fair share of bruises, but he always laughed it off and said that losing one now and then kept it interesting, and he'd always make more on the next fight he won.

I don't know what I'm doing here, other than I have too much frustrated energy to work out than a punching bag can take.

When I approach the bar and the bartender asks what he can make me, I shake my head and cast a furtive glance at the stairs that lead downstairs. That's where the fights used to be held, but that was years ago, and I can't be sure if they're still running them. The bartender looks me up and down before giving me a clipped nod. He hands me a bottle of water with a black X drawn on the bottom and indicates that's how I'll get in. Back in the day it was something similar, so I'm not too surprised.

The bouncer at the bottom of the stairs barely looks at my "credentials," knowing just by looking at me what I'm here for. He opens the door for me, and I walk into a dimly lit basement. Patrons are circled around a clearing in the middle of the floor, where the sounds of bare knuckles meeting flesh can be heard all the way over to where I'm standing. An older woman sitting behind a bar that runs the length of the room beckons me over.

"You fighting or watching?"

"Fighting," I answer, hoping I sound more sure of myself than I feel.

She gives me a calculating look, and then charges me fifty bucks to participate. After she points out who to give my pass to so I can get on the list to fight, I turn to face my fate.

I'm man enough to admit that I've had it pretty good. Fighting isn't the easiest way to make a living, but for the most part, every fight I've ever been in has been sanctioned, with referees and medics on standby. This is different. These fights are ruthless, no holds barred, and there are very few, if any, rules. The so-called ref is the same guy that matches up the fights and takes the bets, and if he's anything like the guy that took bets when my father fought here, he's as slimy as they come.

I'm not here to win money, though. I'm here to throw hard punches and dodge blows that would otherwise get a fighter banned from the ring. I'm here to condition myself for the level of ruthlessness I'm expecting from Bo "The Red Rebel" Hoyt.

I'm here to forget about green eyes and long limbs and the look of disappointment he seems permanently saddled with.

My first fight is sad. Almost comical, even. I feel bad for the guy when my first punch of the night sends him straight to the ground. The room of spectators is hushed for several long moments while I look up at the fight master. A grin breaks out across his yellowed teeth, and he calls for the floor to be cleared. A couple guys step forward to drag the unconscious body away from the floor in front of me, and then a number is called out.

The moment I stepped into the crowd of people and saw the behemoth that is now stepping into the circle, I had a feeling I'd be pitted up against him. I was actually surprised when the other guy was called in with me, but he was closer to my size. This man is only a couple inches taller than me, but easily has a hundred pounds on me. He's not as built as I am, but the gut he's sporting looks solid, and I have a feeling he doesn't lose often.

Lo and behold, he's announced as their undefeated champion, making a big deal out of asking if I'm sure I want to go forward. I could collect my measly earnings from my easy win and walk out now. Or I can face the beast of a man staring at me like I'm the one that made him so ugly.

I shake my head at the game master and give Ogre an up nod. Bring it, buddy.

Fighting by a clear set of rules puts me at an immediate disadvantage. This isn't about fighting style or keeping things clean and above the belt. This is about doing whatever it takes to get your opponent on the ground and beat him unconscious. Good luck tapping out, either. You either win, or you wake up bloody. And in my case, a knockout could come with a price. So I have to get with the program real quick.

I spend most of the fight dancing around the bigger fighter, dodging and pissing him off with little jabs to his torso and kidneys. There aren't any rounds to be called or breaks to be had, so it's not long before I'm winded and sweating. But by then, the other guy is struggling to keep up. I can't help but grin, almost wishing Cam could see me putting all his training to work. I bob and weave and spin around the big guy without feeling dizzy myself even once.

There's a moment where I think I overhear my name being said in the crowd, and I falter. My opponent is quick to take advantage, and clocks me hard. His knuckles glance off my jaw, snapping my face to the side. Blood and spit fly into the crowd that is closing in around us. I stumble to the side enough that the crowd actually pushes me back in to be caught by "Big Eddy," chanting his name as they do. I take a knee to my gut and heave over while Big Eddy takes a moment to cater to his crowd. They all yell out ways to put me down, each more brutal than the next. His hesitance is just enough for me to work up to sucking a tiny bit of air into my lungs, and I'm able to dodge him as he comes rushing at me. He takes out a member of the crowd before he gets back to his feet to face me again.

After running at me two more times in an attempt to bulldoze me over, he changes tactics and kicks his leg out to trip me. I've been waiting for him to do something to try to catch me off guard, so I'm able to jump back to miss his leg. He ends up over-extending to reach me and falls to a knee. I should probably take the shot now, but I wait until he clamors up before I go for the kill. I'm in his guard, throwing punches as fast and hard as I can, driving him back through the crowd until his back is against the bar. Once he's stunned enough to drop his hands completely, I throw three quick jabs at the center of his face, before uppercutting him hard enough that he falls backwards, and the back of his head hits the bar on his way down.

Putting my hands up in front of me, I step back and let the game master check on his fighter. A pulse check and some smelling salts later, the big guy is on his feet and actually laughing maniacally at being beaten. I feel more in danger when he picks me up in a big bear hug than I did when I was fighting him.

The game master begrudgingly hands me a wad of money, which I set on the bar in front of the guy I knocked out in the first match before I walk out.

A woman in a short, tight dress approaches me as I'm making my way upstairs again, and for the briefest moment, I consider falling back into old patterns just to keep my mind on something other than the troubles that are plaguing me, but I’m just not interested.

She's not him.