Page 48 of Keep Me

“We’ll find another way—”1

He pulls me between his knees, his hands roving down my hips with a tenderness that makes my eyes prick with hot tears. When his eyes come back to mine, there’s a distant sadness in the blue, but it’s gone in a flash and is replaced with a grim laugh. “And tapping out isn’t an option, little menace.”

My heart skips with a sickening realization. “You mean…”

He rolls his neck from side to side, stretching the muscles. “If I’m not walking off that stage as the winner, I’m not walking off at all.”

My throat feels halved in size as I try to swallow down the truth. Turns out I can’t stomach it, and shake my head vehemently instead. “No, no. We can call your brothers, I’ll call my father, and they’ll get us out of here.”

He grabs me by the wrists, stopping my hands from wildly gesticulating. “This whole block is jammed. No calls are getting in or out.”

“You’re up.” A guard pops his head inside the door.

This time when we walk through the crowd, I don’t hesitate to hold his hand. I don’t think about the dead women or the Warden or what happens when this is all over. All I think about is how perfectly my hand fits inside of his and how right it feels to not shy away from a future that may never come.

When we reach the bottom of the stage steps, I stop him and cradle his face with my shaking hands. So many things run through my head. I want to tell him that if he gets himself killed, I'll kill him myself. I want him to know that if this is the last moment we have together, I will thank a god I haven’t talked to in years for the time we did have together. That he’s never felt more like mine than right now when I might lose him. Instead I say, “I’ll be waiting right here when you win.”

The guard urges him along and I stretch on my toes, pulling his face to mine for what I realize will be our first kiss and very well might be our last. His hands on my waist hold me back before I get the chance. “See you soon, Cortez.”

The first words he ever spoke to me echo again as he turns his back to climb to the stage, and I think a small piece of me cracks inside.

The biggest, burliest man I’ve ever seen walks on from the other side of the stage. He’s a goddamn mountain with a beard. His fists are almost as big as Roan’s head.

A man in a suit stands in the center, adjusting his tie before speaking into a microphone. “Along with Gora”—he holds a hand out toward the giant—“Lady Luck is participating in this fight!” The crowd goes crazy over his announcement, and I look around, confused.

“Each fighter will roll a pair of dice. Whoever rolls the highest gets his first choice of weapon.” He swipes his hand out, and a woman dressed in a skimpy version of the priestess’s purple dress circles the stage, showing off a tray of items.

A machete. A mallet. A length of steel chain. An axe.

I feel dizzy, and my heart is racing so fast that jitters wrack my body.

“If either fighter rolls snake eyes, Lady Luck has looked unfavorably upon him. He will have to forfeit his right to a weapon.”

I fight the urge to scream, glancing up to the Oracle in her chair. She drums her talon-like nails on one arm of the chair while raising a golden goblet to her lips. Eccentric, sadistic bitch.

The woman with the tray of weapons walks up to Roan’s opponent with a smaller silver tray. The referee huddles around him as he plucks two dice from the tray before shaking them in his giant fist. The crowd holds a collective breath, the buzzing space falling eerily quiet. So quiet that, when he releases the dice, you can hear them clatter onto the metal tray.

“And he rolls a three!” the ref shouts into the microphone, and excited yells shatter the silence.

A three. I inhale my first full breath since leaving the room with the safety deposit boxes. Roan’s odds of rolling higher are good. Really good.

A hushed quiet falls over the crowd again as Roan rolls, and optimism pulses through me.

“Snake eyes!” My body is rocked like I’ve been sucker punched. The other fighter pounds his chest and roars, then pumps his fist into the air. The ring girl lets him peruse the tray of weapons, and I can’t breathe as he picks. He lifts the axe above his head, and nausea knocks at the back of my throat.

I recall the body of a murder victim from a few years ago. Killed with an axe, their body was broken in ways I’d never seen before. Unlike a stab wound, an axe shatters the bone as it cleaves through skin and muscle, splintering the human body like a block of wood.

I try to focus on Roan, alive and whole...for now.

He bounces lightly on his toes, his black jeans slung low on his hips, and he rolls his shoulders up and down. His back piece is extra haunting under the harsh lights trained on the stage.

“To your corners until the bell.” The announcer points to opposite corners, waits until each fighter is in one, and then hustles off the stage as the cage is lowered.

The sound of the heavy metal sinks into the pit of my stomach as I realize they’re not lifting the cage someone is dead. A bell rings out, and the air is snatched from my lungs. Both men stalk slowly toward the center. Gora’s eyes are big and wide as he licks his lips like an animal salivating at the sight of his prey.

They circle each other, neither making a move, and the crowd jeers for action. Gora lunges with a roar, swinging the axe in a broad stroke. Roan just barely sidesteps his attack. When his opponent is barely past him, he spins and slams the butt of the axe between Roan’s shoulder blades.

Roan flies to the ground. Unlike a boxing ring, the stage is hard and unforgiving. My own heart skips a beat seeing him facedown, but he quickly scrambles back onto his feet, shaking out his shoulders.

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