Page 1 of The Alpha: Part Two
Chapter one
Desie
“Will you be watching from your room, Miss Romero? Or would you rather join us in the den?” Alpha Flores’s words swirl around me like dirty water, renewing my despair.
I don’t want to watch Michael fight. Lopez has assured me several times that Michael is very good; but if he gets hurt in the ring, I'm going to throw up all over this very expensive carpet. The need to watch the fight to see for myself that Michael will be okay is warring with my intense revulsion at the thought of seeing him get hurt.
Of course, I'm going to watch. I couldn't possibly abandon him, even if he'll never know that I was watching. I'd just rather fall apart without an audience. “I'll watch in my room," I say quietly.
He nods as if he understands how I must be feeling and gives me a small smile. "We'll be right in the den if you need us," he says, and I force my face to remain neutral. Need them? There isn't a world in which I wouldeverneed them. "I'll have James bring you some snacks a little later," he continues.
I'm pretty sure my snarling scowl is plain to see despite my best effort. The past week has been enlightening, to say the least; and watching Michael in the ring tonight is the proverbial sour cherry on top. I didn’t even know he and Ben were part of the underground, sideways, unethical, dangerous,definitely illegal… I had no idea they were involved in the fights that everyone whispers about, much less that they were good at it. I never saw any evidence. Not a scratch. Not a bruise. I don’t understand how they kept it hidden. When I get them back, they’re in so much trouble.
When. Not if. I refuse to let myself give up on saving them. I’ll get them back, especially now that I know how reckless they’ve been with their lives. With our future. They have so much explaining to do.
I close the door to my room behind me. I don’t bother locking the door. What good would it do? If Flores or Lopez want in, I’m sure they have a key. I don’t spend much time worrying about James or Bryant. As far as I can tell, they’re little more than waitstaff. Flores is obviously lead alpha in this pack, with Lopez as his apparent second, the other two run errands and generally do whatever Flores and Lopez tell them to do. James will probably bring up a tray of fancy treats in a little while, just like Florez said he would. He’ll knock on the door once and come into the room just long enough to put the tray on the dresser, then he’ll leave without making eye contact or speaking to me at all. I can’t imagine what their pack bond must feel like with alphas being treated barely above beta status.
The remote control for the television might as well be the hammer that nails my coffin shut. The second I turn on the television and put it on channel twenty-three everything will be real. I know and understand that my current situation is my new reality, but if I see Michael standing in the middle of a boxing ring waiting for the bell to start the fight, then it will become really real. I don’t know what I’ll do when the actual fighting begins. Probably cry.
Inevitably, I pick up the controller and push the power button, then I tune it to the channel that usually shows Michael or Ben in their rooms. I know they’re not rooms. I know they’re little more than cells. But it helps me, just a little, to call them rooms. It makes me feel selfish, but I’m clinging to anything that might keep me from falling into total hopelessness.
The screen flashes to life and there he is, sitting on an overturned bucket in one corner of the ring. Michael is staring at the canvas between his feet. He’s not wearing a shirt or shoes, and the shorts he’s wearing are short enough to show the vining red roses tattooed on his upper thigh. Any other time I’d fangirl over how he looks, deep in contemplation, muscles and skin on display; but right now all I want to do is hold him.
Michael doesn’t look up when his opponent ducks between the ropes and steps onto the mat. I do, though. He’s the same size as Michael, more tattoos, I can barely make out any unmarked skin between them. Brown hair cut short. He’s looking toward Michael like he wants to say something to him, but when Michael doesn’t look his way, he looks at someone on the side of the ring. He doesn’t look any happier to be there than Michael.
The person who I’m assuming is a referee says something and Michael stands up. He touches knuckles with the other guy and they stand there, shifting and bouncing on their feet until the bell rings. When it does, Michael and the other guy stand still staring into each other’s eyes for just a moment before Michael makes the first attack. His arm shoots out, fast to punch the other guy in the face, immediately splitting his lip. The guy shakes it off and comes at Michael, then the fight really begins.
I’m not sure what the rules are, or if there even are rules, and I don’t know if they’ll stop fighting once they reach a certain number of points like in sanctioned fights. What I do know is that within a few minutes of fighting, both men are bloody. That should be alarming, but it isn’t. The look on Michael’s face is what is alarming. He looks numb, like he isn’t feeling anything at all. Not angry, not worried, just an unyielding lack of emotion.
I hate it.
Michael’s opponent seems to get a second wind of energy and starts hitting Michael, battering his sides with hard fists, slamming his forehead into Michael’s face. I lose track of time, twitching with every impact. I can’t really feel the pain, but I can imagine it. Michael lets it happen, then, as if on cue, his knee comes up and he somehow manages to kick the other man across the mat. Michael descends upon him with kicks and blows and doesn’t stop until the referee and four others barely manage to pull him back. The bell rings again and instead of crowing for the screaming crowd, Michael just sits back down in his corner and goes back to staring between his feet.
The fight is over. The other man isn’t getting up. I don’t know if he’ll ever get up. I know Michael. I’ve seen him almost every day of my life since we were kids. Iknowhe’s capable of hurting people, but knowing something and seeing it happen are two completely different things. My poor Michael. He might be a sarcastic jerk sometimes, but he’s a good man.
And my Benny. Will he have to do the same thing? I can’t think about Benny beating a man unconscious.
“I brought you some fruit,” James mumbles, startling me. I didn’t hear his knock. He puts the tray on the dresser and glances at me, his already pale face losing a little more color. “Here,” he says, handing me a napkin from the tray.
I didn’t realize I was crying. I take it from him and stare at it.
“Michael’s all right,” he says. “He’s been up against worse guys than that plenty of times. He’s okay.”
If that was meant to comfort me, it didn’t accomplish much. I bring my eyes up to meet James’s and he can’t hold my gaze.
He looks away and down, then says, “I’ll check on you later,” before he slinks out the door.
I wait until the sound of his footsteps fade, then I crawl into the bed I hate and burrow under the blankets with my clothes still on. As soon as I’m cocooned as tightly as I can get, I pull one of the pillows against my face and scream. I scream into the pillow over and over again until my throat is raw. One way or another, I will find a way to free us from this hell. I have to.
Chapter two
Michael
Fight.
Eat.
Sleep.
