Savannah Past Midnight (3 page)

As we hastily clear the final beam of the stable
entrance I have a new, more appreciative view. With the entire
expanse of the manicured lawn as our track I give an excited yell
and nudge him even harder. In no time we are racing at full gallop,
the terrified cries of Annalin blending with the frantic shouts of
the stable hands until I hear nothing but the wind and the
unmistakable drumming of hooves against the ground.

“Yes! Go, go! That’s it, boy!” I laugh in delight as
the wind rushes through my hair.

The exhilaration is nearly indescribable as we fly
toward the entrance of the well-traveled path. I plan to slow him
to a nice fast trot once we enter the tree line.

I crave the excitement that his speed provides. I
feel so alive as it travels through every inch of my body. I’m not
the least bit sorry for defying orders. Any repercussions will be
worth this one brief but potent experience.

As we close in on the woods I begin gently pulling
back on his reins. “Whoa, Sacred Falls. Whoa, boy, slow it down
now.”

Nothing.

I try not to let panic overtake me. I realize that he
sees that path as a direct route to his freedom. Apparently this
horse knows no fear.
Holy hell.

I keep my voice as calm as possible as we enter the
woods, flying headlong up the path. “Halt, Sacred Falls. Slow it
down, boy!”

My hands are trembling hard, and I pull back with all
my might against the reins as he pounds up the dirt trail, racing
hell-bent toward the upcoming road. If I don’t stop him we could
crash into a carriage or whatever riders are ahead on the
well-traveled stretch that heads straight toward Charleston.

Come on … slow for me … please!

My heart lodges in my throat as I spot a low-hanging
branch that’s closing in fast. With his height it will be a miracle
if we clear it. Certainly he’ll slow, won’t he?

Within seconds the branch is coming right at us, and
with no other option besides jumping from the speeding animal I
clasp his neck tightly and flatten my body along his nape. With my
eyes squeezed shut I’m just about to lift my head to check that
we’ve made it when a massive force hits the top of my forehead.
With one brutal blow I’m instantly unseated. I scream in agony as
my body sails helplessly through the summer air. I land like a
broken China doll on the hard packed earth, my eyes wavering in and
out of focus at the yellow sunlight spilling down through the
trees. My head is on fire, and I feel like my skull has been split
in two from a mighty ax blow. I attempt to raise my hand to my
face, to see how badly I’m bleeding, but the limb isn’t
cooperating.
Could I have broken my arm that badly?

Confusion rapidly changes into dire panic as I try
desperately to move
any
part of my body. The pain is only in
my head. Suddenly terror consumes me at the realization that I
can’t move at all or feel anything below my neck. My own reckless
actions have finally caught up with me. I scream in anguish—not for
help, but in abject despair.

“
L
ast call for all bets!”

I watch silently from the far corner of the
dilapidated three-story warehouse. The five-deep crowd all but
surge forward to gain a better view of the two massive males who
are about to fight. Through the bodies I assess him carefully. I
knew the moment I drove off that night that I would be here. He’s
captivating and seems not to know fear, unlike most humans I’ve
encountered. There’s a magnetism about him coupled with a strange
calmness that draws me in. We have
zero
future together, but
I’m curious to observe him regardless. The fact that he’s a
self-proclaimed fighter has piqued my curiosity. I watch him
carefully, wondering if he has the skills as well as the brawn. I
really should have wiped his memories of the attack before we
parted ways the other night, but I chose not to—a first for me.
There is still time to do it, to make it seem like nothing ever
happened between us, like we’ve never even crossed paths.

“C’mon, Brennan! Fuckin’ take that sorry ass
motherfucker down, man! Send him outta here on a stretcher!”

“Shut the fuck up, dickhead! Go for his legs, Smith!
Get ’em to the ground and pummel that pretty boy face of his!”

He’s motionless except for his eyes—alert and a vivid
green the color of fresh bamboo. Those penetrating eyes track even
the slightest movement of his deranged-looking opponent.

The skinny kid in the hoodie who is acting as equal
parts ref and bookie tries to push back the encroaching crowd,
yelling out, “You wanna see ’em fight or not? You’d best step the
fuck back! Give ’em room or it’s a no go tonight!”

As soon as the ravenous crowd obeys, he continues,
this time addressing both fighters, “You know the drill. Either
knock your opponent the fuck out or pin him down for ten seconds.
Winner takes sixty percent of the pot. Let’s get this gritty party
started!”

I move in a few steps closer, not wanting to miss a
single second of the action. A scattering of halogen contractor
floor lights are the only source of illumination. Both men are
shirtless, their thick muscles covered in tattoos. But that’s where
the similarities end. I came to see the one the men are calling
Brennan and the few women present are cheering on as Colton. His
imposing size seems to be natural in comparison to his opponent’s.
The other fighter’s daunting physique looks fake—clearly a product
of the gym combined with chemicals.

They slowly and methodically begin to circle each
other, obviously looking for vulnerabilities, a weakness to home in
on. Suddenly, Colton’s opponent drops a shoulder and rushes him. I
watch closely as he braces for the guy with the Mohawk to slam into
him. The shouts from the crowd rise to a fever pitch as they
collide in a vicious tangle of grunting, muscled flesh. Colton
binds his powerful arms around the man, attempting to wrestle him
to the ground, seemingly ignoring the blows that are landing
repeatedly on his chiseled torso.

“Let ’em have it, Colton!”

“Come on, Brennan, unleash the fuckin’ beast on that
pussy!”

The spectators have closed in on the fighters,
lusting after the blood that is beginning to spill. I edge even
closer to watch them struggle ferociously for the dominant
position, over and over again, all the while clocking each other
any place they can connect. The once white boxing tape wound around
their wide fists is now ruby red as they pound away like raging
animals vying for the last piece of meat on earth. Over the many
decades I’ve learned how to quell my zest for blood, to contain the
urges that come when I catch the first hint of that warm,
distinctive scent. I shift it to the back of my mind and simply
observe.

“Show him what you’re about, Smith! C’mon, man, put
him out of his fuckin’ misery! Don’t let this punk ruin your track
record! Take him down!”

With his mouth dripping blood, Colton takes one more
direct hit to the chest and a savage uppercut before seizing the
opportunity to pull back far enough to land a powerful right hook
that connects perfectly with the side of the man’s temple.

That’s it. Lights out.

As if in slow motion, the man twists and goes down
into a free fall of splayed arms and legs, landing with a grotesque
thud, face down on the dust-strewn concrete floor. Complete KO.
Perfect execution.

Well done, cowboy.

There are shouts of drunken excitement along with
curses of annoyance from the losing side as the group of over a
hundred spectators begins to disband. Some line up to collect their
winnings from Mr. Hoodie.

I turn around and stride out the lone door. I’m
halfway to my motorcycle when a breathy, rumbling voice says from
behind, “You like what you see, then?”

I suppress a grin as I spin around. Up close and
dripping blood and sweat, he is a magnificent specimen. I act
casual, staring up into his eyes, and offer with a shoulder shrug,
“I guess so, but you really should’ve landed that blow inside of
the first thirty seconds. The delay cost you a black eye, split
lip, and bruised ribs, cowboy.”

“Gotta give ’em their money’s worth, sweetheart.
Everybody wants a show.”

“A show. Fighting for entertainment … how
amusing.”

“Ain’t nothin’ amusing about fightin’. Let me take
you out for a drink, wildcat.”

“Wildcat?”

“Hell yeah. Wildcat. Wild. Beautiful. Mysterious.
Feisty as all get out … wildcat. Fuckin’ perfect choice.”

I flash him a rare smile and say, “You’re a peculiar
one.”

“Peculiar enough to capture
your
attention.
That’s all that matters to me.”

I drink in his impressive chest and full sleeve
tattoos. The edgy work had to have been done by the same artist
because it is all consistent in style, precisely laid out over
gorgeous, lick-worthy biceps.

He glances down at himself. “I know I’m a filthy
mess, but give me twenty minutes. I promise you that I clean up
well. I’ll take you out anywhere you like. Even put on a shirt with
a collar for ya, darlin’.” He gives me a sly wink.

Tilting my head to the right, I consider his offer.
“Tempting, cowboy, but I have some business to attend to.”

I catch the flash of disappointment before he quickly
covers it, though his jaw line tenses up.

“Business at nearly one thirty in the morning. You a
dealer or somethin’, baby?”

“If I was, do you think I would share that
information with a virtual stranger? You, cowboy, could be an
undercover cop. Maybe
your
job is to bust illegal gambling
rings and the nefarious business that it inevitably attracts.
Hmm?”

He runs his filthy hand across and back over his
medium brown, close-cropped hair, “Nah, I’m sure as hell not a cop,
baby. By the way, why do you keep calling me ‘cowboy’?”

“Let’s just say that I’ve been around awhile and I
call it like I see it. You
are
one, aren’t you? Because I’ve
never met a man who wears a battered Carhartt jacket better. Then
there are those fine tattoos, not to mention your scarred-up hands.
You speak like you’ve been living on a ranch most of your life. All
that’s missing is the horse and a dusty Resistol hat.”

His eyes rapidly drop down to his battered hands
before latching back onto mine as I continue, “
Those
are the
reasons I call you ‘cowboy.’ ”

“Name’s Colton.”

“So I’ve heard.”

His chin lifts. “You got one, wildcat?”

“I do.”

He shakes his head slowly back and forth and grins,
revealing the miniscule gap between his otherwise flawless front
teeth. “I like a fire in my woman.”

“Well then, good luck finding that woman.”

“Just did. Where we off to tonight, sweetheart?”

Mr. Hoodie jogs over, shouting, “Brennan! Got your
cut from tonight. I’m taking off in a minute. Let’s settle up, man.
You know the cops are always fuckin’ lurkin’ around.” His beady
eyes narrow as he nervously checks over each shoulder.

I get on my ride as he answers Mr. Twitchy Hoodie,
“Be over in a sec. Meet you at your car.”

My engine roars to life and he surprises me,
straddling my front wheel. His tan, blood spattered Cat work boots
pin my tire neatly as his huge, bloodied hands plant down on the
handles directly inside of mine. He leans in to whisper
flirtatiously, “C’mon, gimme a chance. Promise you won’t be
disappointed.”

“No, I can’t. And for the record, I can assure you
that
you
definitely would be.”

“What?”

“Step away, cowboy. I’d hate to add to those
injuries.”

His eyes narrow as if he’s deep in thought.
This
is clearly a man who isn’t accustomed to hearing no … not from
a woman, anyway.

“Fine, you need your space. I’m on board with that.
But I want one-on-one time with you and I will
find
a way to
get it. At least tell me your name before you go. Don’t you think
you owe me that after all we’ve been through?”

“You’re a funny guy. Step back and I’ll consider
it.”

With a beaming smile he releases the front wheel of
my bike and steps aside. “I like you, wildcat. You’re
different.”

“You’re right, I am.”

“So …?”

I slide the helmet on before answering,
“Cosette.”

I flip the visor down and sigh heavily, hearing my
name fall slowly, like melted caramel from his bloody lips as I
speed away into the familiar, enveloping darkness.

“
H
old up, Vivian! I didn’t
say ‘Go’ yet, you dirty little cheater!”

She stops mid-sprint and turns to jog back. “Could’ve
swore you did, Colton. All right then, we’ll start over. Remember,
first one to the base of those rocks gets that last tootsie pop.
Deal?”

“Deal. Get ready to lose, Sis. Ready …
set … go!”

Both barefoot, we’re neck in neck as we sprint past
the right side of the barn then farther out across the
flower-strewn meadow. I can’t believe that for once I’m actually
keeping up with her; she’s always been so much faster than me
.
Maybe I have a chance this time.

Out of the corner of my eye I catch her sidelong,
determined glance, which fires up my competitive nature even
more.

As the rocks come closer, I turn up the heat and pump
my arms faster, making each stride count. I’m out of breath, trying
to suck in more wind as I fly across the grass. She’s no longer
next to me as I nearly plow into the rocks, coming to a sudden
stop.

I whirl around and shake both fists in the air. “I
did it! I did it! I
finally
beat you, Vivian!”