Breath on the Wind (16 page)

Unfortunately, at that point, she discovered that she hadn’t changed the sheets.  She could still smell him, them.  It was all around her.  She was drowning in what-could-have-beens.  She couldn’t even drunk-dial him; they’d never swapped numbers.  She didn’t know if she would have cursed him for leaving, or begged him to return.  Andy still wasn’t sure whether she’d had a narrow escape, or whether she had lost something that could have been special, that could have healed her, or helped her heal herself.

She wrapped herself in the scent of that which she no longer had, and passed out into a dreamless sleep.

Chapter Fourteen

“That’s good, kid.  Keep it comin’.” 

Chiz blocked a high right jab from Sinatra and, bouncing on the balls of his feet, avoided the hooking body blow that the younger man threw with his left fist.  If it had connected, Chiz was sure he’d have been pissing blood for a couple of days.  He was pleased that his voice didn’t betray his exertion.  His words came out with no hint of breathlessness.

For a couple of days he’d wallowed in a swill of Jack and weed, but sitting at the bar getting drunk and stoned wasn’t enough of a distraction.  There were too many moments when his sluggish mind wandered, wondering...  And the girls kept pushing up on him if he wasn’t actively engaged in conversation, and some of the more tenacious ones even then.  He was no longer interested in any of the club pussy.  Been there, done that, there was nothing of interest to see or feel.  His dick didn’t even so much as twitch, no matter what size rack was pressed into his arm, or face.

Having decided he was miserable company for himself, never mind anyone else, and looking for a way to keep his thoughts on any other track than the one they kept doggedly returning to, he hit the gym, hard.  When he wasn’t in the gym, he was in the garage, fixing everything and anything that was put in front of him, without complaint or comment.  He put in extra hours, and when he was done being covered in grease and oil, he hit the gym again.

He’d even almost quit smoking.  The habit simply wasn’t compatible with the demands he was placing on his lungs.  He’d started watching his diet, too.  He needed fuel and energy to maintain his level of activity.  Two weeks of eating simple, fresh food, hardly drinking or smoking, and keeping up a near-constant state of activity, had resulted in a physique and level of fitness that wouldn’t have looked out of place in a bodybuilding competition.

Chiz had hauled Sinatra into the ring a couple of days after his return.  Samuel had been right, the kid had vastly improved with just a few days of tuition from Shark, but he was a clean fighter and Shark hadn’t taught him any of the really dirty tricks.  Chiz had beaten the crap out of the kid, and then offered his hand to help Sinatra haul himself up off the canvas.  He’d followed that assistance with an offer to take over the role of trainer.

Sinatra was a quick study and an attentive student.  Chiz hadn’t regretted taking the kid on.  There was even the possibility, although Chiz wasn’t going to mention it yet, that the kid could make some bank for the club on the bare-knuckle circuit.  Chiz was thinking about suggesting that the two of them stand in some fights, but he wanted to bring Sinatra on more first, and make sure that the kid wouldn’t get a swelled head from the suggestion.

“You’re droppin’ your guard.  Come on. Up!”

“It is up!”  Sinatra’s irritation was almost lost under breathless exhaustion.

Chiz landed a vicious left hook to Sinatra’s kidneys.  The younger man bent backwards into the pain.  “No it ain’t.”

Chiz immediately stopped bouncing and made his way to the edge of the ring, beginning to pull the tape off his fists as he went.  Only when he stopped concentrating on his opponent did he begin to feel the sweat running in rivulets down his naked torso.  Shark, Crash and Scrat were leaning on the ropes, watching the free show.  Shark stepped back to allow Chiz to duck out of the ring as Sinatra finally found the power to move.

“We done for today?”  Sinatra called.

“Yeah.”  Chiz stayed by the ring, continuing to peel the strips of tape away.  “I know I pushed you, but you gotta be able to keep your guard up, no matter what.  Someone comin’ at you ain’t gonna back off ‘cause you’re not feelin’ it, or you had a heavy night.”

“Aww, come on, Chiz.  Man, it was Friday.”

“I don’t give a shit.”  Chiz decided to throw the guy a bone to motivate him.  “Kid, you got potential.  Try and keep your dick in your pants some, stop eatin’ trash, and slow down on the booze, and you’ll be even better.”

“What, you mean live like a fuckin’ monk like you do?”

Chiz was back in the ring in a flash.  Sinatra made the mistake of standing his ground.  He started to raise his fists as Chiz feinted right, feinted left, then launched a right into Sinatra’s stomach.  As the kid was doubling over, gasping for breath, Chiz delivered a left to his jaw, and as he was reeling from both hits, delivered an unforgiving combination to his midsection.  Sinatra dropped heavily to his knees, and fell forward onto his hands.

“I don’t know what’s got into you kid, but try listenin’ to the voice of experience instead of mockin’ it.”

Shark was already holding the ropes apart, to make room for Chiz to step through, by the time he’d reached the edge of the ring.

“He give you this much shit?”  Chiz asked his friend incredulously.  He’d have expected Sinatra to still be needing extensive facial surgery if he’d pulled this attitude on Shark.

“No.  But I wasn’t puttin’ as much effort in.  He’s right about the monk thing, though.  What’s up with that?”

“Nothin’.  Benchin’ over four hundred hurts like a motherfucker if you’ve a gut full of Cuervo.”

Shark raised an eyebrow.  “You’ve upped your weight?”

Chiz shrugged.  “Some.”

Shark continued to watch Chiz as he finished untaping his hands.  Once done, Chiz flexed out his fingers.  He signaled to Scrat to gather the redundant strips of adhesive for the trash, and went to grab his towel from on top of the stack of dumbbells.  Shark took a half step, just enough to get in Chiz’s way.

“Come find me if you need to talk, brother.”

Chiz had no intention of talking to anyone, about anything.  He was putting a lot of time, and a hell of a lot of effort, into avoiding even thinking about anything more complicated than what part he needed to order, or what number repetition he was on.

“Sure.”

Shark looked skeptical at Chiz’s evidently noncommittal answer, but he got out of his way and let him pass.

Chiz didn’t give a shit if Shark wasn’t satisfied with his response.  It was the best one his brother was going to get.  The way Chiz figured it, if he kept on avoiding things long enough, then maybe the constant tightness in his chest might start to ease, and maybe his brain would find a different channel to play repeats from.  Not that the flashbacks were getting old and boring, perversely they were getting more vivid, revealing details he hadn’t noticed in the heat of the moment, but they added to the steel band around his ribs.

There was no one in the main room of the clubhouse, so much the better.  Chiz was able to make it to his room without having to run another gauntlet of well-meaning enquiries.  It was too late to put anymore hours in on the SUV with a starter problem, but he figured he could spend some time tuning up his bike.  If he tuned it up any more, he might as well add a tank of Nos and ride it to the fucking moon, but there was no harm in giving it another look over.

After a speedy shower, Chiz pulled on a pair of jeans that he wouldn’t mind getting oil on, and a clean t-shirt.  Moving against every iota of self-preservation instinct that he had, he opened the bottom drawer of the dresser. 

The ancient rucksack was languishing there.  Chiz pulled it out, unzipped it, and reverently slipped out the contents.  He didn’t even take a second to think whether the door to his room was locked.  He lifted the black t-shirt to his face, and inhaled deeply, filling his senses with the scent of Elmo.  He didn’t know how the ordinary piece of cloth had come to carry the fragrance that reminded him of her; maybe he’d been wearing it when they’d gotten up close and personal, or maybe it had been on the floor when she’d spritzed on her perfume.  The how didn’t matter.  It was the only thing he had.

For a moment he indulged his weakness.  Then he folded the shirt, put it back in the bag, and returned it to its hiding place.  He knew he should put the shirt in the laundry, that he should sever that last link, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it.  He couldn’t resist occasionally twisting the knife that was permanently lodged in his gut.

The last thing Chiz felt like doing at that particular moment was eating, but he knew that he needed to.  It had been a while since lunch, and he’d had a hell of a workout since his last meal.

Several of his brothers had arrived, and were milling around the main room, playing pool, drinking and shooting the shit, by the time he came out.  Mostly, everyone got on with what they were doing, paying no heed to another body in the room, except for Crash, who was sitting at the bar, and put a hand on Chiz’s arm to halt him as he passed by.

“You need me to do that thing you asked about, bro?”

The steel band around Chiz’s chest tightened immeasurably.  When he’d spoken to Crash on the day he got back, he’d been intending to ask him to check up on Elmo for him.  With her scent still so fresh in his mind, he almost caved, but it would be better for her, and for him, if he held strong.  He was sure that it would be better, eventually.

“No, don’t worry about it, bro.  I’ve changed my mind.”

“You sure?”

He had to swallow before he could answer.  “Yeah.”

“Okay.”  Crash nodded and turned back to his beer.  Chiz continued on his way to the kitchen with the intention of finding something to eat that he could take into the garage with him.

He pulled up short at the kitchen door.  Moira was in the middle of an organized chaos of groceries that she was in the process of putting away into the cupboards and refrigerator.  Chiz was going to back away and hope that she hadn’t noticed someone else in the room, but she turned, and he knew that it was too late.  She’d been trying to corner him for days.

“Hey, Moira.”  He could be gracious.  He had an idea of why she wanted to speak to him.  He had the right to tell her to step off and mind her own business, and she should back down, but the theory of that and the reality were sometimes a little blurred with the president’s wife.

“Hey, cher.  Just let me finish up here and I’ll be out of your way.”

He waited while she finished her task.  Better that than make stilted conversation at the bar.  He didn’t offer to help.  This was her domain within the clubhouse, and she had her own system for where everything should be.  Job done, she tidied up and went to leave the room.  Chiz was suspicious that he was getting off lightly, but she stopped dead when she got level with him.

“Cher, your cologne is a little feminine these days.”

“Wha’d’ya mean.”  He tried to play the innocent, never his best act.  Some of the fragrance from the shirt must have lingered on him.

Moira cocked her head to one side.  “I recognize that scent, cher.  Poison.”

So that was the name of the intoxicating perfume Elmo wore.  That was about right, she’d poisoned his soul.  He wasn’t the same man who’d left Louisiana on Christmas Day, chased by his personal pack of hellhounds. 

“Wanna tell me about her?”

Chiz stiffened.  “Don’t know what you’re talkin’ about.” 

“Don’t worry, cher.  Sam’s not said anythin’ to me.  He knows somethin’.  I know he does ‘cause he keeps tellin’ me to mind my own business.  But here you are trainin’ up for Mr. Universe and Mechanic of the Year at the same time, anythin’ to avoid bein’ still, and I’m tellin’ you that I know a female is involved in this somewhere.  The only thing that ever gets you boys so twisted up is women.”

“Moira.  Enough.”

Chiz turned at the sound of Samuel’s stern command.  Between Moira’s speech, and his pulse thundering in his ears, he hadn’t heard his president come up behind him.

Moira shot Samuel a look that was part contrition, part fury, but she ducked her head, scooted past Chiz without another word, and disappeared into the main room.

“You gonna ride me, too, boss?”  Chiz was sick and tired of feeling sick and tired, so his tone wasn’t quite as deferential as it should have been.

Samuel scowled at the disrespect, but he let it pass.  “Not as long as your head’s straight, son.  You okay for the run tomorrow?”