Chains

CHAINS

Kelli Maine

Published by Kelli Maine
First Edition: Sept. 22, 2014
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Copyright © Kelli Maine, 2014
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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

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If you want to tell grown up fairytales, you have to look for the dark side.

—Juan Antonio Bayona

My foster-father lay broken and bloody on the concrete driveway. The haze of rage dropped from in front of my eyes as Danny’s shrill cries of terror drilled into my eardrums. She had her arms wrapped around my waist, pulling me off of him with all of her might.

I stopped kicking him in the gut and stepped back. Danny sank to the ground and buried her face in her hands. My fists were covered in blood. I held them up and watched it roll down my wrists, over my forearms in crimson rivulets, transfixed.

“We have to call 911!” Danny yelled. “He’ll die!”

“We want him to die,” I said, still examining the blood on my knuckles.

She bolted to her feet and shoved her face in front of mine. “Stop it! You’ll go to jail! You have to get out of here!”

The sun hit her from behind and lit her blond hair into a golden halo around her head. I touched a strand and streaked it red. “Tyler!” she shouted. “Listen to me! I have to call 911. You have to run!” Her blue eyes implored me, but I couldn’t focus on anything other than the adrenaline still crashing through my veins. I thought I might pass out.

“I did it,” I said.

Danny stared at me for a moment, then her shocked expression altered into a timid smile. “You did it.”

We both turned our heads to look at him, lying there in a pool of his own blood. “Think he’s dead?” I asked.

She shook her head. “Not yet. Beating the living shit out of him is one thing, but killing him is another. I have to call an ambulance, and you have to get out of here. Now!” She grabbed my shoulders and turned me toward the road. “Go!” Her small hand pushed against my back, not budging me.

“Okay! Okay,” I said, the reality of my situation edging in on a wave of panic. “But I’ll be back for you. I won’t leave you here with him.”

I grabbed her and pulled her to me, kissing her forehead. She threw her arms around me and hugged me tight.

My Danny.

My sweet Danny.

She was three years younger than me and wouldn’t legally be out of the foster system until she was eighteen, like me. Today was my birthday. “You would never leave me,” she said. “I know that.” She tucked her hand into her jeans pocked, pulled out a small, heart-shaped ruby ring and handed it to me.

“I can’t take this,” I said, rolling the ring around in my palm. Her mother—who couldn’t stay clean long enough to raise her daughter—gave it to Danny when she had to hand her over to the system when she was eight. “It’s the only thing you have from then.”

She closed my bloody fingers around the heart-shaped gem. “I’ll get it when I see you next.”

Her eyes were trusting. Sincere. I squeezed the stone tight. “Soon,” I said. “I promise.”

She watched me as I walked backward, catching my last glimpse of her before turning and sprinting down the street. Every footfall away from her left an empty, hollow longing in my chest.

Soon. I promise.

ONE

There was no fucking way he was trapping me against the cage.

Jose stalked toward me, expecting me to dart around him, like I was some fucking amateur who didn’t know he’d reach out and clothesline my ass to the canvas if I tried it.

“Met an old friend of yours,” he said around his mouth guard.

“Oh yeah?” He was close enough to make contact with if I kicked out, but I wanted him closer—close enough to do some real damage. I was undefeated going into this fight and I knew Jose “The Mad Mexican” Martinez would be my toughest match to date, but I wasn’t going down to him.

“Oh yeah,” he said. The words shot past the plastic guard around his teeth, and there was no missing the taunt in his voice. “Danielle.”

Danielle?

Jose took advantage of the second of shock her name caused and landed a fist to the side of my head. The world jolted, tilted, went black for a moment. I grabbed the cage behind me, but it was too late. Jose found his in and took it.

His fists pummeled my face while blow after blow of his knee to my gut knocked the wind out of me.

Danielle?

My Danielle?

The sting of skin tearing and the tang of blood on my lips were red flags alerting me to the fact that I was getting my ass handed to me.

He stepped back with his left foot leaving me an opening to hook my leg around his calf. I hooked and swiped, shoving all of my weight against him and taking him to the mat.

Jose flailed, bucking and beating the shit out of me with his fists, but I didn’t budge. “She fucks like a whore,” he said, sneering.

Red rage shot through me like lava.

Savage and blind to its power, my arms pumped, my fists hit—punch after punch after punch—like tenderizing raw meat. I pressed my forearm across his throat until his face turned beet red and he clawed my arm. The ref was on me, pulling my shoulders. I jerked my forearm from Jose’s throat and pushed the ref off.

As soon as I let up, Jose was out from under me scooting away, then on his feet, staggering and swaying. I rounded on him, kicking him in the gut once, twice, jabbing rib-cracking hits to his side. He fell, holding himself like a dog on all fours. The ref was coming near, but I wasn’t stopping.

I kicked Jose in the side of his ugly fucking face and pulled my mouth guard out. “She’s not a whore,” I yelled, and spit on his chest before someone grabbed me from behind and pulled me away. “It’s done.” Mike. It was Mike. My trainer. “Leave it.”

The rage slowly subsided, letting in the angry booing of the crowd as Mike ushered me from the octagon cage. “I don’t have to tell you you’re disqualified,” he said. “Throat strike, kicking the head of a downed opponent, spitting.” He shook his head and tossed me a towel as we entered the locker room. “What the fuck happened out there, Graves?”

I sat down heavily on the bench and held my head in my hands. Jose’s words echoed in my memory.
Danielle. She fucks like a whore.
I shot off the bench and punched the locker across from me. “She’s not a whore, Mike. She’s not a fucking whore.”

He grabbed my shoulders and guided me back to the bench. “Look at me. Talk to me, man. Why’d you let him get to you? You were undefeated.”

Mike filled my entire line of vision. I was a light heavyweight at one ninety-five, but Mike was super heavyweight and solid as a tank. His black hair was peppered with gray, the short curls tight to his head. I owed my life to this man, and I just threw away everything we’d worked for the past couple years. “I’m sorry,” I said as the reality—the finality—of what I’d done sank in. “I fucked everything up.”

He gripped my shoulders and fixed me with a steely stare. “This fight was everything to you. There’s a reason you were disqualified. Tell me.”

“Danielle,” I said, and even her name pained me. “She was at the same house with me—I told you about her—and I left her there. With
him
.”

Him.

Mike knew all about our foster father—the sick fucker I waited six years to beat the ever-loving shit out of. The day I turned eighteen and was out of the foster care system, I broke every bone in that motherfucker’s face.

“Danielle—I had to leave her. Jesus, I didn’t want to. I couldn’t stay and protect her. She begged me not to go, but it’s not like I had an option. When you’re eighteen, you’re out of the system.” Bile rose in my throat. “He abused…hell, he more than abused her, Mike.” I fixed my hard, resent-filled eyes on his.

He nodded. He knew what that motherfucker did to her. “You still haven’t tried to find her, have you?”

I closed my eyes and exhaled. The ache in my chest rushed out, stinging in my nose. “No.”

Danielle was in my head every single day, but I never tried to find her. Not yet. Not until I had my shit together, went pro, had steady money and stability—hell, not until I knew I wouldn’t fuck up again, but here I was, disqualified from a fight. “Jose said…” I clamped my mouth shut and shook my head. I couldn’t repeat it.

Mike patted my arm. “Forget about what Jose said and hit the shower. We’ll talk more later. I have a feeling the ref will want to see me.”

If I was allowed back in the ring it would be a miracle. Not one foul, but three and a disqualification.

I stripped down and stood under the hot water. It ran pink across my feet where the blood rinsed off my body and down the drain. I turned the knob, making the water hotter, hoping the steam would fill my head and kill every last brain cell that wouldn’t stop re-playing Jose’s words.

She fucks like a whore.

Where would Danny have met Jose? I left her in the house where we lived in Ferndale, right outside of Detroit. But, that was four years ago. She’d be nineteen now and on her own for a year.

I turned around and pressed my palms flat on the tile wall, letting the water beat against my face.

I should’ve gone back for her. I should’ve found her before she was eighteen. God only knew what our foster father did to her for three years when I wasn’t there to stop him.