Dances with Monsters Read online

  After about fifteen minutes he noticed movement out of the corner of his eye and saw a slim figure sidle up into the area of the bags. Carnevale was back, he noticed, and glanced at the clock on the wall. And he was right on time. He was in his usual gear of baggy sweat clothes, hat and hood pulled up over his head. He chose the most isolated bag, in the furthest corner of the area, and shifted slightly so his back was toward Heath. He set to work on the bag, and Heath could hear sharp exhales of breath on every strike as the kid commenced to pummeling the bag. He watched for a moment before returning to his own bag.

  Gotta remember to talk to that kid about competitions, he thought, then began pounding away at his bag again.

  Chapter Two

  "Drew!"

  Bunz Williams' voice floated from the kitchen tucked away in the back of the café, breaking into Drew Carnevale's reverie as she leaned against the wall by the espresso machine, staring out the window onto what was normally a busy Pittsburgh street.

  The family-owned Italian bakery and café, Café Carnevale, was empty at the moment. The early evening was dreary, chilly, and rainy, sending would-be patrons scattering for cover from the torrential downpour of rain as thunder and lightning broke overhead. Some might call it a miserable day; to Drew, it was heavenly.

  "What up, doe?" she called back in their teasing vernacular. Bunz hailed from Detroit, and the slang phrase was used in greeting in the Motor City, dating back to before Drew had even been born. Since then, it served as their standard greeting to each other and as general queries whenever something worth remarking upon occurred.

  "I just…" Bunz's voice trailed off and for a moment Drew could hear nothing but the clattering of utensils against the countertop. She cocked her head, listening. Bunz had a habit of starting a sentence, getting distracted, and completely forgetting about what it was she intended to say. It was one of her most annoying and also humorous qualities.

  She'd met Bunz four months ago when she'd applied for the baker's job at the café, just a mere two months after the café had opened, which had been six more months after Drew and her clan had relocated to Pittsburgh from New York. The baker was quirky, artsy, funny and by far the most unique individual that Drew had ever met. She had a short cropped Afro, huge brown eyes and rich, chocolate brown skin that glinted with gold. She wore the funkiest clothing and the most outrageous jewelry and almost always had a smile on her face.

  She'd never disclosed what made her leave Detroit for Pittsburgh other than her entrance into a master's art history program at the university; Drew sensed that, like her, Bunz was haunted by some trauma from her past. At any rate, they never talked about either of their pasts, not more than was necessary, anyway, and Bunz refused to tell Drew what her real name was.

  "That chick is dead, gone, ceases to exist," she'd told Drew one day shortly after coming to the café. "There's no reason for anyone to know that because it's irrelevant."

  Never one to push, Drew let it go. It didn't matter to her anyway. She knew the girl as Bunz, and Bunz she would be forever. And Bunz certainly lived up to her name; aside from her passion for art history, she was a fantastic, inspired baker, concocting a vast array of pastries that delighted and tempted their rapidly expanding clientele. At first, Drew's father wasn't keen on having non-traditional baked goods in the cases next to the cannolis, the genoise, the amaretti cookies, the struffoli, the bigne, the biscotti, the tiramisu, the canestrelli. But Drew's mother had convinced him to go out on a limb, take a little risk, and add a little extra to the display shelves. She had encouraged Bunz to add her various cupcakes, her mini-pies, her cheesecakes, bars and cookies to the mix as well. Mr. Carnevale had softened slightly when he saw the overwhelmingly positive response from the customers, and gradually, he had come to allow Bunz exclusive control over what went into the case, his only stipulation being that at least five traditional Italian pastries had to be front and center every day. Bunz was only too pleased to comply.

  "B, you alive back there?" Drew called over her shoulder, shoving the sleeves of her hooded sweatshirt up her forearms as she glanced at the black digital watch on her wrist, mentally running through the remainder of her Friday. They were closing at six, which always took at least an hour as they had a closing checklist to run through and the cash register drawer to count, and she still needed to get to the gym and work out before her shift at the bar started at eleven. The following morning, she had to be at the YMCA by eight for the ballet class she taught to middle-school aged girls, and then back to the bakery by ten, before her next shift at the bar. She sighed to herself. Balancing three jobs on opposite time spectrums didn't allow for much sleep or much free time, but besides allowing her to make ends meet and save money, each shift brought her closer to her dream of opening her own dance studio.

  It was her greatest passion, dance, and she never forgot how close she'd come to losing it, and everything, forever last year. The horrific experience she'd been through had cost her any kind of professional dance career, but it couldn't completely ebb the passion she had for the art form, not really, not ever. As she'd slowly put herself back together, little by little, that passion had been her foundation. She knew she would never be on another stage again, but she could teach and train other promising young dancers, full of life and hope and potential. She could, and did, help them develop their craft and pursue the dream that had been ripped away from her.

  Another clattering noise met her ears, and this time Drew pushed away from the counter. Her black motorcycle boots thumped loudly on the linoleum as she left the area behind the counter and trudged back toward the kitchen.

  "B –" she started, then stopped short, biting her lip and struggling not to laugh.

  Bunz was covered head to toe in white flour, her deep brown skin peeking out in uneven patches from the stark white coating. There was flour sprinkled in her short Afro and Drew knew her friend would be deeply pissed when she saw herself.

  "What seems to be the matter?" Drew asked tightly, a laugh threatening to erupt from her throat.

  "I would prefer not to talk about it," Bunz sighed. "I was just minding my own business –"

  "Sure you were," Drew interrupted, folding her arms over her chest.

  "I was! I was just trying to find some bacon and then I tripped over my own two feet and upended a bag of flour. Sorry, not everyone has your dancer's grace."

  "What do you need bacon for?" Drew asked, glancing at the counter. There were three muffin tins, each holding a dozen freshly baked cupcakes, sitting on the surface. They smelled sweetly delicious, the rich scents of brown sugar and cinnamon wafting into Drew's nose.

  "For the cupcakes," Bunz replied, her tone indicating that it should have been totally obvious.

  Drew lifted an eyebrow, then shrugged, heading for the large freezer at the back of the kitchen.

  "Rarely do I question your culinary genius, and I'm not about to start today."

  She pulled a package of thickly cut bacon from the back of the refrigerator and handed it to her friend, who promptly took it from her and placed a large skillet on the stove. In no time, the smell of frying bacon filled the air and Drew's stomach grumbled.

  "Do you even know how to properly cook bacon?" she demanded. "Being that you're a vegetarian and all?"

  Bunz gave her a withering stare. "Anthony isn't," she replied, referencing her live-in and decidedly carnivorous boyfriend. "Trust me, he's schooled me on the art of perfecting pan-fried bacon."

  When the bacon was thoroughly cooked, she removed it from the skillet and began chopping it into one inch, roughly square-shaped pieces. Drew watched as Bunz picked up a pastry bag and piped light brown buttercream onto one cupcake and then garnished it with an artfully applied piece of bacon. She presented Drew with the cupcake as well as a wholly triumphant smile.

  Drew shrugged gamely, tugging down one side of the wrapper, and bit into the cupcake, making sure to get a little of everything in her monstrous bite. She immediately tasted the s
weetness of the brown sugar and cinnamon of the cupcake, the salted caramel of the filling, and the rich, warm flavor of the maple in the buttercream. She was then immediately assailed with the crispness and saltiness of the bacon, and somehow, the flavors all melded together in perfect harmony and she chewed contentedly, her eyes falling shut for a moment.

  When she reopened them, Bunz was grinning from ear to ear. "Well?" she demanded, although the impending feedback was quite obvious.

  "Absolutely heavenly," Drew managed thickly, pulling down another portion of the wrapper to line up another bite. "Perfection. I'll take three dozen."

  Bunz laughed. "Sorry, the one is all you get for now. These are for tomorrow morning. For the case," she added pointedly, giving Drew a stern look.

  Drew finished the delightful cupcake and held up her hands in a gesture of surrender that was completely Italian. "All right, all right," she conceded. "Now, how did you come up with these?"

  "I was bored the other night, and decided to do some tinkering around," Bunz replied. "So I made these up, and as it turned out, I really am the shit at what I do."

  "But you didn't have the bacon," Drew said.

  "Well…not exactly. I used the vegetarian kind."

  Drew stared. "You're joking," she said. "You used 'facon' on this cupcake?"

  "I'm sorry?" Bunz asked.

  "Fake bacon! How dare you!"

  "I mean, it was good," Bunz answered with a negligent shrug. "What was I supposed to do, eat the real thing?"

  Drew chuckled and shook her head. She looked at her watch again. "You finish up with these, I'll start cleaning in the front. It's ten to six; no one else is coming in today."

  "In a hurry?" Bunz asked, slightly sarcastic. "Off to the gym to see your boyfriend? Oh, wait. My bad, I forgot. He has no idea you exist because you're always incognito."

  "Hey," Drew called over her shoulder, pointing a finger at Bunz. "Mind your own business."

  "I hope you can knock off this secretive shit soon," Bunz said after her. "You not being able to wear nail polish is truly annoying."

  "Pretty sure someone there might take issue with a guy who had lacquered nails," Drew called sarcastically. "You should see this place, B. Nothing but testosterone."

  "I can imagine," Bunz replied. "Which only serves my overall curiosity as to why you want to go there in the first place? I know we don't discuss the past but I know enough by now to know that what you went through involved a man. Why put yourself through that?"

  Memories flooded her instantly, memories of terror and dark, fear and sweat, hands on her skin, pain radiating through her body. The broom she was holding clattered to the floor as anxiety threatened to overwhelm her.

  Bunz heard the clatter and rushed in from the kitchen, her face instantly apologetic. "Here, sit down," she murmured, guiding her friend to a chair. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that." She watched as Drew squeezed her eyes shut, inhaling deep breaths through her nose as her entire body tightened with stress. "Do you have your meds?"

  Drew gave her one terse nod, wrapping her arms around herself. "In my bag."

  Bunz immediately went to the black leather messenger back hanging on the coatrack at the back of the café and rifled through it quickly, coming up with the amber medication bottle and popping the lid. She'd done this enough times to know exactly where in the bag Drew kept her meds, exactly how many to give her, and how much water she needed to drink. It was automatic by now.

  Bunz grabbed her a cup of water and brought it over, dropping two anti-anxiety pills into Drew's outstretched palms. She folded her arms and bit the inside of her cheek as she watched Drew take the meds. She was surprised when Drew spoke again.

  "To answer your question," Drew began, and Bunz was glad to hear her voice was steady, if low. "I guess it's my own personal form of therapy. As long as no one pays me any mind, I can be around them and still do what I have to do. It helps me focus under pressure." She took another sip of water. "Besides, the guy that co-owns and manages it is an MMA star. Even if I don't spar with him or even talk to him, I can still watch and study his movements. So essentially, I'm still learning from the best."

  "And it doesn't hurt he's got a gorgeous face and an amazing body, I'm sure," Bunz added dryly. Even if everyone wasn't an MMA fan, Heath Riley was a hometown celebrity for sure. Everyone knew what he looked like and how he'd risen to notoriety.

  Drew finally allowed herself a tiny smile. "No," she conceded. "That doesn't hurt at all."

  ***

  Drew hopped off the train around seven-fifteen that evening, making sure her long, dark chocolate brown hair was tucked tightly under her fitted Yankees cap before pulling the hood of her sweatshirt up. She wrapped her hands as she walked along the street toward the gym, her stomach tensing and knotting as it always did.

  So far, as far as she could tell anyway, she'd managed to fly under the radar at Carter's. She'd definitely gotten a few looks here and there but she kept to herself and minded her own business. She knew that in and of itself set her apart from the gym's clientele; they were obviously a family-oriented bunch and the guys all got to be friendly with each other. A couple had even approached her before but she'd just walked away before they could engage her in real conversation and discover her little secret. Not to mention, turning away was easier than dealing with it head-on. The only men she was comfortable around were her brothers and her father, her uncles. Family, essentially. Dealing with men on any other level was difficult for her, which was why she'd insisted on taking register/barista duties at the café as it would force her to re-engage with people, with men. And it was why she went to Carter's religiously almost every single night.

  At the café, it was easier. It was a friendly, family atmosphere. It was relaxed, laid back—people just wanted their coffee and pastries and that was that. Many of the men that frequented the café were regulars, and she was mostly comfortable, if still a bit wary, with them. The gym was totally different. It was nothing but men, and she had no one to protect her but herself. It was an atmosphere of violence, although there was a sign in the window and the contract clearly stated that any and all fighting would take place in the ring, and that Carter's Gym would not tolerate any other violence of any sort, for any reason. But the testosterone was thick, so heavy she could practically smell it, and there was always a sense of danger there. These men were tough, hard, strong. These weren't prissy pencil-necks; they were here to train and be trained by the best, and they sparred intensely. She'd never seen the ring free of bloodstains before leaving for the night. There were always handfuls of guys walking around with lumped up, cut faces.

  She'd had boxing training before. She'd done it recreationally before the incident and pursued it heavily afterward. She didn't want to compete, she didn't want to spar unless it was for training purposes. She wanted to learn how to defend herself effectively and not be afraid to fight. She'd had a personal trainer in New York, but when the family picked up and left for Pittsburgh, she'd had to say goodbye. Now, she knew she'd benefit from a trainer, but right now she was content to observe the best at work, mimic their movements, join together what she watched them do with her own training and develop herself.

  And, as she peeked around the bag she'd been working on for the last hour, glancing from under the brim of her baseball hat, the best was currently at work in the ring.

  Heath Riley was shaking out his hands at his sides in the ring, facing off against his sparring partner. She watched as his lifted his fists into a guard position, almost casually, and focus intensely on his opponent. She knew this wouldn't be anything like Ultimate Warrior—he wouldn't be handing out any "one-hitter quitters" tonight. He was in it for the duel, the enjoyment. The dance.

  She tilted her head and watched his feet. He moved with incredibly quick, confident movements. He landed a kick, leaping past his doubled-over opponent, then with a quick shuffle of his feet switched his direction, casually yanking up a pant leg as he resumed his guard po
sition. She shook her head to herself. The guy was a beast, but there was something so lithe, so sure, almost graceful about his movements that made him so interesting to watch.

  He was grinning at his partner, who hand just landed a jab to the chin. It was clear he was enjoying the moment. Drew had watched him at Ultimate Warrior and she recalled how he'd always looked so grim, the hatred practically radiating off him as he would charge his opponents, take them down, then burst out of the ring and stalk out of the arena in rage. Now, it was like night and day; he was smiling, laughing a little, and his handsome face looked peaceful and calm.

  She'd never really looked him in the face before, not in person although the opportunity presented itself every single time she left the gym after closing. He would always be standing by the door, toothpick in his mouth, hands in his pockets, waiting patiently for her to finish up. She would always keep her head down and brush right past him. Once, when she'd been wearing her headphones, she thought she'd heard him yell out her name, but she hadn't been about to blow her own cover by stopping to reply, and instead, had ignored him, rushing past. But the curiosity at what he, Heath Riley, would have to say to her, a nobody, always picked at her. Did he know her secret? Was he annoyed she stayed past closing, keeping him there too? Had she missed some hidden fee? He hadn't tried to speak to her again, and that occurrence had taken place a couple weeks ago. She studied his face, taking in the symmetry of his face, his unbelievably full lips, his steely blue eyes. She knew from seeing him on TV that he was a very good-looking guy, but now, seeing him in person although not up close, she could tell that the camera hadn't done him any justice. Her eyes slipped lower and for a moment, she indulged herself by taking in his heavily muscled torso, shoulders and arms, littered in a variety of black tattoos. She studied the ridges of his abdomen, his well-developed pectoral muscles, his thick lats, his strong, defined arms. There wasn't a doubt in her mind that he could sweep the floor of the gym with every guy in it.