Oh, God
, Ed prayed, suddenly afraid.
Oh, God, please—please, I don't want to die!
The lights above Ed went out, and darkness descended on a final wave of pain.
They were being thrown out.
Laurie walked through the crowded hall in a daze, clutching the strap of his bag as if it were a lifeline. This couldn't be happening. Not to him. Not to Laurence Parker. They could not be throwing him out. Not him. And yet they were.
All eyes were on him as he moved. Cameras flashed. Reporters’ microphones thrust forward as far as they dared, but the guards pushed them back, saying all interviews would happen outside the arena. The press kept up with their every step, like wolves waiting for the kill.
Laurie was alone. Paul had locked himself in his dressing room; his removal would be the more dramatic, but even if they had to take him out in a straitjacket, Laurie's removal would still be the more interesting. Paul was the unknown. This was Paul's sport, but Laurie was the name. Laurie was the great star that, to the delight of the press corps, was about to fall. Or rather, Laurence was. That only added fuel to the press's fire, that he'd gotten by them with a trick, entering as Laurie Parker, not Laurence. Drama. Deceit. Scandal. A legend ready to fall. The story practically wrote itself.
In the end, Laurie was grateful for the reporters. He was glad they were there, glad they were so ravenous, so trained on catching his breakdown, so ready to chronicle the first moments of his demise, because knowing they were waiting for him to break made him all the more determined not to.
He did not so much as falter in his step. His face was a mask, and he moved down the hallway to the waiting car with the same grace he employed onstage. He didn't speak a single word, didn't bat an eye as their calls turned into shouts, as the microphones and cameras pressed closer, until the guards were physically holding them back as they tried with increasing desperation to get to Laurie.
"Why did you do it?” a reporter shouted out across the throng as Laurie slipped into the safety of the car.
Laurie didn't answer, just shut the door and ordered the driver to take them away from the arena and back to his hotel. He didn't relax against the seat but kept himself rigid as he rode across the city. He let the concierge's staff help him to the elevator that would take him, quietly, up to his suite.
Paul was not there. Paul, he knew, would likely not be back at all that night. They would have their fight later, the final fall. In that moment, it was just Laurie in the silent suite, Laurie who dimmed the lights, Laurie who took his portable player into the bathroom and turned on the music before he started the hot water for his shower.
“Why did you do it?”
The reporter's question still rang in his ears, but even there, even in the close privacy of the bathroom with comforting music wrapping around him, Laurie didn't answer. He just stepped into the shower, felt the water slide across the face, and let the ivory mask fall.
Chapter One
abrazo: the dance hold, or embrace, in the Argentine tango
October, 2010
Ed Maurer tapped his thumb against his steering wheel while he inched along the Twin Cities traffic, sloughing off a rough afternoon as a corporate drone as he headed to Halcyon Center.
He still shook a little from watching three more people from his department clean out their desks, torn between feeling bad for them and feeling fucking relieved he hadn't been one of them. His neck was a little stiffer than it should be too, especially since he'd taken four ibuprofen half an hour ago. But that was probably stress.
On 35E things cleared up a little, and pretty soon Ed exited and zipped down the streets of St. Paul toward the center. Tonight he was going to be a teacher. To a bunch of street kids, yes, but they were good kids. Great kids, really, who didn't get enough support and help in life. It was a volunteer position, but the director had given him the job because she'd seen how well he'd interacted with the kids. And he did like them. They reminded him of himself at their age, except they were a lot more jaded than he remembered being.
It wasn't a big deal, but it made him feel good. Made him feel useful in a way he hadn't in a long, long time.
His buoyant mood dimmed a little as he caught a glimpse of the playing fields off Payne Avenue and saw two guys giving each other shit as they tossed a football back and forth. His gaze lingered there longer than it should have, both for safety and for the preservation of his fragile optimism, and as if it knew what he was thinking, his neck sent a sharp twinge down the long, vulnerable cord of muscle.
Ed forced his eyes back onto the road. After a few seconds, he reached for the MP3 player hooked up to his stereo. Fumbling through the music between glances at the road, he punched at the machine until he found the song he was looking for. He stared hard at the road until a breathy voice declared, “It's Britney, bitch.” As the familiar opening beat filtered through his ears, it bled out some of the tension and chased away some of the clouds. Within a few blocks, he was singing along and tapping his thumb to the beat.
Ed pulled his Mazda into a parking spot, grabbed his duffel and his notes, and headed into the building, humming under his breath as he went. He winked at the receptionist as he passed back the sign-in clipboard, grinned at an old buddy and tossed him a cheery, “Heya!” and gave him a high five as he passed. He was feeling good as he ducked into the locker room, and as he headed around the corner, he sang, “Gimme, gimme more” under his breath.
“Oh, fucking A, somebody's singin’ Britney Spears. Look out. Maurer's here.”
Ed laughed and waved in the direction of the voice without looking as he headed to his locker. He could see the young man who had spoken to him out of the corner of his eye, a dark, overly clothed shadow leaning against the line of lockers. “What's up, Duon? You keeping out of trouble?”
“Fuck, no.”
Ed glanced at him, making sure he didn't let his gaze linger too long, because Duon got mad when people checked up on him. But even a cursory glance revealed a bruised cheek and a cut beneath Duon's right eye. Ducking his head to hide his grimace, Ed said, “Vicky see that shiner yet?”
Duon snorted. “Yes. Tried to call the fucking cops. Like they're gonna care.” He rolled his eyes.
Ed busied himself inside his locker and tried for levity. “Need to find yourself a big strapping boyfriend to protect you, Duon.”
“Fuck you, bitch!
I'm
the big strapping boyfriend!” He folded his arms over his chest and glared at Ed.
Which had been the reaction Ed had been hoping for. He fought a smile as he unbuttoned his shirt and shrugged out of it before hanging it on a peg in his locker. “So that mean you're coming to my class tonight? Gonna come show me up?”
“Whatever.” Duon came over to sprawl at the end of the bench. “Damn, man, but I hope I can stay as buff as you are when I get old.”
That
did
make Ed smile, and he turned his head to look the kid in the eye as he explained that thirty-four was
not
old—
—but winced instead as his neck sent a shaft of pain up and over into his right eye. Pain exploded in his head, and for a few terrible seconds, he couldn't see or hear anything at all.
When his vision cleared, Duon was standing in front of him, looking up at Ed with wide, worried eyes.
“Shit, man,” Duon said. “You okay?”
Ed nodded—carefully—and reached up to rub the muscle. “Fine.” He shut his eyes and rolled his shoulder, feeling the inside of his skull light up. He kept working his shoulder anyway, and the pain eased with each successive rotation, eventually settling down to a dull roar. He opened his eyes again and turned back to the locker, reaching down to peel off his T-shirt. “I'm fine,” he said again, but even so, he took extra care in removing the garment.
“You need to get your ass back to that doctor,” Duon said.
“I'm fine.” Ed pulled his muscle tee on over his head—also carefully—and fumbled with the buckle of his belt. “It's already settling down.” He started to nod at Duon, then changed the gesture to a wave of his hand instead. “Go on. I gotta get ready. Swing by the copy room and find those waiver forms for me, will you?”
“Sure.” Duon was clearly reluctant to leave Ed, but he did, and once he was gone, Ed let himself sag briefly against the locker next to his own. Then he squared his shoulders and his resolve, and he finished getting dressed.
His whistle was a bit forced as he finally ducked back into the hall, his notes tucked under his arm. His neck had rattled him a little, and he tried to get his game back. He told himself it was just a fluke. It wasn't a big deal. He was going to go teach a class, and he was going to be fine. It was going to be fucking great, to quote Duon. It didn't matter that this was twice today his neck had bugged him, and that the last instance had actually been a little alarming. It was fine.
He turned the corner and headed for the weight room.
Music blared down the hall from the main gym, really shitty house music circa 1997 made even worse by being pumped through the PA system. Over the top of it came a shrill, insistent call of “And one! And two! And three! Work it, ladies!”
The nasal tones hit something primal in Ed's hindbrain, making his neck light up all over again. Wincing, Ed double-timed it to the weight room. “
No
.”
But when he opened the door, the same earsplitting cacophony that he'd heard in the hallway was blaring into the weight room too, and unlike in the hall, the music wasn't muted. In addition to bleeding through the door, it was pulsing through the in-ceiling speakers. Nobody who wasn't completely deaf could stand to stay in the room for more than five minutes, let alone teach a class.
It was
him.
Again.
Ed swore under his breath. Then he turned, headed back into the hall, and aimed himself at the stairs that would take him up to Vicky's office.
Halcyon Center's director was on the phone when Ed stuck his head through the gap in her door, but she waved him in and motioned toward the chairs on the opposite side of her desk without so much as missing a beat in her conversation. Ed entered, but he didn't sit, choosing instead to make a study of the art on Vicky's walls. He took in the smiling faces of the local gymnastics team and a Minnesota Gophers basketball calendar, but he was mostly using them as focal points to calm his rage. Not even the sight of his old Lumberjacks poster could draw his attention.
He couldn't believe this was happening again. And of all the nights! Of all the
goddamned nights!
Vicky hung up the phone and turned to Ed, smiling, but Ed was so agitated he couldn't even wait for her to invite him to speak.
“It's happening again,” Ed snapped, pointing at the floor in the general direction of the gymnasium. “He's playing music over the PA, and it's piping into the weight room. It's even louder than it was the last time.”
Vicky pursed her lips and reached for a notepad. “I'll have Bob look into it first thing in the morning.”
Ed pointed at the clock. “But my class starts in ten minutes!”
Vicky looked at the clock too. Then she sighed. “We'll have to cancel it for tonight. I'll make sure they have it sorted out by next week.”
Ed's heart lurched, but he took a step closer to Vicky's desk and tried to put on a charming face. “Why can't
he
get cancelled and rescheduled for next week? He's the one making all the noise, after all.”
“Because that class has ninety people in it, all paying fifty dollars a head for eight weeks to hear him make his noise.” When Ed's expression fell, Vicky looked at him over the top of her glasses. “I have to look after the bottom line, buddy. This place is nonprofit, but tell that to the light bill. When your weight class brings in that kind of cash, you'll get that kind of treatment too.”
“Vicky, it's my
first class
. And it's never going to bring in money. It's free. Come on, Vic. I've been looking forward to this for a month, and now you're telling me, ‘Sorry, go home and watch TV'?
Come on
.”
“It's just for a week,” she pointed out.
Ed sank down into one of the chairs. “
Vicky
.”
She sighed and leaned forward at her desk. “I'll make sure it's fixed for next time. I swear. Even if I have to ask Laurie to cut his class short by a half hour.” When Ed perked up, she held up a hand before he could ask. “I can't ask tonight. He's going to need to be finessed after how badly you riled him up the last time. If he even
thinks
this might be coming from you, it's never going to happen at all.”
That made Ed glower. “I still don't see why he can't just bring in a sound system of his own.”
“Because it's a huge, echoing gym, and nothing portable would work. All we have to offer him is the PA. You know damn well that anything worth ten bucks around here gets stolen.”
“What about that old system in the storeroom off the stage?”
“It shorts out half the time, which you well know.” Vicky nodded her head in the direction of the gym. “Not to mention that he does this for free as a favor to me, and, once again, because he—”
“—brings in a lot of money for the center.” Ed slumped his shoulders briefly in defeat, then rose. “Okay.”
Vicky eyed him suspiciously. “What are you planning?”
Ed held up his hands and shook his head. “Not a thing, I swear.”
Which was true. He didn't know what he was going to do about it. Yet.
Vicky tapped her pencil on the ledger open on her desk. “Can you promise me I will still have my extremely lucrative aerobics class?”
“Oh yeah.” Probably.
“With my exceptionally affordable instructor still at its head?” she added.
“Not a problem,” Ed assured her.
Her eyes narrowed. “And that I will not be interrupted in the middle of my phone meeting with a coordinator for a potential grant by a harangue about the bumbling Neanderthal who doesn't know his place?”