And there is Sia. A dark sprite with wide green eyes, high cheekbones, and a full, generous mouth. She is gazing up at him and her heart is in her eyes.

And there is Jake’s arm around her shoulders, holding her tight against his side.

And here is my heart, squeezing in my chest so hard I can barely breathe. He didn’t waste any time.

Five minutes pass and then ten. Fighters join Fuzzy and me on the terrace. I make small talk but barely follow the conversations. Sweat trickles down my back. My head aches from too much champagne and too much tension and the effort of conversing when really all I want is to escape. Belatedly, I realize it doesn’t matter when Shayla brings the keys. I am in no condition to drive home.

When Fuzzy is called away to help set up the makeshift fight ring, I slip away from the party and wander through the mansion in search of Shayla. As I turn down yet another marble hallway, someone calls my name.

Jake.

Hope dies a second death today.

Within seconds he is in front of me, sweat beading his brow, his chest heaving as if he was just running. His face is a curious mix of puzzled alarm and irritated anxiety, but still so painfully beautiful to me, my heart squeezes and longing grips me so hard I can barely breathe.

“Where are you going?” Cold. Abrupt. To the point.

“Home. I’m trying to find Shayla. She’s got my keys.”

Jake studies me for all of three seconds and then frowns. “You are in no condition to drive.”

“I’m well aware of that. I’m going to call a cab, but I need my keys first; otherwise I won’t be able to pick up my car tomorrow.”

He scrapes his hand through his hair. “I’ll take you home.”

“I’d rather take a cab.”

“Still can’t accept help?” His jaw tightens and suddenly we’re back to the question game that so devastated me two weeks ago.

“This is who I am,” I say with a quiet voice that belies the turmoil inside. “I’ve been this way for as long as I can remember. I learned to be independent and self-reliant by necessity. I learned to trust only myself because inevitably people let me down. You want me to give that up. You want both of my feet over the line. You want me to give myself completely to you. I tried, and it terrified me. Clearly, that’s just not something I can do.”

“People change.”

Shayla races past us wearing fight shorts and a spandex bra top. Her hair is scraped back into a ponytail and all traces of her makeup are gone. She tosses the keys to me and then yells “Rampage, you’re going down,” as she hits the patio, fist pumping in the air.

“Maybe on the outside they change,” I say to Jake as I tuck the keys into my purse and pull out my phone. “But at heart, they are always the same. We just have to find the person who will love us for who we are.”

“You think I let you down?” He looks at me aghast. “You think I gave up on you?”

“No. True to form, I did it all by myself.”

***

“’Manda! Where you been? You missed a lot of classes. Fuzzy is foaming at the mouth.” Rampage drops his duffel bag and gives me a big hug as I step through the doors of Redemption a few days after Blade Saw’s party. He is freshly showered and looking very unlike his fighter self in a pair of designer jeans and a fresh white shirt.

“Busy at work.”

“Poor ’manda.” He pats my head and the gentle gesture almost tips the bubbling cauldron of emotions I am so desperately trying to hide.

“Um…I just came to empty my locker and get you and the other guys involved in the Hellhole case to sign some documents. Are they around?” My heart pounds in fearful anticipation of encountering Jake. Although Shayla assured me he wasn’t going to be in tonight, I still can’t stop myself from shooting covert glances down the hallway and toward the locker room.

Rampage shakes his head. “Everyone’s gone to the Protein Palace. I’m heading there now if you want to join us.”

“Protein Palace?”

He throws an arm over my shoulders and leads me back to the door. “New establishment. Run by a coupla retired MMA fighters. Protein is their specialty—protein shakes, grilled meat, eggs, and every supplement you could want. Very popular, especially before big events since everyone is dieting and trying to make weight. They’ve decorated the place to look like a ’50s-style diner. You’re gonna love it.”

I look up at a grinning Rampage. “Sounds…healthy.”

An hour later, I am squeezed into a tiny red vinyl booth between Rampage and Blade Saw. Clearly the owners of the Protein Palace forgot to take into consideration the size of their prospective patrons. The booth would comfortably fit Rampage alone, but with the place absolutely heaving, it’s three to a seat, or two, after I’m squished to death. But Rampage was right. The place looks like a ’50s diner with its shiny, red vinyl stools and booths, glistening chrome, and sparkly tiles. The waitresses wear mini dresses and scoot around on roller skates. But the music is decidedly modern and consists solely of fight songs blasted at a high decibel level through tinny speakers.

“Oh. My. God.” I grab Rampage’s arm. “Is that Pierre Peterson?” I point out the number one ranked heavyweight UFC fighter in California. “And is that…Tommy the Terminator?”

Starstruck, I momentarily forget my mission as Homicide Hank, sitting across from us, points out some other famous fighters standing around the old-fashioned jukebox.