Page 38 of The Beast's Heart

He shakes his head. At first I think he’s going to deny any part in it, say it was all Lloyd’s roadmap, but he says, “Don’t get me started. You’ll never get me to shut up.”

Another surprise. “So you must have some idea of what you would imagine the perfect foster home to be?”

“The perfect foster home is one that doesn’t exist,” he says. “It’s support for parents, children kept within families.”

“But that’s not always possible, is it?” I cock my head at our sleeping charges.

He hums agreement and closes his eyes, as if picturing the home in question. “It’s a home that empowers them, sets them up for a bright future.”

“And?”

“And it’s warm. Safe. A place where they never have to go without, where they feel secure.”

“You see.” I smile at him. “You have your own map. You don’t need Lloyd’s.”

His eyes are so bright in the firelight. Large with long reddish eyelashes. It strikes me how beautiful he is. Not just tough and rugged but pretty. I itch to touch him, to run my fingers through his beard.Oh god, this wine has gone straight to my head.

He drops his gaze, staring into his wine again. “You don’t understand, Belle. I’m a tool of destruction. I was raised that way, trained that way. Prior to wrestling I was a street fighter. Punching and kicking and causing grievous bodily harm for a living. Give me something to hit, I’m your man. No one will dispute that. I don’t knowhowto do this.”

“So we do it together,” I say andbloody hellI wish I could take it back immediately because he looks at me with such a strange expression, intent and confused. What in the world made me say that? I save myself by nodding at the sleeping forms of Ray, Meredith and, yes, Geoff, in turn to make it absolutely clear I didn’t mean him and me.Even though I think I did. What is wrong with me?

15

ADAM

The year was 2002. It was October. I’d just started at the promotion and was still a nobody, but I’d had my first big bouts as The Beast and the crowds loved me. So the promotion had seen dollar signs and put me to work building my profile. I went on press tours, I gave interviews, I attended parties in LA, fashion events in London, and in New York… they sent me to a charity gala.

I was seated at a table with strangers. I was more exhausted than I’d ever been in my life and that was the very last place I wanted to be. This French-Canadian blond kept getting on everyone’s nerves. He’d already gone off at me about an offhand comment about the price of being here. Then the oil baron across from me said something insensitive about immigration and the blond was like a dog with a bone about it. I hated him for it, for disturbing my well-earned peace. He was being thoroughly unpleasant. But the more I was forced to listen to him, the more I started to agree with what he said. When he put me on the spot and asked my opinion, what came out of my mouth was an argument in his defense. I told them how I was an immigrant, how I’d struggled, even though I’d been brought into the country as a child. The rich folk turned all their attention oninterrogating me, and that blond guy just sat there listening. I was furious.

But, a little later, when everyone was distracted by speeches, he leaned over to me and whispered, “You want to get out of here?”

I nodded and we left. Just like that. Thousands of dollars for a plate and we didn’t even eat.

Outside, he lit a cigarette with shaking hands and took a long drag. “Are you famous enough that we’ll be mobbed?” he asked.

I shook my head.

We walked up Fifth Avenue. I didn’t ask where we were going. I didn’t say anything at all.

“I’m a composer,” Lloyd said. “No one recognizes authors or composers. We’re lucky. You’re a wrestler?”

“That’s right.”

“Beating people up for a living. Tell me,” he stubbed out the cigarette, “do you enjoy it?”

“Beating people up?”

“I’m not a fan of blood sports.”

“Wrestling isn’t a blood sport. It’s showmanship.”

“And you like showing off?”

That was Lloyd. Not an ounce of tact, always asking the big questions.

“What do you really want to know?” I asked. “Or are you just rearing for another argument?”

“An argument? Dear god, no. I’m trying to gauge whether I want to sleep with you.”

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