Page 10 of Strike
I took a step closer. “Shut your fucking mouth.”
“I would shut yours, but you’re too coward to face me in the cage. You would forfeit the moment your name was drawn with mine.” He narrowed his eyes in warning. “You’re not worth riskin’ the Championship to fight now. I wouldn’t even give you five cents for the chance to knock your head off, let alone risk losin’ a cool million.”
“It’s all about money to you, isn’t it?”
“Integrity,” he replied, laughing in my face. “That’s what it’s about.”
My lip curled as I stared him down, struggling to keep my temper under control. No, I didn’t want to fight him because I’d made Lori a promise. She didn’t come to The Underground anymore, but her boyfriend did. If I fought him, I would be breaking it, and I didn’t want to hurt her any more than I already had. If I fought Hamish—win or lose—I would be drawn into her stratosphere once more.
I’d promised to leave her alone and never contact her again, and I intended to honor it. I owed her, not her grudge-wielding boyfriend. I didn’t need to explain myself to him.
I thought about all the things I could throw in his face—my promise, my shit existence, my misery, saving the ashen-haired woman from the fire—but it wasn’t worth it.
Hissing, I shoved him back and stalked off, the crowd parting like I was the embodiment of my namesake. A storm was brewing, and they were scrambling to get out of the way before they were steamrolled.
It was better I remained anonymous. Here, out there, and when it came to that fire. It was better for everyone if I kept punishing myself with obscurity.
I was glad the ashen-haired woman was okay. At least her life was repairable. Mine had gone up in flames a long time ago.
5
Callie
Iwoke with a start, sweat sticking my flimsy T-shirt to my skin.
Wiping my forehead with the back of my hand, I stared up at the ceiling, trying to shake off the dream. I still seemed to be within it even though I knew I was back in reality. Fire, clear as day, crawled up my curtains, and smoke the color of darkness was choking my lungs.
Blinking furiously, the image began to dissolve, and I was back in my room.
The darkness was broken up by the streetlight outside. Artificial light was creeping around the cracks in the curtains, leaving lines across my bedspread. The city was quiet, the little side street in the inner city suburb of Northcote was empty. Everyone was asleep, but I was wide-awake.
Who are you?
Rubbing my eyes, I reached for my phone and checked the time. One thirty-two a.m. Groaning, I unlocked the screen and checked my notifications out of habit. Social media was the great distraction of the twenty-first century if you asked me. People could say whatever they wanted online, and who the fuck cared if it was true or false or blatantly offensive? Take away accountability, give a person some anonymity, and it was a free for all.
Still, I couldn’t help checking to see if I had any messages.Slave.
There were a lot of comments about the fire and some shares and likes on older images and posts, but there didn’t seem to be anything from my mystery savior. The man with the chestnut bordering on chocolate eyes was still as mysterious as ever.
Setting my phone down, I rolled over and closed my eyes. My mind heaved with images, thoughts, and a strange longing, and sleep was beyond me. Frustrated, I picked up my phone and opened it again.
What was I doing? It was almost two in the morning, I was exhausted yet wide-awake, my body was coiled with a weird-as-fuck frustration, and I was dreaming about being burned alive. I needed to get something off my chest, but what was it?
The man. That was what.Who are you?
I tapped the notepad icon, and a new note appeared. Staring at the flashing icon, I allowed my thoughts to roam freely. I wasn’t the best writer in the world, but I had to get this out. He’d disappeared after doing such a selfless thing and had forced me to live without closure. I needed to tell him how I felt. Not how I found him hauntingly handsome but the ‘thanks for saving my life’ part.
My fingers flew over the little keyboard, and I went back and fixed some autocorrects, but I put it all out there. My life was in such a limbo state, with everything up in the air, I just had to tell somebody. I had customers who were dying to sample my creations in person, so I had to tell them what was going on, right? I owed it to my followers to tell them the story…
Honestly, it was more of a selfish reason that drove me to copy and paste the note into my social media accounts and attach a photo of the burned-out shop and another of me with one of my cakes—a ten-tiered wedding extravaganza I’d made a few months ago—and hit post. I wanted to find my handsome stranger. It was becoming an obsession with the amount of time I spent thinking about him and not rebuilding my business. I knew it was only two days since the fire, but I knew me. When I became fixated on something, look the fuck out.
Reading over the post again, I edited a typo.
My name is Callie Winslow, and two nights ago, I was almost burned alive.
I was painting in the storeroom of my soon-to-be-opened shop, The Fitzroy Cake Company, on Brunswick Street, Fitzroy.
You guys already know about me and my dream to one day have my own little slice of the retail pie (pun totally intended) and share my sugary creations with the world. Cupcakes with rainbow buttercream icing, a ten-tiered wedding cake to help celebrate a special union, a slice of red velvet and chocolate sponge with chocolate ganache drip icing to cheer up a dreary afternoon. Small, humble, personalized happiness on a plate. That’s The Fitzroy Cake Company’s core value…and mine.
