Chapter 10 Lyra
LYRA
The apartment is silent except for the occasional creak of a pipe or stomp from my upstairs neighbor.
I stare down at the plastic tray in front of me.
I haven't taken a single bite. The smell of processed meat and artificial gravy turns my stomach, but I bought it, so I should eat it. Wasting food is a luxury I can't afford.
I fork the mashed potatoes and the whole pile almost lifts off the plate, so that's not helping.
I push another pea around the small black TV tray compartment and suddenly I hear a voice I haven't heard in a long time.
"You gonna eat those?"
I blink, and suddenly I'm not in my shitty apartment anymore. I'm on the floor next to a cot in a windowless room with gray walls and a woman sitting across from me, her knees tucked into her chest.
"No," I say, handing the plate to her. "Take them."
She doesn't hesitate. Her fingers scoop the peas into her mouth, one by one at first, then all at once.
Her name's Sabrina. She's been here before. Her fourth miscarriage, and I've had to help her through. I'm worried they'll get rid of her since she can't produce a baby, but maybe there's hope. Maybe she has other skills. I'm still here.
"Do you want more? I can see if I can get you something?" I ask her.
She shakes her head. "Yeah, but, I mean, I don't want you to get in trouble."
"No trouble," I lie. I never really know what gets me in trouble. Sometimes I ask and they give. Other times, I get hit. It depends on the day. The mood. The man I'm asking.
We're sitting in the back room of an Albanian compound. It's three in the morning. The guards are either sleeping or busy with the girls. This is the safest time for me to eat, to be left alone.
She gives me a small smile. "Hey, sorry about your dad. Another girl told me," she says.
I shrug. "I don't really care. He's the reason I'm here. If giving up his daughter didn't stop his gambling, it was only a matter of time before he was killed. I don't think about him much."
Sabrina nods. "Yeah. I don't think about my parents either. Maybe my mom sometimes. She killed herself a year before I left home. My dad was a piece of shit. I wasn't sticking around to be his excuse. Sometimes I think I should have though. Maybe I'd have ended up better, but probably not by much."
"Do you regret leaving?" I ask, because I have a lot of regrets.
She looks down. "I make the best of it, I'm sure.
My life isn't great, and no one's ever gonna tell me, 'Gosh, I wish I had your life.
You just get to sit around, fuck, and try to have kids.
Lucky you.' But I don't know," she says and finishes her peas.
"There's a few good men who come around. I kind of latch onto them."
"Latch onto them?" I ask.
"Yeah, like maybe they aren't the nice guy from those stupid romantic comedies.
Shit, maybe they're not even good guys, per se, but they're better than most in my life.
They give me a little extra money without letting anyone know.
Bring me things. A book. A candy bar. Something to make me feel like a person, not just a body, ya know? "
I shake my head from side to side. "I wish. I don't get anything like that."
Sabrina's eyes are sunken, but they soften when she looks at me. She's only twenty-three, but looks much older. Her body has been used up, wrung out by men and failed pregnancies and whatever else the Albanians want from her.
"Well, one day you will, Lyra. Probably when you least expect it, and probably from a person you'd never want anything from.
But be open to it. Girls like us, the best we get are the leftovers.
The psycho men who have their brief moment of chivalry.
Take it. It's nice to feel seen more than an object from time to time, even if it's fleeting and not perfect. "
"Something to think about," I say, standing.
"Better than spiraling," she says with a laugh.
I force a smile. "Let me go see about some more food."
A harsh ring of a phone cuts through my memory and yanks me back into the present.
I jump, sending my fork clattering to the floor. The peas scatter across the linoleum.
It takes me a moment to realize it's not my regular phone. It's the sleek black one Declan gave me three nights ago. The one I'm supposed to always answer.
I stare at it, considering not answering, but then I remember his warning. And the money. Four times my regular pay.
I pick it up on the fourth ring.
"Hello?"
"You took your sweet time." Declan's voice is sharp, irritated.
"I was eating."
"I'm texting you an address," he says. "Be there in one hour."
He hangs up.
No hello. No please.
Asshole.
I throw my nearly full TV dinner in the trash and grab my medical bag. I've spent the past few days staring at that black phone, wondering when it would ring. Now I almost wish it hadn't.
The address Declan texted me is in one of the wealthiest parts of Boston. I didn't think underground fights happened there, but I guess money and violence go hand in hand no matter the zip code.
The car is cold on my skin as I drive through traffic. The heater stopped working—well, I'm not sure when. It didn't work when I bought it.
My beat-up Corolla is incredibly out of place when I reach the address. I slow down, certain I've made a mistake.
A gleaming tower rises twenty stories against the night sky. A sign at the entrance reads Killaney Plaza in elegant script.
Of course.
This isn't just some random venue. It's his family's building.
I park and grab my medical bag from the passenger seat.
As I get out, I think about why a guy whose family has so much money would deal with this shit. What reason could someone have to voluntarily choose this lifestyle? I sure as hell wouldn't.
I slam my door, sling my bag over my shoulder, and start walking toward the building, looking for any signs of an underground fight—bouncers, a line of people—but I don't find anything.
A man appears from around one of the columns and tosses his cigarette onto the ground.
"Lyra?" he asks when I'm close enough.
I nod, gripping my bag tighter.
"Follow me."
He leads me to a service elevator at the back of the building. The doors slide open silently, and he gestures for me to enter. I hesitate for a fraction of a second before stepping inside. I watch as he presses the button for the basement level.
We descend in silence.
The moment the door at the bottom opens, the roar hits me.
Shouting. Screaming. Cheers. Chants.
Two men stumble past us, carrying a third between them. Blood drips from the injured fighter's face, leaving a trail on the concrete floor. His left eye is swollen shut, nose definitely broken.
Yup. Definitely fight night.
I look up and inside the basement ring, it's chaos.
No gloves. Bare knuckles. No regulation.
Just bodies slamming into each other like animals.
Men in designer suits yelling and women in short skirts and too-high heels drinking from glasses.
This isn't like the normal crowds. There's more money, wealthier people tonight.
And everyone's eyes are focused on the fighting ring in the center, where two men circle each other like wolves.
I look and see the man who brought me here has disappeared. Okay, I guess I'll just make my way to the center.
I barely make it two steps when a hand grabs my ass.
"Looking for a good time, honey?"
Before I can twist and break his wrist, a towering figure steps in.
It's Declan, and his face is a mask of cold fury.
In one fluid motion, he grabs the man's wrist and bends it backward at an unnatural angle. The man drops to his knees with a strangled cry.
"This is my medic," Declan says, his voice dark. "If you touch her again, not even she will be able to save you."
The man's face contorts with pain. "I'm sorry! I didn't know she was with you."
Declan releases him with a shove and he scrambles away, clutching his wrist.
He then turns, and without a word, grabs my arm and starts pulling me through the crowd.
Out of instinct, I snap.
"I didn't need your help," I say, twisting free. "I could have handled it."
He keeps walking.
"Hey," I say, following him. "Did you hear me?"
He stops so abruptly I nearly run into his back. When he turns, his green eyes are dark with intensity, the crowd roaring behind him.
"I've got three fighters. 1.2 million on the line. No gloves." He gestures toward the ring, where two men are tearing each other apart. "Too much blood, they call it. So fucking staple them together if you have to."
He turns and walks away, leaving me standing there, furious and flustered. He didn't even acknowledge what I said. Just swooped in like I was some damsel in distress and then dismissed me.
I don't need him or his protection. I've been handling grabby most of my life.
Pushing down my anger, I focus on the fight. The money I'll get.
The two men in the ring seem evenly matched. Both tall, muscular, and probably crazy.
One of them, however, is beginning to falter. His movements are slowing, blood running into his eyes from a deep gash.
The bell rings and the fighter staggers to his corner with the ref. Declan speaks to him and then motions urgently for me to join them.
I push through the crowd as the fighter collapses onto his stool, breathing heavily. Blood streams down his face.
"Ref's going to call it," Declan says as I approach. "Fix him. Now."
I assess the damage quickly. Deep cuts. He needs stitches, but there's no time.
"I need to close these wounds," I tell Declan. "He's losing too much blood."
"You have sixty seconds," Declan says, his voice tense. "Make them count."
I pull out my supplies and begin working. The fighter winces as I wipe away the blood.
"Hold still," I command. My voice is steady even though my heart races. I've done this hundreds of times, but never with so much money on the line.
The cut is deep. Butterfly bandages won't hold through another round of punishment.
"I need to put in at least two stitches," I say. "Hold his head."
Declan steadies his head with both hands. The position brings him uncomfortably close to me. I can feel his breath on my neck as I thread the needle.
"Thirty seconds," the referee calls out.
Shit.
I pierce the skin with the needle, drawing the edges of the wound together. The fighter grunts but doesn't flinch.
Declan leans closer, his chest against my back as he helps hold the fighter still. His hands brush mine as he wipes away fresh blood.
"Maybe the infamous ghost doctor works better under me," he says, his lips close to my ear.
Something rises in me. Anger, I tell myself.
I ignore him, focusing on tying off the second stitch.
"Ten seconds!" the ref yells.
I finish. It probably won't hold for long, but it might buy him a few rounds.
"Done," I say, just as the bell rings.
The fighter stands, his legs steadier now that he can see. Declan slaps him on the shoulder and whispers something in his ear before he returns to the center of the ring.
Declan looks at me and smiles. "Good under pressure."
I nod and wipe the hair out of my face with the back of my hand. I won't lie, the adrenaline was a rush, but I don't show it.
I back away, watching as the fight resumes.
For the next few hours, I'm caught in a cycle of blood and more adrenaline. Between rounds, I patch up cuts, staunch bleeding, and assess for concussions. Declan's fighters win two matches and lose one, an outcome he seems to be happy with.
After the final fight, the crowd begins to disperse. I pack up my supplies, exhausted but satisfied with my work. None of the injuries were life-threatening, though two fighters will have new scars to add to their collections.
I head toward the exit, ready to go home and shower off the night's blood and sweat.
"Lyra." Declan's voice stops me.
I turn to see him approaching, his shirt unbuttoned at the collar, sleeves rolled up to reveal muscular forearms. He holds an envelope in his hand.
"Here," he says, holding it out to me. "What I promised, plus a little extra."
I glance inside the envelope. There's more cash than I've ever held at once, several thousand dollars at least.
I close it and nod, stuffing it into my bag.
I try to move past him, but he shifts, blocking my path. "What exactly do you plan on doing with all the money I'm going to pay you?" he asks, his voice casual but his eyes intent.
I look up at him. "I thought you knew. Had it all figured out."
"Obviously you want to leave," he says, crossing his arms. "But where?"
The question catches me off guard. My mind flashes to the picture I used to keep hidden. A magazine clipping of old stone buildings and mist-covered mountains. Transylvania. Romania. The place he told me about.
The memory surfaces unwanted, a rare moment of kindness in a sea of cruelty.
One night I was treating a contact, an older Romanian man.
After I fixed him, instead of punishing me, he told me about his homeland.
How there were still places in Romania where people lived simply.
Villages where you could disappear and start over.
Places where the past couldn't follow you.
A few months later, I found a picture of a place called Bra?ov, Romania, and I ripped it out. I'd kept that picture with me for years, until one of the others found it and tore it to shreds in front of me, laughing as I tried not to cry.
I shake my head, pushing that memory away. "It's none of your business," I say coldly.
"Humor me," he presses. "New York? Chicago? Miami?"
I force a smile. "Vegas," I lie. "Always wanted to see the desert."
Declan studies me, his green eyes searching mine. I can tell he doesn't believe me, but I don't care. My dreams aren't for him to know.
"Vegas," he repeats, the word flat with disbelief. "Somehow I don't see you dealing cards at the Bellagio."
"Well, good thing you don't need to see me at all once this arrangement is done." I step around him. "Now if you don't mind, I'd like to go home."
He doesn't try to stop me this time, but his voice follows me as I walk away. "Stay by your phone, Lyra. I'll be needing you soon."
I don't look back as I head toward the elevator. I think of the envelope in my bag.
Maybe this is what Sabrina was talking about that night, accepting the fleeting kindness of a monster.
Maybe Declan is the man I should latch onto, not push away, to get what I want. What I'm after.
Fuck. I don't even know how to do that without feeling like I'm losing myself.
But maybe I should try.
Learn how to play his game, and beat him at it.