FORTY-ONE

It ended as abruptly and completely as it had begun.

Pilar moved out that afternoon.

“What the fuck?” T.Y. said in bewilderment, entering the garage where Loup was training with Mack. “Did you hear? Pilar just packed her shit and fucking left. Did you guys have a fight?”

Loup, working the speed bag, didn’t answer.

“She told C.C. that Rory Salamanca was gonna let her have a room over the bar. Loup?”

She concentrated on the bag.

“What’s going on?”

Mack glanced at Loup’s face. “Shut up, T.Y.”

“I just wanna know!” he protested.

Mack pointed at the door. “Not now. Go away.”

He left, complaining.

Loup picked up her tempo, increased her force. A bolt in the swivel gave way and the bag went flying. “Shit.”

“ ’S’okay.” Mack hunted for the bolt, unperturbed. “I can fix it.”

“Thanks.”

He nodded.

Without Mack, it would have been unbearable. He’d always been the one who understood her best. He gave her the time and space to endure the hurt, made sure that others did the same.

And it did hurt.

Loup understood why Pilar had done it. She understood that her inability to choose had driven Pilar to it, and she understood that it was the only way Pilar could let her go. It didn’t make it hurt any less. She moved through the days in a waking daze of loss and loneliness, her chest hollow and aching.

But in the ring, her focus sharpened.

It was all she had left. She felt it the first time she entered the gym, permeated with the smell of sweat and mildew and memories of Tommy. The ring stood empty, waiting. Beside it, Floyd was consulting a chart and Miguel was wrapping his hands.

“Hi, kid.” Miguel met her eyes. When you took away the soldiers, Outpost was a small town. He knew. “You ready to do this?”

“Yeah.” Loup took a deep breath. “I am.”

And for a space of time, the world narrowed down and the hurt went away. There was only the steady dance of traded blows and sliding steps. Too slow, too stately; but it was training. Practice. It was the beginning of a long trajectory that would end in another ring, another dance. One that took place under blazing lights, with cheering crowds and an opponent who moved like lightning and hit like thunder.

One that would make a difference.

“Good work,” Floyd said. “Good work.”

Afterward the hurt came back. She washed and dressed slowly in Tommy’s room. He’d never spent much time there and his presence had faded. The memory of Pilar was stronger. Pilar, pretending not to watch her. Storming out in anger when Loup called her on it.

Relenting.

Kissing her, rain-soaked.

Loup shook her head, trying to shake off the memory like a fighter shaking off a shot to the head.

She went downstairs to find Miguel already finished and waiting for her. “Hey, kid.” He jerked his chin at her. “You ever gotten really good and drunk? Falling down, puking in the gutter drunk?”

“No,” she said.

He clapped her shoulder. “Tonight’s the night.”

She thought he’d meant the rooftop, but Miguel took her to the Jericho.

“You need to be around people.” He plunked a bottle of whiskey on the table between them. “Life goes on. For you, not so long. You’re gonna do this thing, you gotta make the most of what’s left.” He poured a couple of shots. “Drink.”

It was good whiskey.

You feel like it tasted.

I dont’t care. After you, it’s all cheap tequila

Her eyes burned.

“Jesus!” Miguel said in disgust. “Quit lookin’ like a goddamn martyred saint on the cross.” He refilled her glass. “Get pissed off, bitch and moan. Pick a fight. Or cry in your cups. I don’t care.”

You can’t cry like regular people, can you?

“I can’t,” Loup said. “And I’m not.”

“Can’t and not what?”

“I can’t cry like normal people. And I’m not pissed off.” She drank the second shot, regarded the empty glass. “Not sure I can get drunk, either. I feel it at first, but it always burns off quick.”

“ ’Cause you have a freaky-ass metabolism.” Miguel poured again for both of them. “Drink faster. So how come you’re not angry? She dumped your cute little ass for the rich boy.”

It’s all cheap tequila…

“Yeah.” The third shot made her head swim. She watched Miguel drink his second, refill their glasses. “I know.”

“So get mad.”

“Can’t.” Loup shook her head. “Not at Pilar.”

Miguel sighed, clinked his glass to hers. “Okay, kid. Just get drunk, then. Trust me, it helps.”

He kept pouring and Loup kept drinking, two drinks to every one of his. And there came a point in the night when the whiskey swamped her metabolism, when the room wavered around her and there was only the tenuous now and the promise of oblivion.

No hurt.

Only this.

She was vaguely aware of Miguel walking her back to the church, her steps unsteady. A couple of MP patrols stopped them, but he made them go away. He was a Garza. It meant something in Outpost.

At the gate, Loup fumbled for her key.

“Hey, sweetheart.” Miguel was drunk, too. He turned her around and pushed her against the closed gate, pinning her there with the weight of his body. “What about a payback fuck? C’mon, think about it. You could see her Salamanca, raise her a Garza.”

She lifted her head with an effort. “Thought I didn’t do it for you, Mig.”

He stroked her cheek. “I like you like this.”

The wrought-iron bars pressed into her back. Memories. I swear to God, I could eat you up with a spoon.

“Drunk?”

“Vulnerable.”

“I don’t want this, Miguel,” Loup said softly. “Don’t be this way. This isn’t who you are. You’re better than this.”

He gazed at her, his face close to hers. “Maybe you think too much of me.”

“No.” A jolt of adrenaline ran through her, clearing the worst of the cobwebs from her head. She pushed him away—not hard, but hard enough to make him stagger. “Maybe you don’t think enough.”

“Fuck!” Miguel caught himself. “I’m only trying to help.”

“Yeah, well, maybe, in your own weird way. Mig, I’m not as messed up inside as you think I am.” Loup eyed him, but he kept his distance. “Or maybe I am, but not in the way you think. Pilar didn’t leave me because she’d been waiting for Rory Salamanca.”

“No shit,” he said sourly.

“It was the only way she could think of to set me free to do this.”

Miguel pulled a flask from his pocket and took a long drink. “Pretty goddamn shitty way.”

“Yeah,” Loup agreed sadly. “It was.”

He held out the flask, drank again when she declined it. “Why didn’t you tell me before?”

“At the Jericho?” She shrugged. “Like you say, it’s a small town. I don’t want it getting back to Rory. I don’t wanna screw this up for Pilar. I screwed up her life bad enough already, and it’s not her fault I couldn’t make myself choose.”

“Santa fuckin’ Olivia.” Miguel shook his head. “Fine. Enjoy your martyrdom.”

She watched him stagger away, then let herself through the gate and made her way to a lonely cot in the dark, empty dormitory room.

FORTY-TWO

Miguel missed their next two sessions.

“I thought that boy had turned a corner,” Coach Roberts mused after Miguel failed to appear a second time. “Did the two of you have some kind of falling-out?”

Loup sighed. “I guess.”

“Hmm.” He studied her. “Made a pass, did he? And you turned him down?”

“How’d you know?”

Floyd’s mouth wrinkled. “Let’s just say I’ve known Miguel Garza a long time. He takes opportunities where he sees them, and he doesn’t like people saying no to him. If that’s all it is, I imagine he’ll come around.” He rubbed his stubbled chin. “You’re a good influence on him, Loup. It troubles him.”

“So what do we do?” she asked. “Just wait?”

“No,” he said slowly. “No, I think this is a good time for you and me to have a serious talk, child.” He put aside his charts. “I’m given to understand you’ve been experiencing some hesitation. Something to do with a… young lady.”

A pang of loss lanced her. “Mig told you?”

“He voiced some concerns, yes.”

“Yeah.” Loup ran one taped hand through her hair. “Well, I’m not experiencing hesitation anymore, sir.”

“It’s all right if you are.” Floyd’s voice was gentle. “For whatever reason. Nothing’s been set in motion yet, nothing’s official. We can call this off today and I promise I’ll bear you no ill will. It’s been a privilege and an adventure to train you.”

“No.” She shook her head. “I’m ready.”

“Well, ready—”

“Ready to make it official.” Loup met his eyes, her gaze steady. “To set things in motion, set a date. I’d like that. I’d like to have something to work toward.”

He pursed his lips. “You’re sure?”

She nodded. “I’m sure.”

“All right.” Floyd rubbed his chin again, taking on a sly look. “What would you think about Santa Olivia’s name day?”

Loup’s eyes lit up. “Seriously?”

“Seriously.” He allowed himself a smile. “It falls on the third Saturday of the month next year. Your eighteenth birthday, if I’m not mistaken. If we’re going to do this, we might as well do it with style and panache, Loup Garron.”