CHAPTER 19

Hazel

I stood outside the venue, watching every car that turned into the lot.

The queue behind me had been long when I arrived and was now shrinking fast. People were filing in, with their tickets checked, the energy outside already climbing. I had been standing here long enough to feel it in my feet.

Wrestling was not something I would ordinarily pay money to watch. On a very good day, it would not make my list. But anything to spend time with Elvis, to get another hour outside the office where he was slightly less guarded and slightly more human.

It had started this morning on my walk this sunday when I saw two men selling coffee on the street corner who were deep in conversation about tonight's fight, talking over each other with the kind of enthusiasm that only comes from people who genuinely care about something. From what I pieced together, it was going to be intense, a proper street-style match, the kind that drew crowds. I had slowed my pace, listened, and when they finished, I walked straight over and asked where to get tickets.

They were kind enough to point me in the right direction.

That was this morning. Now it was almost showtime, and I was standing here second-guessing myself, which was not a habit I was proud of.

What if he doesn't come?

I looked down at the extra face cap and sunglasses I'd picked up for him, cheap ones, practical enough to keep him from being recognized in a crowd.

A car pulled into the lot.

I knew it was him before I fully registered what I was seeing, the orange Lamborghini moving through the parking area. I had counted at least five luxury cars that belonged to Elvis at this point. The orange one seemed to be a favorite.

He stepped out in black pants and a white T-shirt that accentuated his muscles. His sunglasses were already on. His cologne reached me from across the distance between us.

I raised both hands and waved until he spotted me, then started walking toward him.

"You're here, sir. Good, the show's about to start, let's go in."

My hand was already on his arm before I thought about it. That was the thing about being around Elvis: I kept forgetting the professional boundaries until I had already crossed them. Some crazy parts of me simply refused to be managed.

"You smell incredible, by the way," I said, turning toward the ticket checker without waiting to see his reaction. "And you look good."

"Same to you."

I stopped moving.

Turned around slowly and looked at his face to confirm that those words had actually come out of his mouth and I hadn't invented them.

He was looking ahead.

"Today must be a lucky day," I said. "My boss paid me a compliment."

Another surprise came when he rolled his eyes, scoffed, and folded his arms in a stylish manner.

Tickets checked, we got in just as the referee stepped into the ring and began his introductions. Elvis found two seats and tapped the one beside him without looking at me, his attention already fully on the ring below.

I remembered the face cap in my hand and reached up to place it on his head, adjusting the fit until it sat right. He went still for a moment and looked at me.

"To avoid being recognized," I said. "Now you can scream as loud as you want and nobody will know it's you." I raised both arms the way I'd seen in Korean dramas. "Fighting."

He looked at me for another second, then turned back to the ring.

What followed was one of the better things I had seen in recent memory.

He was invested from the first round, leaning forward, fists closing and opening in his lap, his face tightening every time his chosen fighter missed a strike or took a hit. By the third round, he was making full-body movements in the seat, shoulders shifting with every near-miss, jaw set like he was down there in the ring himself.

"Yes! Go, man, that's how you do it! Bloody champion!"

He smacked the back of the chair in front of him. The man sitting there turned around, took one look at Elvis, and faced forward again without a word.

I pressed my lips together and stared at the ring.

I had not known he had that in him.

His fighter won.

The referee lifted the man's arm, and the crowd split down the middle, half celebrating, half making their displeasure loudly known. Elvis was fully on the celebrating side, clapping hard, the smile on his face wide.

A beautiful sight to behold, finally, he found something he liked.

The crowd began moving toward the exits, and we followed, making our way back through the lot to his car. The smile hadn't left his face. The evening air was warm, and a strong gust came through and threw a handful of my hair directly across my face, covering my eyes completely.

I stopped walking; Elvis stopped too.

He turned toward me and lowered his head slightly. He had several inches on me and used none of them in a condescending way, just closed the distance so his hands could reach. He found the strands and smoothed them back from my face, then spotted the hairband from my bun and drew it down to hold everything in place.

His fingers grazed my lips as he worked.

I bit my lower lip without meaning to.

The touch reminded me of his son’s.

"Thank you for today." He straightened up. "I'll drop you."

"I drove, sir. I'm fine."

He gave a short nod, turned, and walked to his car at a pace that was slightly faster than necessary; he didn't look back. Got in, reversed cleanly out of the space, and was gone.

I stood where he left me and watched the orange Lamborghini disappear into the evening traffic.

Then I got into my own car and drove to Betty's, now my home.

I pulled up outside the house, cut the engine, and reached for my bag.

Then I looked up.

Jarvis's car was parked at the curb.

The front door opened at the same moment, and he stepped out.

Shit.