Page 64 of Dominate

My lungs scream for air. I force my head up, dragging a jagged breath through my teeth. I pull my phone from the front pocket of my jeans. The bright screen illuminates the dark cab, casting harsh shadows across the dashboard.

I open the text thread. My thumbs tremble over the keypad.

Coming over. Need you.

I hit send. I drop the phone onto the passenger seat like the glass might burn my skin.

A heavy, suffocating silence fills the car. The doubt creeps in immediately. He made weight this morning too. He is trying to recover from the cut, forcing down food and fluids ahead of tomorrow’s fight. He needs rest. He doesn’t need me showing up in pieces on the night before his title fight.

The phone vibrates against the leather upholstery.

I snatch the device up.

I’m here. Always.

The three words dismantle the panic attack entirely. The vise grip around my lungs releases. I drag a full, deep breath into my chest.

I start the car and pull out of the training center’s parking garage. At the first light, I turn away from the arena hotel and toward Micah’s rental.

I drive across Chicago, following the route I no longer need the navigation for. By the time I reach Micah’s block, the storefronts are dark and the street is nearly empty.

I park the car in the narrow alley behind his building. I kill the engine and step out into the muggy night air.

I climb the rusted fire escape. The metal steps groan under my weight. I skip the front entrance entirely, avoiding the risk of a roaming sports journalist or a dedicated fan lingering on the sidewalk. I reach the third floor and slide the window sash upward.

I step over the sill and into the rented studio.

20

MICAH

The rusted metal of the fire escape groans under a heavy weight. A shadow blocks the orange glow of the streetlamp bleeding through my plastic blinds.

The window sash slides upward, rattling in its old wooden frame.

Zane steps over the sill and lowers the window behind him. He keeps one hand on the frame.

“Anyone see you?” I ask.

“No.”

I set my phone aside. He pushes his hood back but stays by the window.

“You can come in, you know.”

“I know.” He rubs a hand over his mouth. “I had a whole fucking speech on the way here.”

I wait.

“Can you just sit with me?”

I move over on the bed. He sits beside me, elbows on his knees, staring at the floor. I leave my hand between us on the sheet.

After a moment, he takes it.

“Tomorrow,” he says.

“Yeah.”