Total pages in book: 96
Estimated words: 88656 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 443(@200wpm)___ 355(@250wpm)___ 296(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 88656 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 443(@200wpm)___ 355(@250wpm)___ 296(@300wpm)
Beneath the silver dome lid of the tray was my feast. Egg whites. Proatmeal. Dry wheat toast. Black coffee. Fucking tomatoes. I pulled my water jug out of the fridge and started chugging it. Where the hell was Kage?
Finally, I couldn’t take it anymore. I grabbed my phone and texted, “Where are you?” This time I actually hit send.
“My apartment,” he texted back. “Had to take care of something. Come up after breakfast?”
Relief washed over me. “Sure.”
I was so screwed.
But now that I’d solved the mystery of the missing fighter, I had an appetite. I ate every bite on the tray, even the tomatoes. Then I took a shower, so that I didn’t seem too eager. Plus, I thought it might be uncouth to show up wearing the remnants of his cum from the night before.
Kage answered the door to his apartment dressed only in boxers. He appeared freshly showered as well, his hair wet and slicked back, his skin scented with body wash.
Instead of inviting me in and engaging in conversation like he normally would have, Kage pulled my t-shirt over my head and had me in his arms before the door had even snapped closed behind me.
He clung to me, his face buried in the curve between my neck and shoulder, breathing heavily. He pawed ineffectually at my shorts until I pulled them down myself. But he didn’t attack me like he had the night before. We just stood there in front of the door, holding each other. When I tried to pull back to get a look at his face, he held tight and wouldn’t let me see him.
“Kage, are you okay? You’re scaring me. Is everything alright?”
“I’m fine. Let’s just watch TV or something.” He let go of me, went into the living room, and used the remote to turn on the classic movie channel. Some black and white thing was playing, but I wasn’t going to argue about his choice of movie.
We sat down on the sofa, looking straight ahead at the TV with only our thighs touching. This lasted for about sixty seconds, then Kage was up again. He went into the kitchen and refilled his jug with filtered water. He seemed severely agitated. I’m ashamed to admit it now, but my first thought was that he was on drugs— like cocaine or PCP or something. He was so damn jumpy.
Then he just stopped in the middle of the kitchen holding that jug of water.
“I can’t breathe,” he said. The words came out a soft gasp, his hand flattened over his chest. “I knew it. Fuuuck… not now. God, here it comes. I can’t breathe. I can’t breathe.”
My whole body went white hot.
“Kage, what is it?” I was at his side in an instant.
He leaned against the counter and slammed his half-full jug of water down, mangling it and sending water gushing all over the granite. It trickled from the far end of the counter and puddled onto the floor, but cleaning it up was the least of my concerns.
Kage sucked in a deep breath through his nose and blew it out slowly through lips stretched into a tight line so that only a thin stream could escape. He repeated the process over and over, not speaking, while I stood impotently beside him. I was afraid to touch him.
“Are you okay?” I asked, already knowing the answer to the question. “Should I call 911? You say you can’t breathe, but you’re breathing, Kage. You are breathing.”
“Get my cell,” he groaned, dropping his head to the counter, heedless of the water puddled there. He was still dragging in those labored breaths and pushing out thin ribbons of carbon dioxide. I realized he was purposely hypoventilating— the equivalent to breathing into a paper bag— and that meant he felt like he was close to passing out.
I ran as fast as I could to the sofa and grabbed his cell phone from the cushion. I wished I could take time to turn the TV off. It was loud and distracting, but I had to get back to Kage before he lost consciousness and banged his head or something.
Absurdly, it occurred to me that I was worrying about a fighter who had been slammed and punched and kicked and choked relentlessly his entire life.
“There’s a number on there. It says Julie. Call it, tell her to meet me.”
I fumbled with the phone and got the number dialed.
“Put it on speaker,” he said at the last second. I did.
“Kage, what is it?” a female voice asked, sounding alarmed.
“I can’t breathe,” he told her simply.
“I’m on my way,” she said. “Headed out the door right now. Are you at your place?”
“Yeah.” He slowed his breathing even more. “Jamie’s with me.”
“Can he hear me?” Her voice seemed to carry a note of caution.