“I know.” She sat up, wrapped her arms around her knees. “It’s not your fault. Maybe it’s just like what Tommy said. Or maybe I’m just not into guys.”
“Girls?”
“Maybe.” Loup shook her head. “I dunno. I got Jane to give me a kissing lesson once, and it wasn’t any different than it was with you or T.Y. or anyone else. But…”
“But what?” Mack prompted.
She smiled sideways at him. “Pilar kissed me once, too. She doesn’t want anyone to know.”
He snorted. “Yeah, that would fuck with her plans to marry a Salamanca.” He hesitated. “It was different?”
“Yeah.” Loup rested her cheek on her knees. “It was.”
“Poor you.” Mack pushed himself upright and stroked her hair. “Do you want to keep trying to make this work? Or do you want to say we tried and go back to being friends?”
She lifted her head. “We’d still be friends?”
“Always.”
“Yeah?” Loup drew a line down the thin white scar that creased Mack’s face. “I guess maybe that would be best. But thanks for trying. And thanks for tonight.”
Mack smiled. “That’s what I’m supposed to say.”
“I know.” She smiled back at him, leaned forward, and kissed him. She wished she didn’t feel his tiny shudder of involuntary withdrawal. It was subtle, but it was there. “I better go.”
After Mack, there was only training.
Two weeks after her sixteenth birthday, Floyd Roberts took a step he’d never taken before. On one of the evenings when they were meant to train, he invited Loup into his inner sanctum. He had a roof garden atop the Unique Fitness building, a burgeoning wealth of potted plants, thriving despite the desert air. A patio table and a pair of comfortable chairs.
“Wow.” Loup gazed around. “Did Tommy know about this?”
“Yes.” Floyd set down a bottle of whiskey. “He did.”
“You met with him up here?”
“I did.” He poured two measures of whiskey. “Sit. I missed your birthday. You’re allowed one drink to celebrate.” Floyd passed her a heavy package. “Here.”
She opened them to find four weighted straps.
“Wrist and ankle weights.” He picked up his glass and gestured. “Use them while you train. That way, you’ll fight lighter and stronger without them.”
“Thanks,” Loup said.
“You’re welcome.” Floyd drained his glass and set it down with a bang. “So I talked to Bill last week. General Argyle. I told him I was training a young fighter who was better than anyone I’d ever seen, better than Tom Garron. A young fighter who has sworn to beat the man who killed Tom Garron.”
“Yeah?”
“Yes.” He refilled his glass. “Suffice it to say that he’s intrigued.”
“Good,” Loup said simply.
“Good, yes. I’ve been thinking. All this while, I’ve been thinking.” Floyd exhaled whiskey fumes. “We have one—one!—advantage in this fight. And that’s that we know what we’re up against and they don’t.” He nodded. “Hence the weights. But it’s not enough. It’s not nearly enough.” He leaned forward. “Loup, you’ve got to train for one very specific fight, one against a bigger, stronger opponent. We can’t do stronger, but we can do bigger. You need a sparring partner. And you need a good one.”
She sipped her whiskey, feeling it burn on her tongue. “Mack would do it.”
“Your boyfriend?” The coach shook his head. “No, no, no! I mean good. I was thinking of asking McArdle. How do you feel about trusting him?”
Loup tilted her head. The sun was setting, the sky streaked with orange and purple. From the rooftop vantage point, she could see the tops of the high cliffs that flanked Outpost. “What about Miguel?”
“Miguel Garza?”
She nodded. “At Tommy’s funeral, he told me to ask if I ever needed anything. He said he reckoned he owned Tommy one on account of Tommy dying in a fight Mig wanted for himself. That’s why he’s superstitious now. But he’s good, isn’t he?”
“Garza?” Floyd sighed. “When he wants to be, yes. Do you trust him?”
Loup rolled another sip of whiskey over her tongue. She remembered Mig threatening that he had his eye on her. “Not exactly.”
“So why not McArdle?”
She drank the rest of the whiskey at one gulp, savoring the rush of heat down her throat, the sense of her head lightening. “Because I do trust Miguel Garza to do one thing, sir, and that’s hit me as hard as he fucking well can. And that’s what it’s gonna take to get me ready, isn’t it?”
He nodded grimly. “You have a point.”
THIRTY-ONE
A few days later, they met in the gym after hours.
Coach Roberts had asked Miguel to stay after his workout, and Miguel had agreed with a mix of irritation and curiosity. No one thought Loup’s presence there was odd. She’d nearly grown up there as a child. After Tommy’s death, she’d taken on a few of the odd jobs he did around the place, keeping the equipment clean and working. This evening, she made herself more unobtrusive than usual.“Whaddya want, Coach?” Miguel asked when the last fighter had left.
Floyd Roberts locked the door and pulled the blinds. He beckoned Loup over. “I’m looking for a sparring partner for Loup.”
Miguel’s nostrils flared. He didn’t laugh. “She’s a girl.”
“I know.”
“A kid.”
“Sixteen,” Floyd acknowledged.
Miguel folded his arms over his bare chest, muscles swelling. He’d stripped off his training gloves, but he hadn’t showered yet and his skin gleamed with sweat. He was thicker than Tommy, built like a bull. He eyed Loup. “Is this a joke?”
She held his gaze. “No.”
“You.” Miguel shook his head. “There’s always been something off about you, kid. Something not quite right. Loopy Lou.” He traced circles in the air beside his head. “Think she’s gotten to you, Coach. Better have your head examined.”
“Tom Garron didn’t fight the same man Kevin McArdle did,” Floyd said. “They looked alike, but they weren’t. Loup’s sure of it and I believe her. The man who killed Tom Garron was… different. So is Loup.”
Something shifted in Miguel’s expression. “Prove it.”
The coach brandished a pair of punch mitts. “Do you want to pitch or catch?”
Miguel cracked his knuckles. “Whaddya think?”
“You got it.” Floyd tossed the punch mitts to Loup. She slid her hands into them, tightening the straps, then took up a defensive pose. “Ready?”
“Yeah.” She nodded at Miguel.
He threw two punches at her padded hands—straight jabs, nothing fancy. But he hit hard, harder than Loup expected. Lazy and superstitious or not, he had explosive punching power and he didn’t hold back. She stood her ground and caught both his punches without yielding an inch. She felt the impact of it all the way to her bones. It made her body reverberate, made her grin with unexpected delight.
“Jesus!” Miguel blew out his breath.
“Convinced?” Floyd asked him.
He shook his head. “Gimme the mitts.”
Loup waited for him to adjust the straps, waited for him to set himself. Miguel nodded, grim-faced. She threw a pair of lightning-fast straight crosses and watched his strong arms fly outward under the impact, leaving him wildly exposed. She stepped inside his guard and tapped him lightly on his chin.
“You fucking little freak!” Miguel lunged at her.
She skipped backward. “You promised!”
“Promised what?” He glared.
“To help,” she reminded him. “At Tommy’s funeral, you promised to help if I asked. I’m asking you for help, Miguel. Please?”
The word slowed him, softened him. “Aw, kid.”
“Please?” Loup begged.
“Fuck.” Miguel swore softly, almost cordially. He flexed his padded hands, still stinging from landing bare-knuckled punches. Slewed his gaze around at Floyd Roberts. “You’re training her to go up against him.”
“I am.”
“What a fucking freakshow.” He shook off the training mitts and folded his arms over his chest, taking a stance. “I want a goddamn shower and a goddamn drink. Then we’ll talk. I’m a goddamned Garza, and we don’t give away something for nothing.”
They adjourned to the rooftop after Miguel had showered and dressed in clean clothes. Floyd plied him with a generous glass of whiskey and a cigar.
“Nice.” Miguel lounged at ease, puffing contemplatively. “You’ve got access to goodies even that bitch Rosa Salamanca can’t get her hands on, don’tcha, old man?”
“Yep,” Floyd said.
Miguel blew a smoke ring. “What’re you offering?”
“What are you asking for?”
“Good question.” He stretched out his legs and regarded Loup. “Loopy Lou. Kept your secret pretty well, kiddo. Whatever you’re offering, I bet the army would offer a whole lot more to know about you.” A realization struck him. “Aw, shit! Santa Olivia. Santa fuckin’ Olivia. That was you, wasn’t it?”
She couldn’t see any point in lying. “Yeah.”
“Huh. Nice work.” One corner of his mouth quirked, then straightened. “You know there’s no way you can pull this off without getting caught, right?”
“I know.”
“So what’s to stop me from walking away and turning you in?” Miguel asked, genuinely perplexed.
“Honor.” Floyd answered the question. “Pride.”
“Shit!” Miguel looked at him. “You serious?”