by Claire Adams
“What happened?” I ask.
Mason laughs. “Oh, it wasn’t that bad.”
“It was getting there,” I tell him.
“Care for a drink?” he asks. “I don’t have anything too exciting: I think just water and orange juice.”
“I’m fine,” I tell him. “What did you want to tell me?”
“Well,” he says, sitting down on the couch, “I think I’ve asked for a lot of understanding without giving you a lot of candor on my part.”
“Okay, you’re kind of talking like a lawyer right now,” I tell him. “Should I be worried?”
“No,” he says, “nothing like that. I just wanted to let you know that it’s almost over.”
“What is?” I ask, leaning forward a little too far, my hands on my knees as I wait impatiently for his answer.
“The whole situation with Chris,” he says. “I’m done trying to clean up after him, and just as soon as he comes back—whenever that’s going to be—I’m going to tell him he’s got to go.”
“What happened?” I ask. “I thought things were going better with you two?”
“I thought they were,” Mason says. “Well, I hoped they were. As much as I wanted to give him the benefit of the doubt, just one more time, I wasn’t surprised when it happened.”
“What did he do, though?” I ask, finally leaning back a little in my seat.
“He’d spent the day out looking for a job—I know because I made him take me with him—and after we got home, we got to talking,” he starts. “He hadn’t been hired, but he’d had a couple of successful interviews and things were really starting to look up for once. He told me we should go out drinking to celebrate his new chapter or whatever, but I’m not too into that. When I convinced him that I wasn’t going to go, he convinced me to fund his little celebration. It was a hundred bucks. I don’t know why I expected to get it back.”
“He stole your money?” I ask.
“Yeah,” he says. “I haven’t seen him or heard from him since he left for the club that night. It’s only a hundred bucks, but at the same time, it’s a hundred bucks.”
“That’s screwed up,” I respond, still waiting for the conversational turn.
“I’ve been distant with you since Chris showed up,” Mason says. “In some ways we’ve been moving forward, but in others… All my life, I’ve just gotten so used to ignoring my past and trying to minimize it when it shows up passed out on my couch in the middle of the night. The problem with that is that I really like you, Ash,” he says. “I’d love to see where things with you can go, and I just want to let you know that I’m not going to try to hide my past by pulling away from you anymore. That’s not fair, and I’m sorry.”
“Hmm,” I respond. “Thanks. To be honest with you, I was expecting a very different kind of conversation.”
“What do you mean?” he asks.
“Well, you sent the relationship killer text,” I answer. “Next time you use that phrase, I expect you to be breaking up with me, because that false alarm crap isn’t going to work for me.”
“Okay, okay,” he laughs. “Next time, I’ll put it differently.”
“So?” I ask.
“So what?” he returns.
“You said you were going to stop trying to hide your past,” I say. “So, what have you been hiding that I should know about?”
“What do you wanna know?” he asks. “From here on, I’m an open book. I want to make this work.”
“I don’t know,” I tell him. “When did Chris start with the whole con man business?”
“I’ve tried to figure that out,” he says. “I really can’t remember a time when he wasn’t pulling some kind of confidence game. When it started out, it was hardly ever about money; I think he did it as a survival instinct. There was a certain way to talk to mom, and if you couldn’t figure out what to say in any situation with her beforehand, chances were, things were going to go bad.”
“Where was your father?” I ask. This is the most he’s ever told me about his family. He’s never even mentioned his mother before.
“I don’t know,” he says. “I don’t think my mom knew, or if she did, she didn’t want him around. I never really met the guy.”
“I’m sorry,” I tell him.
“Not much anyone can do about it,” he says. “That’s just the way it is. I hope you can forgive me for being so distant when we’ve been trying to get closer.”
“I wish I could be mad at you,” I tell him, “but I can’t. I haven’t really gone into my past, either. I’ve been telling myself it doesn’t really matter, that where I come from isn’t who I am, but I can’t sit here and judge you when I’m doing the same thing.”
“Okay,” he says. “What have you got?”
“Do you know that rich couple, they’re always in the news,” I tell him.
“There are a lot of rich couples in the news on a pretty constant basis,” he says.
“Chuck Butcher and May Weese,” I say.
“Oh,” he says, nodding. “They’re the kind of people who are rich because they’re rich, right? What about them?”
“Well,” I say, fidgeting with my hands, “I don’t call them Chuck Butcher and May Weese.”
Mason turns his head a little to one side and peers at me, asking, “Why not?”
“I call them dad and mom,” I tell him. “Well, they prefer ‘father’ and ‘mother,’ but you know what I mean.”
“So when you see all those commercials about the one percent that’s destroying the world and everything in, on, and around it, they’re talking about your parents?” he asks.
My mouth comes open and I take in a breath, not sure how to begin to respond to a question like that.
“I’m not…” I stammer. “That’s not…”
“Whoa,” he says, putting his palms up toward me, “I was just messing with you. So, you’re a rich girl, huh?”
“My parents are rich,” I tell him. “I’m going to college and studying to be a nurse.”
“On your parents’ dime?” he asks.
“I don’t think that’s relevant to—” I start.
He puts his hands up again, saying, “Another joke.” He says, “I’m sorry, this is bringing out the comedian in me.”
“It’s not that big a deal,” I tell him. “They’re not in my life that much anymore.”
“It wouldn’t be a problem if they were,” he says. “I just wanted to tell you that I’m done with the walls and all that.”
I’m not used to this kind of forthrightness. I almost don’t know what to say.
“Thank you,” I tell him. “I’m glad it wasn’t the other thing.”
“Oh hell no,” he says. “You’re way too high on the sexability scale to break up with like that.”
I half-scoff, half laugh. “Charming,” I smirk.
“You wanna go out and do something?” he asks. “Or, if you want, we can stay in. I don’t think we have to worry about getting interrupted.”
“Let’s stay in,” I tell him.
“Okay,” he says. “I’ll make us some dinner.”
“Hey, Mason?” I say.
“Yeah?” he answers.
“I’m in, too,” I tell him. “Should we make this an official thing?”
“That’s kind of what I was hoping for,” he says.
We’re still different and some elements of his past and present continue to make me a little nervous about what may be to come, but I feel better having talked to him. Whatever that means.
What it means for the two of us right now is that we’re going to have dinner together and we’re going to talk and we’re going to stop worrying about all the whys and why nots.
That sounds pretty good to me.
Chapter Nine
Spoons
Mason
The first night of the championship and I don’t know where my newly-official girlfriend is, apart from the fact that she’s not here.
This isn’t h
er scene, and I get that. I really do. Still, I’d kind of hoped the tournament aspect might catch her interest.
No time to think about that, though, as it looks like my fight’s about to start.
The two guys in the ring are superheavyweights. They’re actually the only two in that weight class who I’ve ever seen show up.
The one with his hair up in a man bun is local and, at about three hundred pounds, I think he first came here in hopes he could stay the only super in the group and never have to actually jump in the ring.
A few months later, the one with the bald head and the Dick Cheney look of contempt showed up. He’s from out of town and he’s pretty solid at his game.
Man bun doesn’t stand a chance.
Soon enough, angry bald guy wins the fight to the boos of the local crowd and Logan pats me hard on my bare back, saying, “All right, do you know anything about this guy?”
“I was hoping you did,” I tell him.
“Well, they wouldn’t have put him in the match if he wasn’t tough,” Logan says uselessly.
“If you’re not going to offer any decent advice, would you mind leaving me alone so I can get my head in the game?” I ask.
He pats me on the back again, hard enough that the sting pulls me out of my thoughts a moment while I consider slapping Logan right here in front of everyone.
Mitch, the only guy here who actually wanted to announce the bouts, walks to the center of the group while they drag man bun out to wallow in his shame.
“Next up,” Mitch calls out above the volume of the crowd, “we’ve got two guys in the featherweight division.”
I don’t know if he says anything more than that or not. I don’t know if he says my name, but when he points to me, I raise my hand. When he points to the other guy, he raises his hand.
We’re touching gloves now, and I try to catch him off-guard with a quick right, but he dodges it.
He counters with a knee meant for my gut that I manage to block with my forearms, and I kick his stationary leg. His foot comes down and he quickly catches any balance he may have lost.
The guy’s not bad, but he’s leaving himself open.
I shin kick his right leg again, aiming for the same spot, but he moves and the blow is deflected up his leg.
He’s a striker. I like that.
I can do the Greco-Roman wrestling thing and jiu-jitsu, but I’m much more comfortable on my feet.
He tries giving me a straight punch to the sternum, but I turn and counter with a hard left to the side of his face. If he’s dazed, though, he’s not showing it.
I step back, keeping my feet moving. I can hit him, but he’s got good stamina and a strong jaw. If he can get me to wear myself out before I can knock him out, he might just win this thing.
He comes at me with a flying knee, but it’s mostly for show and I easily sidestep the strike.
I give him a hard knee to the gut and he doubles over just enough for me to land a solid right uppercut to his jaw, snapping his head back.
He’s unsteady now on his feet and I’ve got this if I just stay smart and don’t let him dictate the pace.
I throw a halfhearted left hook and he takes the bait, leaning in to strike me from the other side, but I duck the blow and hit him right in the mouth with a right.
He stumbles, landing on his knee at one point, but he’s back up and his face is a deep red, his eyes narrow, focused.
He throws a left and a quick right in succession, and then comes at me with a calf kick that I move right into, expecting him to go from the other side.
My leg comes a little off the ground, but I bring it back down just as quickly, using it as my pivot and my other leg comes up and around, cracking him against the side of the head and he’s down.
I’m on top of him, throwing blows, but the ref stops the fight.
It’s not cockiness that has me laughing as I get to my feet and the ref lifts my hand in the air. It’s the pure love of adrenaline that comes from knowing I just kicked the living crap out of this guy.
Three to go.
I’m almost expecting some beautiful scene like you’d see in a Hollywood sports movie where everyone comes in and lifts me onto their shoulders in a celebration of mirth, but if anything, they just want me to get the hell out of the ring so the next fight can get started.
I make my way back into the crowd and wave at Tom as he checks on the other guy.
I’m not going to need his services tonight. The guy barely touched me.
I take another look at the crowd, hoping to see Ash off standing in some corner away from everything, but she’s not here.
That’s okay. She may not love this part of my life and she may never want to come to another match, but at least she hasn’t tried to tell me I can’t do it.
That would be a problem.
I grab my new bag and slip out the front to get some of the cool night air and D gives me a knuckle bump when he sees I don’t have a scratch.
“Didn’t even touch ya, huh?” he asks.
“I don’t even remember,” I smirk.
“So either you did really well or he knocked you stupid,” D laughs.
“I’ll let you know when I find out,” I tell him.
Tonight, we’re holding the matches in what I think used to be a TV repair shop. Whatever it used to be, it’s empty now. Well, except for the large crowd of men and women shouting for each other’s blood.
I was a little nervous about the location, being as it’s right in the middle of town, but there’s no one on this block. Everything’s commercial and everything’s been closed for hours.
My phone rings in my duffel bag, which I set down and unzip.
It’s Ash.
“Hey beautiful,” I answer. “I didn’t see you at the fight.”
“Is it over?” she asks.
“Yeah,” I answer. “You wouldn’t believe it, I totally—”
“Are you going to need a ride to the hospital?” she asks. “Or is this going to be something I can swing on my own?”
“I’m almost completely untouched,” I tell her. “I might get a couple of bruises over the next couple of days, but even those should be pretty minimal.”
“You did well, then?” she asks.
“Yep,” I tell her. “I got in there, and—”
“You wanna come over?” she asks. “I can take a look at you, make sure you don’t have any internal bleeding or anything like that.”
“You can do that without equipment?” I ask.
“I can see the signs,” she says. “I never said I’d be able to do anything about it.”
“Well,” I laugh, “that’s a good start anyway. I’ll be over in about half an hour.”
“You can shower here,” she says. “Starbright and her progeny are out collecting mushrooms in some campground outside town and we’ve got the place to ourselves.”
“All right,” I tell her. “I didn’t drive here, so it’ll be a few, but I’ll be over soon.”
“Okay,” she says, her voice finally starting to brighten. “I’ll see you when you get here.”
I hang up and put the phone back in my bag.
Walking back toward the entrance, I ask Big D how I look.
“Walking around in nothing but fight trunks,” he says. “I’d say you look like a damn fool.”
“I wouldn’t frighten the townspeople or anything as long as I put on some normal clothes, though, right?” I ask.
“I suppose,” he says and looks back to the front.
“Something on your mind, D?” I ask.
“Ah,” he groans. “Just female problems,” he says. “You ever been with a girl that thinks you got eyes for everyone else? I’m tellin’ you, girl would think I got a thing for my moms if she wasn’t dead.”
“That sounds miserable,” I tell him. “I’d dump her.”
“Yeah…” he says, his pitch rising as he cringes at the thought.
“I’m telling you, D,” I say, “ke
ep going for the ones you think might kill you in your sleep and you just might wake up one morning to find yourself dead.”
He reaches into the inner pocket of his sports jacket and pulls out his cellphone. He barely looks at the device as he unlocks it, and he turns the phone so I can see.
The background is a picture of a gorgeous woman with smooth chocolate skin, pouty lips and other… sizeable assets.
“I get it,” I tell him. “A woman like that tells you she’s a serial killer and you get tempted to help her get rid of the bodies, but if you’re having these kinds of problems in your relationship now, you can only expect them to get worse.”
“Yeah,” he scoffs. “I guess. Why does she have to be so fine, though?”
I laugh and give him a facetious pat on the shoulder. “I know, bud,” I tell him. “I know.”
I’d be lying if I said I didn’t enjoy feeling like the guy who’s gotten it all figured out, even if I am, in reality, more in an entry-level position than anything. Still, D seems to appreciate the advice.
At least, that’s what I think he’s trying to convey as he stares past me again, his phone already back in his pocket. It can be hard to tell with D sometimes.
I grab my stuff and go through the front door of the building and find a corner where I can get changed into more normal attire without too much interference. After that, the strap of the bag slung over my shoulder, I leave the building and start walking toward Ash’s.
It’s about a mile, maybe a little more, to Ash’s house, and I’m feeling the post-fight exhaustion setting in. Even the shortest fights will take it out of you, and the walk probably didn’t help, but I’m here.
I get to the apartment door and I ring the bell.
The door opens and Ash ushers me inside the door, stopping me just inside as she closes the door behind me and picks up a flashlight.
“How many hits to the head did you take?” she asks.
“None,” I tell her.
“I’m being serious,” she says, shining the flashlight in my eyes.
“Do you know what you’re doing?” I ask as I’m now effectively blind in both eyes.
“Of course I know what I’m doing,” she says. “I just haven’t had a lot of practice yet, that’s all. Any dizziness, nausea?”