by Claire Adams
I pull him closer (slowly) and kiss him deeply on the lips, my mouth parting as we come together, and I’m putting one arm back around him.
“That’s better,” I say optimistically as I stroke his dripping wet shaft with my free hand.
“Ah!” he says before a sharp intake of air.
“What?” I ask. “What’s wrong?”
“Are you wearing a ring right now?” he asks.
“Yeah, I forgot to take it off,” I answer. “I would have once we got in, but I didn’t want to lose it and it’s cold out there so I didn’t want to get back out.” I narrow my eyes a little at him. “Why?”
“It kind of,” he says, “the skin on my—it went between the ring and your… ya caught me a little—”
“Oh!” I say, letting go of him and pulling my hand away. It’s not until he’s saying he’s fine, that he’ll be all right that I realize I’ve just made the very problem he was trying to tell me about much more painful. “Are you all right?” I ask.
“I think so,” he says. “Am I bleeding?”
That’s a question everyone wants to hear when they’re trying to enjoy a little foreplay.
Still, I refuse to believe that this sexual endeavor is hopeless. If Mason and I have one thing, it’s chemistry.
“No, you’re good,” I tell him. “Still wanna…?”
“Hell yeah,” he answers, and this time, I take the ring off the eponymous finger of my right hand and toss it over the shower rod.
It makes a surprisingly loud kerblubb when it lands in the water of the toilet bowl.
Mason asks, “Did you just…?”
“Don’t worry about it,” I tell him and we’re kissing again.
I’m not in denial.
Neither’s Mason.
This is great.
This feels so—
“Okay,” I say, clutching my face. “I’m done.”
What does it is when Mason reaches his hand up toward my face, seemingly to persuade some strand of my hair away from my face, but ends up with his index finger in my eye instead.
He’s trying to stammer through an apology, and I’m trying to forget how recently I’ve hurt him so I can continue to be mad at him for poking me in the eye and at this point, I’ll just be happy if we’re still talking by the time we get out of this bathroom.
Chapter Thirteen
Eggshells
Mason
He’s right there, standing in front of me. The crowd’s mouths are open, but they’re silent; or at least I can’t hear them.
This is my second match: the quarter-finals.
It’s insane how they threw this thing together so quick, but someone’s got to be make money off of it somehow. Right now it doesn’t bother me that nobody knows how.
Right now, nothing bothers me because there’s simply not enough in the world.
There’s Ash standing behind me, supportive in my corner.
In front of me is the man I’m about to fight.
To either side of me are walls of flesh and bone.
Beneath me is the floor, above me is the ceiling, and here I am in the center, ready to do what’s necessary.
The fight must have started because he’s walking toward me now. My hands are up, I’m ready.
He throws a left and tries to catch me with a quick follow-up right, but he’s sloppy and I’m better and he’s down and I don’t know why all these people are trying to pull me away. All I know is that the fight just started and now it’s over.
It’s not until one of the guys holding me reaches up and slaps me hard across the face that I come back to a wider view of the world.
I don’t hear the crowd, but that’s because nobody’s cheering. My opponent’s on the ground and Tom’s with him, checking him.
“Is he gonna be okay?” I ask the open air.
I’m only greeted by harsh glares.
I turn around and look back at where Ash is standing and her mouth is open under her hands.
“You need to come with me right now,” a sharp, but familiar voice says.
Logan’s got me by the hair on the back of my head and he’s leading me through the crowd toward one corner of the room.
He lets go of my head with a shove, saying, “What the hell was that? What do you think you were doing? Were you trying to kill him? What’s the matter with you?”
“Is there a particular question you’d like me to answer?” I ask.
He slaps me in the face and pushes me up against the wall, seething, “You’re lucky we’ve got the people we do in the crowd, man,” he says. “If these people weren’t all fighters, they might have missed the fact that you’d snapped and would have killed the guy if we didn’t jump in.”
“I wouldn’t have killed him,” I scoff.
“Six punches,” he says. “In the time between when the match was called and they pulled you off, you’d thrown six punches and that guy looks like he got hit by a truck. You can’t tell me you were in control of anything.”
“Six?” I ask. “People always end up throwing a few after it’s called. It happens on reflex: The command hasn’t processed yet because you’re in fight mode. You know this stuff as much as I do.”
Logan just shakes his head and, getting within two inches of my face, he says, “That’s not what this was. Pray that he’s okay,” Logan says. “We’re not the damn UFC, Mason. We don’t have full-blown doctors or ambulances waiting around in case someone really gets damaged. We’ve got Tom. It’s a miracle something bad hasn’t happened by now without people trying to make it happen. Get the hell out of here and you pray that he’s all right, man. You do that and you get your head checked because you’re losing it, man.”
I look toward the ring where it’s still almost silent. “Let me know if he’s okay,” I tell Logan and I push him out of my way.
Most of the people there, they don’t look at me. The people who do are counting the seconds it takes for me to get the rest of the way out of there, and I don’t know when someone’s going to hit their digit and this all goes very, very bad.
Even with that in mind, I’m not going to leave Ash here in the middle of this. I take a couple steps toward the ring, though, and everyone in the room turns to face me. It would actually be a pretty amazing sight if it weren’t directed at me.
“Ash!” I call.
Nobody in the crowd is saying anything. I can’t see the guy I beat through the crowd, but a few people start turning back toward the center, then a few more.
Finally, everyone’s turned back toward the center of the ring and everyone’s cheering.
I’m moving around, trying to find an angle from which I can look without having to get any closer, but I can’t see through. I suck up my fear and start walking toward the group again, but Ash saves me the trouble as she comes through and starts walking toward me.
Once she’s close, I grab her hand. Once we’re far enough away from the abandoned shop I’m not worried someone’s going to come up and try to enact some vigilante justice for what just happened, I let go of her hand.
I keep walking.
“What happened in there?” she asks, catching up with me. “Do you know what you did?”
“I don’t want to talk about it,” I tell her.
Has that phrase ever worked on anyone?
“It was… frightening,” she says.
“Is he going to be okay?” I ask.
“He’s going to be fine,” Ash says. “You’re lucky those guys pulled you off when you did. They called the fight and tried to push you off, but you just kept going. Why?”
“I don’t know,” I tell her. “I didn’t really know what was going on. I didn’t know the fight was over until they were dragging me out of there.”
She asks, “Did you black out or something?”
“I didn’t black out,” I answer. “It was different. I don’t know. I don’t want to talk about it.”
I know I’m being short with her, but I don’t know how
to stop.
For whatever it’s worth, I’m starting to think she was right about that whole “don’t bottle things up or you’ll explode” thing. I can’t answer the question as to why I let my anger take over and control me. In a match, anger can be a useful tool, but it has to have its limits.
At first, I was just in my zone. I was focused, I was clear. Then, when he took those swings at me, I just snapped.
“I think we should go home,” I tell Ash. “Me to mine, you to yours. I don’t think I’m going to be able to talk about this without the adrenaline wash right now.”
She almost stops walking for a moment, but continues, asking, “You don’t think it might be better to have some company?”
“I don’t know,” I tell her. “It’s nothing to do with you. I just need to clear my mind.”
“Yeah,” she responds quietly. “Give me a call tomorrow?”
“Yeah,” I tell her.
“And a text when you get home, so I know you’re back safe?” she asks.
“Sure,” I answer.
“Okay,” she says and we stop walking. She looks up at me with big eyes and gives me a hug. “Let me know if you need anything, okay?” she says.
“Yeah,” I answer.
We part ways.
* * *
I wake in the morning as sore as if I’d been on the other side of last night’s beating. I’m not proud of myself.
Denial’s not going to work anymore, that much is clear. No matter how much I hate Chris, I still love him. It’s stupid and illogical, but that’s family I guess.
I’m mad at him. I’m almost always mad at him for something, but right now, I’d love to have a few minutes alone with whoever picked up the phone and put my brother behind bars. I’ve been told I can be rather persuasive when I want to be.
That’s not me, though. It’s not what I want, either. It is, whether I like it or not, the way I feel, though.
I feel bad that I went off on that guy last night, but I feel worse that I took out my pent-up aggression on Ash. She had nothing to do with any of it.
I’ve given up on denial, but now I can’t find the will to get out of bed. I barely want to move. Right now, I’m happy being here, alone in a room with a closed door in a house where no one but me lives anymore.
And now I’m back to thinking about Chris.
Before I decided my brother’s choice in illegal activities was beneath me, we actually used to get in trouble together. I couldn’t have been more than four or five, but I remember thinking Chris was the coolest guy in the world.
No matter what kind of trouble he got into, he could always talk his way out of it. He could talk his way out of fights, too, a faculty I never quite developed.
I’ve gone the rounds blaming myself for abandoning Chris, even going so far sometimes as to blame myself for his stupid messed up choices, but there’s no water left in that well. Chris is where he is because of his own choices and not because of mine.
Still, I’m thinking about kindergarten and getting my ass kicked by third-graders. I was doing my best to stay on my feet, but I didn’t know how to fight back then and I was a lot smaller than the guys who were picking on me.
I remember seeing Chris coming toward me as I was picking myself up off the ground, and I remember thinking he was going to jump into the mix, beat the snot out of those kids and save me, but that was never him.
Instead, he walked up casually, even waiting for a few more punches to land before he said anything.
“What are you guys up to?” he asked.
The third-graders looked over at him and hesitated a minute. He was a little bigger than them, but they still had us outnumbered and in retrospect, I don’t know how effective I really would have been if it went that way.
“None of your bees’ wax,” one of the kids called back.
I never said they were intelligent attackers.
Over the next five minutes or so, Chris just chatted with the kids who had so brutally assaulted me as if they were just having a normal day at recess. The funny thing is, the more Chris talked, even though he wasn’t saying anything about what they were doing, the kids slowly lost interest in me.
Finally, after talking about everything from the cartoons from the previous Saturday morning to which professional wrestler could make it in a fight with Bruce Lee—the conclusion was none of them, but a match with the Undertaker would be the coolest to watch—the kid who had picked me up by the shirt let me go. Without warning, the kids who had been so intent that I be taught a lesson for being smaller than them slowly started walking toward my brother.
I thought they were going to beat him up for wasting their time and then they were going to come back and beat me up that much worse for the interruption, but they just walked off, laughing and talking with each other.
I knew that Chris usually got what he wanted from just about everyone but our parents, but the concept of graft hadn’t really clicked in my young brain. When we got home, I was astounded to find out that those kids had bought him lunch and even given him some money so I could get something the next day.
Chris told me to take it as an apology, but I was a bit of a hothead as a child. I yelled at him for not beating the crap out of the kids and I called him all sorts of names for going off and having lunch with my tormenters. I’m pretty sure I phrased it differently.
Chris just sat there and listened. I didn’t know back then that that was just part of his innate talent for manipulating people, but even as mad as I was, I couldn’t help but feel like he was really listening to me, really taking what I was saying to heart. By the time I was done going off on him, I didn’t even feel angry anymore and he hadn’t said a single word.
He waited until he was sure that I was done and he asked me whether I would rather have revenge on those kids now and feel good for a few hours or trick those guys into being my friends. That way, he said, I’d have protection from other bullies and I could slowly bleed them of their lunch money.
I didn’t really understand what he meant by the last part—partly because I stopped listening after he asked if I wanted revenge, and I immediately decided the answer was yes—but he heard me out as I described every violent thing I wanted him to do to those kids.
I told him that as my big brother, it was his responsibility to take out anyone who messed with me. He just let me talk myself out.
When I’d finally gotten it all out, he just took a breath and told me to let him try it his way for a week. If I didn’t like the way it was going, he’d “mess them up with a tree branch or something.” I don’t know why I remember the phrase so clearly.
I didn’t want to wait a week. I didn’t want to wait a day.
I wanted Chris to track them down right then and there, and I was ready to help him go through the phone book to do it, but something had happened in the time he was letting me go off. I wasn’t as angry.
My body was still beaten and sore, but even with that constant reminder of my desire for vengeance, I agreed to do things Chris’s way. All I had to do, he told me, was just act like me and the other guys were “cool” and he’d take care of the rest.
To this day, I don’t remember the names of any of those kids. I can barely remember what they looked like, but for one full week, they were my best friends in the world.
They bought my lunch and even brought snacks from home to share with me. They literally stood around me while I was playing at recess to make sure nobody messed with me and, a few days in, we even started playing together.
I still don’t know what Chris said to them or what kind of deal they’d struck, but for that one week, I felt like I was about the coolest kid in the school.
Of course, at the end of the week, whatever deal Chris had made with those kids expired and they went from being overly nice to ignoring me entirely. They never picked on me again or even showed any kind of interest in my direction at all.
That was the problem.
Instead of
seeing how far he’d managed to turn things around, I just felt like he’d somehow cheated me out of my new friends. What can I say? I was in kindergarten.
I think that’s actually when I stopped looking at my brother as a hero and started looking at him the way that I do now. Thinking back over it that way, I feel guilty. He’d helped me in the best way he knew how to, but I couldn’t see past my own flawed understanding of what was going on.
Over the years, he started giving me real reasons not to trust him, so it just made sense to hang onto that impression.
There’s a knock on my door and at first, I ignore it. I don’t feel like getting out of bed. I don’t feel like talking to anyone. I don’t feel like being me right now.
Another knock comes and I convince myself to get out of bed, though getting dressed and actually answering the door are still distant concepts.
A third series of knocks lands on the door and I slip on my bathrobe and drag myself out of my room. I open the front door.
“Hey,” Ash says. “Can I come in for a minute?”
“Sure,” I tell her. “Sorry it took me a minute to answer the door,” I start, but don’t bother with an excuse.
She comes in and sets her purse down on the coffee table. For a minute, I’m not sure what to expect, she’s so quiet. Either this is the calm before the storm that’s about to be directed toward me or she’s going to be all too willing to forgive, and I’m not sure that’s any better.
“You scared me last night,” she says.
“Yeah,” I say. “I’m sorry about—”
She holds up her hand and I stop. “Just let me say what I need to say, please,” she says. I nod. “You know that I’m not a fan of all the fighting,” she continues. “I’m going into nursing because I want to help people who are injured and you injure people semi-professionally.”
“I don’t know that it’s even that professional—” I start again, but stop on my own. It’s not going to make any difference and, what’s more, it’s not the point.
“What’s helped me work past that has been getting to know what a sweet, caring man you really are,” she says. “Until last night, you pretty well shattered most preconceived notions I’ve had about people who do what you do.”