Repentance: The Story of Kace Haywood

by Meghan Quinn

  I grabbed a hold of her neck and placed a kiss on her forehead. She closed her eyes from my touch and leaned into it. I held my lips on her forehead for longer than a couple seconds and then reluctantly pulled away.

  “I’m sorry, Lyla. I can’t be the man you want.”

  “How do you know what kind of man I want? You won’t even talk to me long enough to find out.”

  “That’s because I know you deserve better.”

  I had her step aside and unlocked the door for a quick escape. I was stepping out of the room when she called out, “You’re not the only one who’s fucked up around here, Kace. You’re not the only victim.”

  Without turning around, I said, “That’s where you’re wrong. I am by no means a victim. I’m actually the furthest thing from it.” With a heavy heart, I walked away. “Take care of yourself, Lyla.”

  Chapter Eight

  My past…

  The cold glass of a tumbler full of whiskey cooled my fingers. I huddled in a corner of a lesser-known bar in the Quarter I felt wouldn’t be too populated by sports fans. News of my “steroid use” was starting to filter through all news sources, making it almost unbearable to be in my own skin.

  My phone wouldn’t stop ringing with calls and texts from the press, from friends and adversaries, to the point that I couldn’t stomach the contact anymore, so I’d chucked the piece of shit against a wall and gone to the bar.

  Five drinks in, and I could start to feel the pain that had been pounding in my chest start to dissipate.

  Everything I’d worked for, everything I’d put forward to my career all gone in the matter of seconds because I’d trusted the wrong person, because I’d put my career in someone else’s hands.

  I had nothing left to live for.

  “You see that asshole who thought he could take steroids and get away with it?” a loudmouthed man said, sitting at the bar and talking to anyone who would listen to him. “I don’t get it. When are athletes going to realize they can’t get away with doing drugs? You would think they would have learned by now.”

  Grinding my teeth to keep myself from lashing out, I attempted to tune out the man. He was right about athletes taking supplements to enhance their performance, but there were people like me who did everything right and still got fucked in the end.

  I downed the rest of my glass, sat it at the end of the bar, and motioned for another. The bartender knew to keep them coming. I wasn’t going anywhere soon.

  While I waited on my drink, I tugged on the brim of the hood that hid my features from the public. I didn’t need anyone recognizing me. I also enjoyed the blinders the hood gave me, like a damn mule in the Quarter, blocked from seeing anything around me, just the mission ahead, and my mission was to continuously bring the glass in front of me to my lips until I couldn’t feel anymore. I was almost there.

  “Do you really think that’s going to help?” someone said behind me.

  Jett. Without turning around, I said, “It’s been your go-to. Thought I would give it a try.”

  Jett took the seat next to me without an invitation. He motioned to the bartender to bring him what I was drinking and positioned himself on his stool. He was going to be sorry to see I wasn’t drinking his precious bourbon.

  “Do you want to talk about it?” he asked, resting his arms on the bar.

  “Does it look like I want to fucking talk about it?” I asked, trying to control the anger that wanted to seep out of me.

  “For what it’s worth, I know you couldn’t do anything like that. There has to be an explanation.”

  There was an explanation, but no one other than Jett Colby was going to believe me. “It doesn’t matter,” I answered while lowering my head. “It’s all over.”

  Silence fell between us, and we both casually sipped our drinks, not engaging in conversation or any kind of emotional bullshit. That wasn’t how we rolled. We sat and we drank. It was the one thing I could count on when it came to my best friend.

  Thankfully the bar I chose didn’t have any TVs in it. I knew what would be running on them right now.

  “Kace Haywood: Positive for Human Growth Hormones.”

  “Pumping Juice to Get Ahead, the Real Kace Haywood.”

  “Haywood Hung on Hormones.”

  Shaking my head, I pressed the glass tightly to my lips and sucked in its contents. I’d never felt so helpless before in my entire life. For once, I wasn’t in charge of my destiny. I wasn’t able to control my own future. The only control I possessed was how many times I brought a tumbler of pain-lessening liquid to my mouth.

  “Want another?” Jett asked as I tossed back the rest of my drink.

  “Yup,” I responded, directing the glass away from me and pushing myself up, trying to stretch out my back from the tension that was taking over.

  I rolled my sleeves up to my elbows and adjusted my hood so it was more secure. The heat of the alcohol started to consume my body, but I wasn’t about to take off my sweatshirt. It was the only barrier I had from the real world.

  “Can you believe this?” the rowdy guy from earlier said as he held his phone out to Jett. “Did you see this article? Local hero goes and fucks everything up because he’s too lazy to put in the real work to be the best.”

  Jett nodded politely, because that was the way he’d been raised, and then turned away from the man. I sank farther into the corner, trying to separate myself from the loudmouth, trying to drown out his words.

  “Fuck, I can take steroids and beat the shit out of people too. What makes a great boxer is talent. Muhammad Ali didn’t sit there injecting himself with growth hormones so he could win title after title. No, he spent hours upon hours in the gym, working on his craft.”

  “Do you mind if we just sit here by ourselves?” Jett asked politely, holding his hand up to stop the man.

  From the corner of my eye, I saw the man back off for a second and then nod at me. “Who’s that? Your boyfriend? If you fairies want some private time, go to a gay bar.”

  Raising his voice and projecting his temper, Jett said, “I suggest you learn some decorum and shut your fucking mouth.”

  “Oh, I get it, you motherfuckers really want some time together. That’s fine. Hey, buddy,” the guy called to me, but I didn’t move, not wanting to engage. “Hey, I’m talking to you,” the moron repeated.

  “I suggest you drop it,” Jett warned.

  Getting out of his chair, the man shot back, “You don’t fucking tell me what to do.” From my view, I could see that he was a broad man, slightly built, still had some fat on his bones, but he was one who could hold his own, and that was why he most likely felt confident enough to confront both of us.

  The man brushed past Jett and pushed my shoulder. “Hey, dickhead. I’m talking to you.”

  Not turning to face the man, I said over my shoulder, “I suggest you leave me the fuck alone.”

  The bar was empty of witnesses besides the bartender, so the room was silent except for the faint sound of jazz spilling through the speakers. The bartender stood to the side, taking in the whole scene, probably wondering if he was going to have to intervene at some point.

  “Oh, you think you’re a tough guy? You can’t even face me? You’re just hiding behind your stupid hood and cowering….”

  Rage boiled inside me, and I flipped around, dropped my hood, and stood to my full height.

  Immediate shock ran through his eyes as he recognized me. From the look in his eyes, fear passed through him for a brief second before he started laughing, full-on clutching-his-stomach laughing.

  “Oh fuck, just my luck. The local hero right in front of me. Did you shoot up before you came here?” he asked, still hunched over and laughing.

  “It would be in your best interests if you dropped everything and left this bar,” I threatened between clenched teeth.

  “And what the fuck are you going to do if I don’t?” the man said, standing tall now and puffing his chest out.

  I was drunk, I
would admit that, but I still knew my left hook from my right uppercut, and the jackass was two seconds away from meeting both of them.

  “You’re a worthless piece of shit that gives this city a bad name,” he said, pushing my shoulder again, making me wobble back into the bar.

  The seven or so drinks I had consumed were now testing my balance, but I could still see the man clearly. He had jackass written over his forehead, and soon my fist would be replacing it.

  Jett must have seen the way my hands itched at my side because he stood and urged a hand against the man to give us some distance.

  “Step down,” Jett warned.

  “Aw, your boyfriend is coming to your rescue. You know—” the man pressed a finger to his chin “—you actually did the sport a favor by juicing up. Now we don’t have to watch a gay fuck like yourself prance around the ring, itching to grab some opponent’s balls.”

  “Watch your fucking mouth,” Jett spat, getting angry and in the man’s face. Jett didn’t take kindly to discrimination and neither did I, for that matter, especially since Jett’s assistant was gay and probably one of the most thoughtful and admirable people we knew. The dude would do anything for Jett or me, and we would do the same.

  Not wanting Jett to get involved, since he had a reputation to uphold, I stepped in front of him and said, “Get out of here, Jett.”

  “Kace, do not do something stupid,” he warned.

  “I’m not going to—” My words were cut off by the blow the man’s fist made to my jaw. My head flew back as blood flung from my mouth, splattering on the wall behind me. I fell back onto my stool, my head resting against the wall. It took me a second to register what had just happened, but once I was able to collect my thoughts, the pain in my jaw struck me like a fucking high. I actually enjoyed it.

  Jett was seconds from plowing into the man, but I stopped him, shaking my head in response to the impact of the man’s punch.

  “Fucking fairy, you need those steroids. You’re a fucking lightweight.”

  Jett’s fist raised, but I stopped him once again. I knew Jett could easily take down this guy because I’d taught him everything he knew. Jett wasn’t one to mess with, but this was my problem.

  “I got this,” I said. Jett nodded and stepped away. He knew when I needed to take care of my own business.

  I took off my jacket and handed it to Jett. My biceps flexed under the confines of my tight white shirt, and my forearms revved up, ready to do some damage. The same feeling that took me over in the ring took over my body now as adrenaline started to flow through my veins, replacing the alcohol I’d spent the last few hours consuming.

  Pure fear flashed through the man’s eyes as he observed my stance.

  That’s right, fuckhead. Don’t mess with me.

  “Go ahead, take another shot.” I egged him on while spitting a mouthful of blood to the side. “I fucking dare you to engage me. You want to know what talent is? I will fucking hand it to you on a silver platter. Go ahead, fucking test me one more time.”

  “You’re not worth it,” the man said, waving his hand at me and taking a step back.

  “Yeah, who’s a fucking pussy now? You’re all talk and cheap shots, but when it comes down to it, you know I can fucking destroy you. I made a living dicking people around with my fists. I would be more than happy to show you how it’s done.”

  “What living? You have nothing now because you’re the moron who decided to take steroids.”

  Grinding my teeth, I counted to ten before I exploded. There was no point in defending myself against the steroid allegations. I would just look like a whiney-ass bitch, so I kept my mouth shut and tried to keep my fist from plowing through his face.

  He’s not worth it, he’s not worth it, I kept saying to myself over and over again.

  I opened my eyes in time to see his fist fly at me and connect with my gut. I buckled over and coughed up more blood from the first blow he’d made to my face.

  Laughter from the idiot filled the small bar. I looked up to see the man holding his stomach and pointing at me.

  “Ah fuck, this is the best night of my life. Boxer? Fuck, you’re nothing but a piece of trailer trash trying to imitate someone you will never be.”

  Trailer trash… my fucking hot-button word. I snapped.

  Straightening, I quickly stepped forward, cocked my arm back, and blew it through the man’s stomach. Not even giving him a chance to think, I threw a right uppercut, sending his head reeling upward, and then to finish him off, in rapid succession I connected my left fist to his temple and then did the same with my right.

  It happened in a matter of seconds, white-hot rage flowing through me. For the first time since I’d gotten the call from my agent, I actually felt a little at ease. That was until I saw the man fall backward from my attack and land on the floor, motionless.

  Oh fuck.

  Time stood still as I waited for the dickhead to move, sit up, and shake his head from the brief knockout. I stood above him, practically begging him to move, but he didn’t. Not one twitch, not one breath from his chest.

  “Kace, Kace, we have got to fucking move,” Jett said, but all I could do was stare down at the lifeless man in front of me, the provoker, the antagonizer.

  “The bartender called the fucking cops. We have to move.”

  Nothing. I was completely void.

  Everything around me faded but the man lying on the floor. “Is he….” I started to ask, but I couldn’t even say the words. Just thinking them had my stomach rolling.

  “Kace, fucking move!” Jett shouted as he grabbed my arm and pulled me toward the back door.

  The bartender blocked our escape. “I can’t let you leave,” the man said. “And even if you do leave, I will tell them it was Kace Haywood.”

  Frustrated, Jett pulled out his wallet and grabbed a wad of hundreds from his billfold and shoved it at the man. “This is to keep your mouth shut until the morning. I will be back with more. The man who did this took off toward Royal Street. If you help us, I will help you. If you open your mouth, I will destroy you. Don’t forget who owns half this city.”

  Jett knew when to pull his elite card, and right now, he used it well.

  The bartender looked at the cash in his hands, then back at Jett, and nodded. “The man took off toward Royal Street.”

  “And what did he look like?” Jett asked.

  “Blonde, brown eyes I think, six foot with a beard. He was wearing a green shirt.” The bartender described the complete opposite of my brown hair, blue eyes, and scruffy jaw.

  “Very good,” Jett said, patting the bartender on the arm. “I will meet you tomorrow at seven in the morning in front of the steamboat. Don’t be late.”

  He stepped aside as sirens sounded in the small streets of the Quarter.

  Jett grabbed my arm and dragged me through the back door where a car was waiting for us. He shoved me in the backseat and climbed in behind me.

  Once again, Jett had my back. In the midst of staring at the blood on my hands, Jett constructed a cover-up and getaway.

  “Go,” Jett said to the driver, who took off immediately, navigating through the one-way streets toward the Garden District where Jett lived.

  My mind was numb. I looked down at my fists and realized the impact they really had, the brutal force they possessed.

  “He provoked you,” Jett said, trying to ease the tension in the car.

  “He’s dead,” I said, looking out the window, saying the words for the first time as realization set in.

  “You don’t know that. You probably knocked out the fucker. It was well deserved.”

  It wasn’t. No one deserved to be knocked to the floor like that, no matter what kind of dick they were.

  “You have to forget about it,” Jett said, but I could tell from the way his voice wavered, he was just as concerned as I was.

  What if he really did die? A small part of me prayed I was wrong, prayed Jett was right, prayed I hadn’t just
taken a man’s life.

  The following morning, I turned on the TV to find a local news station reporting about the bar fight. They’d interviewed the bartender, and he told the story Jett coached had him on without even a slight twitch in his eye. Jett had paid the man off that morning, enough so he wouldn’t have to work anymore.

  As for the man who’d provoked me, he died from the impact of my fists to his head. There was no chance to save him. I’d killed him. I’d let rage take over, and I’d killed him with my hands.

  The worst part was finding out he’d had a family; he was a father of one.

  I thought I knew my weaknesses until I realized the trauma a little girl would go through growing up without her father.

  Chapter Nine

  My present…

  I stood in front of the community center, taking it all in. The building stood for justice. Justice for those who were wrongfully affected by other’s decisions. It was a sanctuary to those seeking second chances in life, new opportunities.

  I tried to have a positive outlook on my new job.

  Standing outside the majestic building, I felt a twinge of excitement but also nerves, because who was I to help people when I couldn’t help myself?

  The landscaping still needed to be installed and the sidewalks were missing their cement, but the modern take on the French Quarter wrought iron decorated the façade of the building, making up for what was incomplete on the exterior.

  I took a deep breath as I thought about what this building could bring me. This was a fresh start for me. No longer was I under Jett’s watchful eye. Enough time had passed where I could walk around the streets of my city and not be sneered at or looked down upon, but I still felt slightly apprehensive.

  I wished there was someone in my life I could share this moment with, someone I could talk to about how I was feeling, someone to be proud of me, but my family was out of my life, and Lyla… fuck.

  It’d been a week since I’d taken her up against the wall at the club. Every last inch of me was itching to be inside her, and even though my brain was screaming at me to let her go, to not take advantage of her willing body once again, I couldn’t help myself. I was a selfish bastard, I took what I wanted and then left her confused.