by JB Salsbury
Fleur must’ve been waiting because she jumps up from one of the modern red chairs that sit in a formal lobby between the men’s and women’s locker rooms. I breathe a sigh of relief when I see her in a pair of black leggings, a red UFL sweatshirt, and bright red rain boots. She’s obviously showered, her hair falling down around her shoulders, and her eyes are a little brighter and lips a little darker as if she’s wearing makeup, but still casual.
“You ready?”
I nod. “Sure. I’m starving too. Hope wherever we’re going isn’t one of those old Londoner places that only serve jellied eels and warm beer.” I shiver.
“Ahh…” She tilts her head. “You went out with Jay then.”
“I did.” My first week here he took Rex and me out for a traditional London meal. I swore if this was what I had to eat for a year I would surely starve to death in weeks.
She rocks into my arm, and the playfulness of it makes my chest hurt from missing an old friend. “Don’t worry. Olivier and I fell for it to. I can’t even look at Jell-O anymore without vomiting.”
I chuckle. “I’m suddenly not so hungry anymore.”
“You will be once we get to where I’m taking you.” She motions for me to follow her out to the street where it’s pouring rain.
She hits her key fob, flashing the taillights of a red Vauxhall Corsa. We jog through the rain and climb in, shaking the moisture from our hair.
“Let me guess…your favorite color is red?”
She laughs. “Good guess.”
I try not to flinch as we drive through the rain on the wrong side of the road, which is getting easier but still manages to make me tense, and not being in the driver’s seat only makes it worse.
We chat about the upcoming fight, and it turns out she’s a UFC Wikipedia like I am, so soon we’re talking about fights that happened when we were kids, assuming she’s around my age, which I’m guessing she is.
“Oh, close your eyes!” She reaches over and tries to put her hand over my face.
I hold her off and turn my head. “Okay, okay, they’re closed.”
The vehicle makes a right and then, shortly after, a left until it comes to a stop.
“Okay, we’re here.” Her voice rings with that high pitch girls get when they’re excited.
I open my eyes and lean forward to peer out the windshield. “Is that—”
“Yes! Come on!” She jumps out of the car, and I follow her through the rain and to the front door of a 1950’s style diner.
From the outside, it looks like something you’d see in Vegas: a long silver structure with a rounded top styled after an old food trailer, and a big neon sign. Once we push through the front door, I grin so wide it hurts my cheeks.
“No way.”
She claps her hands excitedly. “Do you like it?”
The entire place is exactly like something you’d see in Vegas, from Elvis’s voice coming from the big blue-and-red-lighted jukebox to the black and white photos on the walls. The waitresses are wearing poodle skirts, and the waiters all look like some variation of Buddy Holly. With the scent of fry oil, burgers, and Velveeta cheese permeating the air, it’s just like home.
“This place is great.” I peer down at her, and she genuinely seems proud of herself.
“You’ve been here a month and never talk about home. I figured you might be homesick.” She swings an arm out. “Thought this might help.”
I take another glance around and grin. “And no jellied eels.”
She laughs and drags me off to a booth in the back. “Nope. Not a single jellied eel in sight.”
The waitress who takes our order could be a Lucille Ball impersonator, all except for her accent. We place our orders, and I study the American license plates that take up an entire wall. One from almost every state. I find Nevada and the plate reads HI RLR.
“So…” Fleur leans back and squints. “What’s your story? How did you end up fighting for the UFL?”
“I’ve always been a fan. Then when I was fifteen, I was at the airport with my mom picking up my uncle, and there was a guy who—fuck, he took up the entire room. He was at least a foot taller and a foot wider than anyone else, and when I took a closer look, I realized it was Jonah Slade.”
She slams her palms on the table, eyes wide. “The Assassin!”
I grin at her enthusiasm. “The one and only.”
Lucille Ball drops off our Cherry Cokes, which I’m sure Caleb will kick my ass for tomorrow, but I’ve gone a month without soda, and I can’t come to this old-timey diner without having one.
I take a long pull and groan when the sweet fizz hits my tongue.
“I would die; that guy’s a legend! So what did you do?” She’s talking fast, making her French accent heavier than usual.
“I walked up to him…”
She gasps.
“I told him I was a huge fan, started spouting off his fight stats like a nervous idiot, and asked him for his autograph. He was really cool, and even though I probably weighed ninety-five pounds back then, he encouraged me to give fighting a shot.”
“Just like that? The Assassin says give it a shot and now you’re a fighter?”
I laugh and push back the ache forming in my chest. “Not exactly. About a year later, I met a girl.”
“Ahh…” She rubs her hands together. “Now we get to the exciting stuff.”
“I don’t know how exciting it is.” I try not to remember how amazing it was. “She was the new kid at school. I found her in the parking lot screaming at her car.” The day I met Axelle is as clear as if it just happened. She was cursing up a storm, totally unaware that I was watching her, and even with the voice of the devil himself pouring from her lips, she looked like an angel. “She needed a ride, and it turned out her mom was the administrative assistant to the UFL CEO.”
She shakes her head and whispers, “What are the odds?”
“I ran into Jonah and he remembered me, and it turned out the girl’s mom was dating Blake Daniels.”
“You’re shitting me!” She stares at me in awe. “So here you are, helping out this girl, and you find yourself just chatting it up with The Snake and The Assassin. You jammy bastard.”
“I think they felt sorry for me or something. I don’t know, but they offered to let me come in and help out around the gym. One thing led to another and here I am.”
“Wow.” She takes a long pull off her straw. “You owe that girl a bit of gratitude, huh? Does she have any idea she super-started your career?”
“We’ve been…are…” I rub my forehead. “We were best friends ever since.”
Fleur doesn’t seem to catch my fumble. “What a great story.”
“How about you? Why did you become a fighter?” And not a model or an actress?
“Simple really.” She stirs her soda with her straw. “Olivier practically raised me. He loved to fight, and since our mum worked crazy hours, I had to tag along.”
“Why did you guys leave Paris?”
She shrugs a shoulder. “Olivier got the offer to come here and train, and there was no way I was going to let him leave me behind.”
“You ever miss it? Miss your friends back home?”
She leans forward, her forearms crossed and resting on the table. “We try to go back and visit family as often as we can. I grew up in an MMA gym, so I didn’t leave behind a load of mates or anything. I find I get along better with blokes anyway.”
I can see that. She’s easy to talk to, and if it weren’t for her looks, I’d probably forget she was even a girl.
My phone vibrates in my pocket and I pull it out to check the caller ID.
Ryder.
This is the fourth time he’s called in as many days. I hit “decline” and shove my phone back in my pocket.
“Was it not important?” She tips her chin, indicating my phone.
“No, just someone from back home.” I take a sip of my Coke. “I’ll call him back later.” It’s a lie. Talking to Ryder me
ans risking information on Axelle, and in order to stay numb, I can’t think of her.
“Do you miss your American friends?”
I clear my throat and lean back. “I don’t talk to them much.” I drum my fingers on the tabletop, feeling a little exposed. “I’ve been really busy and focusing on my fighting. I don’t have time.”
Stupid fucking excuse.
Thing is, I haven’t spoken to anyone about what happened with Axelle. Not even Caleb. The only person I do stay in touch with is Cameron, and he’s never even alluded to knowing the why behind my sudden exodus from Vegas.
If any of them do know that I pledged my fucking life to her and she kicked me to the curb, they’re kind enough to save me from the humiliation and not bring it up.
Twenty-four
Axelle
s
“It’s been nine weeks since your last period?” Dr. Schwartz scribbles something down in the folder.
“That’s right.” Nine weeks.
The number runs through my head because it seems like just yesterday I was peeing on pregnancy tests.
My OB goes on to explain that the baby is growing; although I’m not showing yet. The morning sickness should kick in, but I actually feel better than I did last month. I suppose that’s because I’m settling in and coming to terms with everything. She assures me not to worry, that all women are different, and unless I get extreme cramping or bleeding, that “normal” is relative.
“We can do a transvaginal ultrasound if you’d like?”
“Is that um…internal?”
“Yes, the fetus is still too small to be seen on an external ultrasound, so we’d insert a wand vaginally—”
“Oh, ya know? I think I’m good.”
It was only weeks ago that my pregnancy finally sunk in. Knowing there’s a life growing inside me is one thing. Clifford’s rejection of that life is another. Seeing the baby with my own eyes, well… I don’t think I’m ready to handle that. At least, not on my own.
“And the father?” Maybe it’s the big “S” I marked on my marital status, or my lack of engagement ring, but she peers up at me with sympathy in her eyes.
“He’s, um, he’s not in the picture anymore.”
I thought with the way Clifford blew me off that day at his front door that he’d never want to speak to me again. I couldn’t have been more wrong. Not only is he still speaking to me, or rather at me, what he says when he does forces me to run off campus in tears.
His precious Xbox must no longer hold his interest, and messing with me has quickly become his most exciting game to play. It hasn’t been so bad that I can’t handle it. And no way am I going to ask for help on this one. Besides, nothing he can say will make me hurt any more than I already do.
Dr. Schwartz closes the folder and nods. “What we’ll do today is take some blood to determine your blood type, Rh factor, and antibody screening. You said your last alcoholic beverage was six weeks ago?”
“Yes, before I realized I was pregnant, and only a beer. Probably not even a full one. Is that bad?”
She shakes her head. “No, it’s common for women to engage in social drinking before they realize they’re pregnant. Smoking?”
“No, although the baby’s father, he um…” I lick my lips and struggle to get the words out. I don’t want this doctor to judge me, and what I have to say sounds horrible. “I think he used drugs. Bad ones.”
Her eyebrows pinch together. “Okay, but you have no contact with him now, correct?”
“No, none at all.” Except for the occasional harassment at school, but I keep that to myself.
She makes another note in my file, probably something like “stupid loser having sex with a druggie.” Not that I’d blame her. That’s fairly accurate.
A blood draw later and a quick stop to get a Very Berry Smoothie, and I’m on my way back to my apartment. It’s Thursday and I have a ton of homework, which should keep me busy until I pass out from exhaustion.
Mindy pops her head out of her bedroom as soon as I get home. “Hey, where were you?”
I drop my purse in the kitchen and meet her in the living room. “Doctor’s appointment.”
“You sick?” Her gaze roams over my face as if she’s looking for physical evidence, and I’m glad I thought to take off the cotton ball on my inner arm from the blood draw.
“No, just tired, so my mom thought I should see a doctor.” I take a slurp from my smoothie, filling my mouth with the tart goodness before I spill my guts to my roommate.
I know I need to tell her eventually, but every time I get close, I freak out, afraid of how she’ll react. I’m getting enough lectures from the people in my life and have zero desire to add Mindy to the list.
“First she makes you take the vitamins and now the doctor?” She laughs. “Guess she doesn’t remember how tiring college life is, huh?”
“No, I guess she doesn’t, seeing as she never went to college; she had me when she was sixteen.” I don’t know why I feel so defensive.
“Oh, right.” She twirls a strand of her blond hair. “I think I knew that. Anyway, you want to catch a movie tonight?”
“Can’t. I have too much homework.”
Her eyes narrow. “Since when do you care about homework?”
“It’s time I start putting forth more than minimal effort.” This’ll be my last year at UNLV, and whatever grades I get will have to propel me through life as a single mother. Fuck, that’s depressing.
“You miss him.”
I pop the straw from my mouth and force myself to swallow.
“It’s okay to just admit it, Axelle. He’s your best friend.”
I cough to clear my throat, but the lump that’s been there since Killian left remains. “Of course I miss him.”
“Why don’t you just call him?”
“I already told you I don’t want to bother him.” And there’s the tiny little issue of him not giving me his number. “This is a huge deal for his career, and he doesn’t need distractions.”
She tilts her head. “Since when is friendship a distraction?”
“Look. He didn’t bring his phone for a reason—”
“Didn’t Ryder give you his new number?”
“Yes, but that doesn’t change the fact that he didn’t give me his new number. He doesn’t want to talk to me, Mindy.”
“That’s so weird.” I suppose it would seem weird, seeing as she doesn’t know all the facts.
“Besides, he hasn’t called or texted me, and I’m right here with the same ole phone number I’ve had since high school.”
“So that’s what this is about. You don’t want to make the first move.”
“Move? What, like we’re dating?”
“Aren’t you?”
“No, Mindy.” I push to stand. “Stay out of it, okay? Whatever is or isn’t going on between Killian and me is no one else’s business.” I stomp off to my room, fighting tears.
“Axelle, wait—”
I slam the door behind me and lock it just as the first tear falls.
I’ve been telling myself the same lie since he left—that he’s not calling or texting me because he’s too busy—but I know that’s not true. Not a day in four years of friendship has he ever been too busy for me.
Blake told me he’s alive and well over in London, that he’s training for his first official UFL fight. Cam’s throwing a big party at the training center where we’ll all watch it. I’m torn between being excited and terrified because seeing Killian on the big screen will be the first time I’ve seen him since he turned his back and walked away. I don’t know how I’ll feel seeing him again, but if it’s anything close to how I feel now, then it might be better if I don’t go. No one needs to see me have a total nervous breakdown.
I pull my phone from my pocket, drop to my bed, and curl onto my side to scroll through social media. Killian has a professional Facebook page that hasn’t been updated since a week before he left. I hit the Instagram icon and
go directly to his page. His last post was a photo of him and Ryder at the Training Center, dripping in sweat after running for an hour on the treadmill. My finger hovers over the “Photos of KillerMC” tab. I’ve only allowed myself to hit this button one other time, and there were a few new photos posted of him by other people. Most of them were in a bar, and in all of them Killian was smiling. It hurt so badly to see him happy without me. I swore I’d never stalk him again.
And here I am.
With a deep breath, I close my eyes and hit the button.
Peeking through one cracked lid, I see…what? I sit up and stare at my phone in my lap. There are several new pictures of Killian.
I hit the first one and crank my head back in shock.
It’s Killian, his face damp with sweat and his hair hanging down over his forehead. The shot is taken from a side angle and Kill’s not looking at the camera, but down as if he’s thinking or catching his breath. The caption on the photo says “Determination at its finest with @KillerMC,” and the photo was posted by “PetiteFleur,” who, according to her profile picture, is a woman. Not just any woman, a gorgeous woman.
I go back and hit on the next photo of Killian. He’s smiling big with his head slightly thrown back as if the photo was snapped just after the punchline of a joke. His eyes are dancing even in the still shot, and the caption says, “Making @KillerMC laugh makes my day.” And sure enough, the photo was posted again by PetiteFleur. A sick feeling rolls in my gut when I see the last new photo posted of Killian is of two people together. With a shaky finger, I touch it, and when it goes full-size, my heart sinks into my stomach.
It’s him. And her. Their faces are pressed together cheek to cheek, and she’s doing bunny ears behind his head. The caption reads, “Showing @KillerMC around London is like seeing it for the first time. #luckygirl.”
So that’s it then. He’s moved on.
That’s great. It’s exactly what I wanted for him, a chance to be happy, and from the looks of it, he seems… I hate to even admit it, but he seems happier than he ever seemed here in Vegas. How could he not be? He’s dating a girl who doesn’t need to be held while she cries for days because her father rejected her. He’ll probably never find himself in a situation where he needs to punch her biological father for ambushing her at a hospital. He’ll never have to drag her drunk ass out of a man’s bed to keep her from being molested or raped.