“Brandi-” my voice sounds whiny, like a child who has gotten caught with his hand in the cookie jar.
“I’m serious, Jonathan,” she says. “This has to stop. This has to stop, or I-”
“Or what?” I ask with a hint of desperation in my tone.
“Or I’ll leave,” she says. “I love you, Jonathan, but I can’t keep taking care of a drunk man every damn night.”
“You won’t have to,” I promise her, and I mean it. “I’m sorry, Brandi. I’m so sorry I embarrassed you at our wedding. I’m sorry I’ve been out of touch lately. I love you so much. I really do, and I want to make this work. I won’t lose you over a damn… addiction,” I say the word, and it makes both of us cringe slightly, but it needed to be said. “Damn it, I need help, Brandi,” I sit up suddenly. Finally saying what’s wrong is making it all come crashing down. “I need help,” I say again, and I feel my eyes start to water. I finally said it out loud. I have an addiction, and I need help.
She takes my face into her hands. “We’re going to get you help. I love you so much, and I’m so glad to hear you admit that there is a problem. Now we can fix it, all right? Together. Just like… just like you helped me with my problem…” She kisses me, and I wrap my arms around her waist. I know she’s referring to her eating disorder; I had stayed by her side through all of that shit.
“For just tonight can we pretend that I don’t have a problem?” I ask and run my fingers across her inner thighs. “I really don’t want tonight to be about that, and I’m sure you don’t either.”
“No, I really don’t,” she says and pulls me down on top of her, her legs wrapping around my hips.
I grin and lean down, kissing her throat and chest. I undo the clamp at the front of her lingerie, revealing her breasts and perfectly toned stomach. “You’re beautiful,” I tell her as I drop my pants and pull her closer to me.
“Jonathan…” she blushes slightly.
I grin, “You’re beautiful, Mrs. Trial.”
That did it; she grabs me and kisses me firmly, and she doesn’t let me come up for breath until I’m to the point of panting. I rub her with my fingers, making her groan a bit before pushing myself up inside her. I take my time, kissing every part of her as I move my shaft slowly in and out of her. She arches her back excitedly, and her fingernails gently scratch my back while I kiss her breasts.
It’s hard to believe I’m married now. I never saw myself in a serious relationship let alone actually tying the knot, and I got to say, it’s the most amazing thing that’s ever happened to me. I can’t believe I almost ruined it. “I love you, Jonathan Trial,” she says with a slight moan in her voice.
“I love you, Brandi Trial.”
16
“It’s all over the internet. It’s getting worse,” my manager snarls into the phone. He is, of course, referring to my comments about women boxer’s I made months ago. You would think that people would have gotten over that by now, but apparently, I am a sexist –a misogynistic jerk –at least, according to social media, that’s what I am. People are losing their minds. I had to delete all of my social media accounts because I’m being harassed by a bunch of feminist groups.
“I know it’s getting worse,” I say hoarsely into the phone. I’m seated in my kitchen, a glass of whiskey sitting by me despite having just been to my first AA meeting this morning. I had lost another match last night. I just can’t seem to get back into the game.
“You’re doing the Donte revenge match,” my manager hisses, and my insides churn slightly.
“I can’t do that, man. He almost killed me,” I say, and the man huffs.
“I’m going to make myself perfectly clear, Jonathan, you’re rapidly on your way to becoming a has-been. You are going to fight Donte in the revenge match-up. I’m throwing my marketing team on this like you wouldn’t believe. And you better listen well here, kid: if you don’t win, I’m dropping your ass,” he hangs up the phone.
Nervously I hang up the phone. I definitely don’t want to fight Donte again –not after last time. I reach for the glass, and it’s gone. Shit. I spin around on the bar stool and gaze towards the back of my kitchen; I see Brandi standing there holding my half empty glass. “Damn it, Jonathan!” she shouts at me, marches around the kitchen island, and dumps the remainder of the alcohol down the kitchen sink. “Where’s the rest of it?” She demands, and I point up at the light fixture. “Seriously?” she asks and climbs up onto a barstool to obtain the bottle of whiskey. She stomps over to the sink and pours it down. “Is there any more?”
“No,” I say.
“Jonathan,” she says my name hatefully, so I point over to the pantry. She digs around for a moment and finds her bottle of wine that went missing during a party hidden inside a jumbo sized cereal box. She shakes her head and pours it down the drain. That was really expensive wine. She then crosses her arms, still standing by the sink, and stares me down. “You’re not fighting Donte,” she says.
“He’s going to drop me. We can’t afford for that to happen. With that stupid video about what I said about women boxing going viral, no new agency will pick me up. We’ll be screwed. I have to fight him,” I say, trying my best to explain the urgency.
“That’s bullshit. You can’t fight him again, Jonathan,” she says angrily.
“Brandi, I can beat him,” I say. She does not look amused. I keep on, trying to convince her that this is a good thing. “Look,” I say, “even if I do lose the match, the payout for the loss will be better than any other match I’ve done this year. The promotion they’ll be doing for this revenge match will be incredible. And if I win, we’ll have enough for me to pay off the house and even have a little cushion money aside if you and I want to take a trip for the holidays. We’ll be set. I can’t pass something like this up.”
“And what am I supposed to do if he actually manages to kill you this time?” Brandi questions.
“Come on, Brandi, you know I’ll be fine. I always am,” I say, and she storms out of the kitchen. I decide not to tell her that my manager is going to drop me if I lose the match. That’s the last thing I need her worrying about. She’s already trying to juggle my drinking, her dancing, and all of the drama associated with my boxing career. We just got back from our honeymoon, and already real life bullshit took over. I didn’t have a single thing to drink on our trip, and I really thought I had been cured… until I lost another match, and I hit the bottle again like an idiot. I don’t know what to do. I want to be better for Brandi, but it’s like I can no longer control myself.
The match is in two weeks. I have to win this one, or I’m screwed.
17
The phone call I got from Marty and Tyler was the last thing I was expecting tonight. Turns out, they had taken Gabe drinking. He turned twenty-one a while back, but because of my own drinking problems we had never celebrated with the kid. Because I was in AA, I had not received an invitation to the long overdue celebration at our favorite bar. I guess they were all just looking out for me, but it still kind of stings that I hadn’t received an invitation. Basically, I’ve been called in to drive Gabe home because they were all too drunk to think that perhaps their alcoholic friend was not the best person to call.
By the time I reached the bar, Marty and Tyler had already put their drunk asses in a cab. Gabe is drunk off his ass as I make my way to the bar, and I chuckle slightly watching him take shots that had been bought for him by a few other drunk buffoons who had heard he was celebrating his twenty-first birthday. I tap him on the shoulder, and he turns around and shouts, “Jonathan!” excitedly. He’s gone.
He starts yammering at the bartender about me –saying he was the best man at my wedding. The bartender rolls his eyes and looks at me, “You going to pay this guy’s tab or what?”
“Marty and Tyler didn’t pay while they were here?” I ask.
“They were drunk out of their minds,” the bartender says, “I’m lucky I got them to pay their own tab.”
I rol
l my eyes and pull out my wallet. I put a hand on Gabe’s shoulder, “You all right, man?”
“I’m really drunk,” he sings.
“I see that,” I shake my head, and I order myself one drink while Gabe finishes off the line of shots in front of him. I tell the bartender to close my tab out immediately and completely lay out that I’m an alcoholic to the guy and not to let me order another drink.
“You sure you want this one drink?” the guy asks.
“I’m not just going to stand here while he drinks all that,” I say, “just don’t let me order another one.”
The bartender nods and gives me my girly fruity cocktail; it’s a low-alcohol content drink, so I figure I’m not even going to get a buzz off of it. I sip on my drink as Gabe makes a bunch of ruckus at the bar. I laugh. I’m glad to see he’s having fun, and I’m sure he’s going to regret this fun in the morning. Poor kid. He’s still got three shots left in front of him, and he pushes two towards me. “I can’t finish all this without killing myself,” Gabe says and takes one last shot. I know if Gabe was sober there’s no way in hell he would have offered me a drink, and he would probably be giving me a hard time about the one drink I did order.
I hesitate. I tell myself, no, but I cave and take the two shots. I give the bartender my cocktail, which is only halfway finished, and tell him to dump it. I ask for water instead. I’m not going to let myself get drunk three days before my big match. Plus, I have to drive Gabe home. I’ll probably take him back to the mansion and let him sleep in one of mine and Brandi’s guest rooms. He had been pretty awesome taking care of me during my black out drunk night. Plus, I really owe him after puking all in his car. “Come on, Gabe, let’s get you out of here before I wind up drinking.”
“Oh, man, I forgot,” Gabe says suddenly going from giddy to ridiculously angry at himself, “Jonathan, don’t take those shots I gave you.”
“Man, you just saw me take those two shots. You’re drunk out of your mind, come on, let’s go,” I grab him by the arm, and I have to let him hang on me in order to get out of the bar. “I don’t want you drinking like this anymore, kid,” I say, “trust me, you don’t want to wind up like me.”
“You’ll be fine,” Gabe says, “you’re better than this. Don’t let yourself keep falling.” I nod and help load him into the passenger’s seat of my car. “Hey!” Gabe shouts in my face as I’m leaning over to buckle him in, “You got your Ferrari fixed!”
“Oh my God, Gabe, I got it repaired months ago. How drunk are you?” I ask, closing the door and circling around to the driver’s seat. As I’m sitting, I have to snap my fingers to get him to look at me, “Earth to Gabe! Man, how much did you drink?”
“I dunno,” he sings; he has a stupid grin on his face, and I can’t help but laugh.
I pull out of the parking lot, and we head down a long empty road. It’s dark out, and there are not a lot of street lights along the old strip of highway I’m taking. “I’ll get you some coffee when we get back to the house,” I say.
“I don’t want you to fight Donte,” he says suddenly.
I frown. “I got to, or my manager might drop me.”
“Fuck that guy,” Gabe says. “You’re not ready. You got to get sober before you try some shit like that. I don’t want you to fight Donte. Brandi doesn’t either. Marty and Tyler don’t want you fighting him either.”
“I have to, Gabe,” I say again.
“No, you don’t,” he says. “It’s not fair to us.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I don’t want to see that shit again,” he says, “I don’t want to see you hurt like that again.”
“Damn, Gabe, don’t get all emotional on me,” I say, and then I hear a car horn blare as I accidentally cut off some guy in a foreign jeep. “Shit,” I grumble and focus on the road.
Gabe has completely forgotten what it was we are talking about as he peers into my rearview mirror, “look at this asshole,” he says, “he’s riding your tail.”
I just shake my head. I had almost hit the guy; I need to pay more attention. “Whatever, we’ll get off at the next exit.”
Suddenly the car jeers forward. He fucking reared us! “Holy shit!” Gabe grabs hold of the car door handle and braces himself for a second hit.
I toss my phone to Gabe, “Call the police!”
Despite his intoxicated state, he manages to do just that, and I can hear that he’s on the phone with the dispatcher –panicking while telling them that some guy is trying to run us off the road. The car hits us a second time, and Gabe screams into the phone our location as we swerve. I manage to stay on the road and get us straight again, but in my rearview, I can see car lights speeding towards us. I’ve never been involved in a road rage incident, and I fucking fight for a living.
“Oh my God! Oh my God!” Gabe is screaming; he has this horrified look on his face as our car is rear-ended yet again.
I slam my foot on the gas pedal, trying to put distance between us and the other car, but this lunatic is hell-bent on driving us off the road. I attempt to make a quick turn onto a side road, but that proves to be a dire mistake. The guy T-bones us, and the car starts flipping. So much for me having nice things. My Ferrari flips God-knows how many times. Random shit goes flying all throughout my car; I get hit in the face by a pair of boxing gloves. It seems to happen in slow motion; I see blood splatter on the windshield, and I wonder if it’s mind or Gabe’s.
When the car finally stops spinning, we wind up upside down –hanging by our seatbelts. I look over, and I can see a big gash on the side of Gabe’s head. He moans loudly, thank God. “Gabriel, are you all right?” I ask
“My head…” he grumbles.
Suddenly car lights flash in through my shattered window. I can see a black shadowy figure coming towards us. “Gabe!” I snap, “he’s coming,” and I start to rush to try to get myself unbuckles, but my seatbelt jams.
I hear a clicking sound –the sound of a gun being cocked. My heart starts racing. I feel Gabe’s hand reach out and grab my arm, “Jonathan!” he shrieks, and I hear the gun go off. Gabe’s blood splatters all over me, and he lets go of my arm.
I scream, and I feel myself tearing up as I watch the shadowy figure start to cross around the car towards me. “Gabe?” I ask, “Gabriel, man, wake up!” I try to yank on my seatbelt, but I’m stuck dangling there.
I hear police sirens in the distance, and so does the driver of the other car. He bolts, and I hear his car take off. I keep struggling with my seatbelt, but it’s to no avail. “Gabe!” I sob, “Gabe, come one, man!” I know I’m in denial. He was shot in the head point blank. I don’t want to believe it, though.
The police arrive. “Sir, are you all right?” a voice questions as a flashlight is shined in my face.
“He shot him!” I scream, “He shot him!”
There’s a puddle of blood underneath Gabe as they pull me and him out. An ambulance arrives shortly after the police… and a hearse. I wind up sitting on the curb as one of the paramedics check me out. I can hardly move. “He’s in shock,” I hear him say.
I watch as they load Gabe’s body up into the back of the hearse, and it makes me cringe. He was just a kid. It should have been me.
18
I’m sitting in a hospital bed. I’m fine. Mostly just a few bumps and bruises plus a few cuts on my arms and on my face from the shattered glass. They gave me some morphine, and it numbed me pretty good. I’ve already given my statement to the police, and they are already out looking for the guy. I don’t have much for them to go on, though. I mean, I didn’t even see what type of car he was driving or see the man’s face.
The door to my hospital room opens, and Brandi comes running inside with tears streaming down her face. She wraps her arms around my shoulder. “Gabe’s dead?” she asks as though she did not believe the news she had received over the phone.
“He’s gone, Brandi. The guy shot him in the head. He just shot him,” I say, and I’m really g
lad she’s here. I lay my head on her shoulder.
“You were drinking?” Brandi asks and pulls away from me, her eyes filled with hurt.
“Brandi, I wasn’t drunk,” I say, and she slaps me clear across the face. I suppose I deserved that.
“What happened? What the hell happened?” she cries.
“I told you on the phone,” I say, “I cut a guy off, and he lost his mind. He ran us off the road, and then he shot Gabe.”
She wrings her wrists. “I can’t believe he’s gone. He was so young-” her voice trails off. “You know, it could have been both of you. I could have lost you tonight.”
“I know,” I say. I lower my head, “I called my counselor tonight.”
She looks up at me with these sad eyes, “you did?”
“I cut myself off. I’m not going to lie, I had a couple drinks tonight, but I cut myself off. But I can’t help but wonder if maybe I didn’t have those drinks if I would have been paying closer attention to the road… maybe I wouldn’t have cut that lunatic off…”
“Jonathan, you can’t drive yourself crazy like that. This isn’t your fault,” she says, but there’s a hint of a hidden resentment in that tone of hers. Is she secretly blaming me? I blame me. “The police will find out who did this,” she says reassuringly.
I nod. I feel sick to my stomach. Why did it have to be Gabe? “This isn’t right,” I say. I feel angry and hurt. I don’t know what else to say. I break down, and Brandi puts her arms around me and kisses my forehead. Despite being so much younger than myself, Gabe was my best friend. He looked out for me, and I looked out for him. He’s been by my side at every match –hell, he’s been around longer than Brandi. He encouraged me in my boxing career, but he also cared about my well-being. He stayed late with me at the gym even after Damion went home; he’d hold my punching bag and take a slight beating that way just to help me improve my game. He was there in the corner whenever I got my breather between rounds ready to doctor me up and send me back into the ring while Damion yelled at me and told me what all I was doing wrong. Gabe fucking gave me a shower when I puked on myself, and he had even driven me to my first AA meeting. He was the best man at my wedding –he was like a little brother to me… like a more responsible little brother who had my back no matter what. And just like that, he’s gone.
Filthy Desires: A Romantic Suspense Collection Page 132