by Penny Wylder
I'm just going to put my own spin on it. If I'm going to do this, I'm going to do it in a way that looks and feels like me. No one would believe that we met at some charity event, no one would believe that I ice skate or donate my time to rebuilding historical buildings. But, she has some really great ideas, and it's easy for me to tweak them just a little to fit my personality.
Checking my phone quickly, she still hasn't messaged me back yet. I'm hoping to see her name on my screen, it's an easy out with Frank. Dropping my phone back down, I stretch my neck and get ready to wail on the bag.
“Isn't that what we're doing right now?” Holding out his arms, he looks around. “I think we're earning a nice cold beer and some food.”
Glancing at my phone, I check it again for a text. I've messaged her a couple times, and still nothing. “Syl and I are supposed—”
Frank cuts in with a stupid smirk on his face. “Someone's pussy whipped already.” I kick the bag hard, sending him jumping back a foot. “Damn, Phade, we're just training, go easy.”
I don't take orders from anyone. Not even my own mother. So for him to think I'm going to just start following Sylvia around like a lost puppy—he can kiss my ass.
I also don't like the way he says it. It sounds demeaning, like he's talking about Sylvia personally. She's not like that, and even if she is, he shouldn't be a dick about it.
“Don't say shit like that.”
“Like what? What did I say?” He gives me a confused look, arching a brow.
“Just, watch what you say, and how you say it. She's my fiancée.” Folding my mouth at the corners, I dip my head and point in his direction. “Remember that.”
“All right, I get it.” Digging his shoulder into the bag, he leans over and grips it hard, bracing for my next kick. “Well, you coming out tonight or not?”
Taking a long step back, I take a second to catch my breath and focus in where I want to hit the hanging bag.
It doesn't have to be a bad thing if I go. I don't have to get wasted to have fun. I'm sure Daniel would advise me to stay home, but showing my face is always good for business.
Sylvia and Daniel both think I need this fiancée shit to show I'm straightening up my life. But why can't I have the best of both worlds? Why can't I still go out, and just not get drunk?
I'm not an alcoholic, I don't need to drink to have fun. The fake engagement is great for magazines and the newspaper, but meeting people in person is where you really connect with your fans.
Everyone loves when they see me out in the city, and the rush I get from it is hard to deny myself. When they see you, when they can reach out and touch you, their excitement is like a drug.
I'm not sure I can really go without it. A little taste won't hurt, not if I stay in control.
One night out isn't going to destroy shit. I'll go for a few hours, make an appearance, and call it a night. No shots, no getting drunk, no losing control, no fighting.
The rules are easy to follow. How hard could it be?
“I'm in.”
The music pumps out of the speakers as the lights pulse to the beat. Frank is like a fucking social butterfly. He's high-fiving people, fist bumping, and hugging almost everyone we pass.
I throw a smile out beside him, trying to enjoy myself. I'm nodding here and there, taking a picture every few feet, and forcing a smile to go with it.
It just feels weird, like something's missing. It's a lonely feeling, like I'm walking solo in a storm made of fire. I'm smiling, but I don't feel happy. I'm laughing, but nothing's really funny. People are talking to me, and I'm acting like I'm listening, but I really don't care.
I don't even know why I'm here, I don't really want to be here, but old habits die hard.
I wish Sylvia were here.
We squeeze through the crowded club, making our way to the bar. When we reach the bar, Frank leans over and yells into my ear, “What are you drinking?”
Shaking my head, I wave a hand. “Nah, I'm good.”
I don't need to drink to have a good time. I can be here and have fun without the alcohol. Even though I'm 'engaged', my fans still need to see me.
“Awe, come on, Phade. One drink.”
“I'm good, Frank, really.”
“Phade,” he says, slapping a hand on my shoulder. “One drink won't kill you. Come on, just one.”
It's just one, I can handle one.
“Okay, just one.” Holding up a finger, I give him a stern look. “Just one, and nothing too strong. I need to function later if you know what I mean.” Grabbing my dick, I stick out my tongue, and grin.
Frank tips his head back and opens his mouth wide, letting out a cackle like a hyena. “One drink?” he asks between loud inhales. “When did you become such a fucking pussy? I swear, man, you're losing your fucking mind.” He leans over the bar, waving his arm to get the bartender's attention.
When they're close enough, he orders our drinks, and I have no clue what he's getting us. I can't hear shit between the music and the banter of the people around us.
The bartender grabs a couple glasses and starts pouring several different alcohols into them. Giving each one a stir and a garnish of mint, he slides them across the smooth surface.
Frank takes his and passes me mine. Holding up his glass, he sucks it down in one giant gulp. “Well, you're not going to let me drink alone are you?”
“Bottoms up.” Saluting him, I tilt my head back, and swallow the entire glass. “There, feel better.”
“I will,” he says, passing me another glass immediately with a smile. “Let's consider this your pre-bachelor party party.”
Shaking my head no, I hold up my hand, not wanting to take it. “No, I said one.”
“All right, then let's make this your one.” I eye him for a moment, giving him a serious look. “I'm serious, last one, I won't push anymore on you. Scout's honor.”
“You were never a scout.” Under hooded lids, I arch a brow.
“Guilty, you caught me. But, what the hell, just take the drink, dickhead.”
“Fine, but this really is the last one.” Taking the glass, I suck it down quickly, feeling it burn the back of my throat.
“Phade Manson and Frank Delatorro, I never would have expected this. Daniel let you guys out of your pens together?”
Frank and I both turn at the same time to see another well-known fighter, not one of ours, Gil Flanigan, the Irish Breaker. He's one of those fighters that will do anything to win, even if that means fighting dirty.
Daniel had the chance to sign him, but after a few low blows and a questionable thumb in the eye, he chose not to.
“I didn't think you fuckers were allowed to come out this late,” he says as he leans against the bar, and takes a sip of his beer.
“How you been, Gil?” I ask, setting my empty glass down and wiping my mouth dry. “Haven't seen you since—”
“I left the Cauldrin when I went pro?” He smiles, the same fucking smile I remember. A crooked grin, with his pencil thin lips and asshole dimpled chin. “Yeah, it's been awhile.”
“Right,” I agree, rolling my eyes as I shoot Frank a look.
“So, what's this I hear, Phade—” Gil turns mid-sentence and says something to the bartender, then turns his attention back to me. His eyes study mine, and I have the urge to kick that fucking smile off his face. “Are the rumors true, has the infamous, single forever, Phade Manson, really gone and gotten engaged?”
“You heard right.”
The bartender slips three drinks across the bar and Gil passes one to Frank, then tries to hand me the other as he holds his own. “Here, a congratulatory drink.”
I don't want to take it. I told myself one, and I've already had two. But it would be rude of me not to, so I bite my tongue, and give in to him this one time.
“Thanks, man, I appreciate it.”
“You should. Your life is over.”
I don't respond. I won't respond. He's trying to push me, I can see it in his ey
es, in the smug grin that's spreading from ear to ear, and the way he's reclining back against the bar as if he won some bet. He wants a reaction, but I'm not going to give it.
“Yeah, so they say. Guess I'll just have to see it for myself.”
“Sylvia Fontain of all people too, now that's some fucking shit right there.”
“What do you mean?” I ask, not sure where he's going with this.
“What do I mean?” Gil laughs, his eyes glistening as if he's got a secret. “She's Daniel's daughter right?”
“Yeah, so?” My tone shifts, and I suddenly feel protective. Protective of Sylvia, protective of our relationship. Protective of what's mine. “Why the hell do you care?”
Gil dips his head, looking into his drink and swirling it in a circle. “Someone's got their period, huh? You bleed from your pussy now too?”
“Fuck you, Gil.” Snapping my shoulders square, I stiffen my back. “Did you come here just to start to shit, or are you always just a dick?”
“Relax, I'm not here to piss you off.” Setting his glass on the bar, he nods at the bartender and taps his glass for her to make him another. “It just seems really convenient that all of a sudden you're with her, popping the question. What's in this for you?”
“What the fuck is your problem?” Taking a step in, I hold out my arms. I can feel myself getting angry, frustrated, maybe even a little uncertain because even I don't know the answer.
I wasn't listening when Daniel and Sylvia laid out the engagement plan to me. All I was focused on was her. They were speaking, I was nodding, but I was never paying attention.
I took what she built and expanded on it because for some reason, I want an excuse to spend time with her.
Now I'm here, and this person who is only seeing it through the eyes of the paper, is trying to pick us apart. If he can read between the lines, anyone can.
A smug grin fills his face as he laughs. “I don't have a problem.” Crooking his jaw, he runs the pad of his finger over the rim of the glass. “But you might though.” He bites down on his bottom lip and grunts. “If she wasn't such an uptight bitch, maybe I would have put a ring on it. Did she tell you we hooked up before?”
I'm ready to hit him instantly. Balling my fists at my side, I growl, “You're full of shit. You haven't changed at all.”
“I'm serious.”
“You're a liar.”
“That crescent shaped birthmark on her ass makes a great target.” Smirking, he stands straight and takes a step in. Leaning over, he whispers in my ear so only I can hear him. “She also squealed like a whore while I fucked her.”
Thwak!
I feel my knuckles crack against his nose before I realize that I actually hit him. My arms are moving, everything is going in slow motion. I can see Gil's face, his nose is bleeding, but he isn't fazed by it.
He's trying to wrap his arm around my head, and get me in a headlock, but I'm not giving him a chance. Sweeping his feet out from under him, we're on the floor, wrestling each other.
Frank is trying to break us up. I can hear him yelling over me, “Dude! Enough! Not here! Save it for the ring!”
There's nothing he can do.
Gil and I tangle on floor, I'm aiming for where it hurts; his face. Fuck this guy. Who the hell does he think he is? Even if he did sleep with her at some point, he has some nerve talking about her like that.
Dropping an elbow on his face, I feel his teeth as they slice my arm and his jaw as it cracks under my weight. I'm breathing heavy, lost in this state of complete rage.
All I see is red.
Rolling across the floor, Gil ends up on my chest. He tries to throw a punch, but I'm able to move my head out of the way. His knuckles hit the hard floor, and it gives me a chance to slip out from under him.
Standing quickly, Gil's on his knees, and he turns to look at me over his shoulder. With one swift kick, I knock his face around to his other shoulder and watch as his eyes cloud up.
“Get on the ground! Put your hands behind your back!” The voices come in fast and loud. “Get on the ground!”
The weight of ten men are on my back, hands are grabbing my arms and tearing them behind my back, and my legs are restrained so I can't struggle.
“What the fuck! Let me up! I didn't do anything!”
“Stop resisting! Stop resisting!”
I'm confused, I don't recognize the voices, I can't quite focus on what they're actually saying, and my brain is slow to process all the words.
Gil had gotten one good hit in and there's a chance I have a concussion from it. He isn't the best fighter in the world, but everyone has the opportunity to land a good shot once in a great while.
The fucking cops. . . Damn it!
I need to explain myself, if they just hear that this all a misunderstanding and we actually know each other, they should let me go. This isn't two strangers duking it out over something stupid. We're two people who have known each other for years, grappling to take care of a disagreement.
“Listen to me!” I yell back, trying to yank my arms free. “Just listen to me!”
The cops keep screaming, over and over they yell in my ear. It's just too many voices to decipher what's being said.
Bzzzt!
“Ah! Fuck!” A surge of electricity jolts through my body, zipping from head to toe. I know what it is instantly, and it sucks.
They just fucking tazed me.
As the electric snaps turn into a dull ache, I look over and see Gil on his stomach, his hands cuffed behind his back and his nose gushing blood.
I shouldn't be happy to see him that way, but I am.
Because he doesn't have a stupid fucking smile on his face anymore, and that's the most satisfying thing I've seen all day.
I don't think he'll badmouth Sylvia anymore, that's all that matters.
The cops yank me to my feet, pushing me out of the club and into the cop car. I'm not looking forward to calling Daniel about this, he isn't going to be happy. But it was for a good reason, it was to save face for his step-daughter.
She deserves better than to be brutalized by a man and not even know it. No one's going to bad mouth her anymore. Sylvia's my woman, and I'll fight anyone who disrespects her.
People across the globe are going to know her, because she's my fiancée, and I want her to be right there beside me.
12
Sylvia
“Hello?” I ask, half awake. Scrubbing my eyes, I look over at the clock, it's three in the morning. I'm immediately irritated that someone has the nerve to call me right now, but then I'm hit with the thought that maybe something bad happened to my mother or Daniel.
My mind is all over the place, still rolling in a dreamy haze. Pushing up onto my elbow, I wait for a response on the other end of the receiver.
“To accept. . . call Cook. . . County. . .”
“What?” I can't understand what's being said. The voice is crackly and full of static, and it drops between words.
“Press one.”
Click.
I hang up, fairly certain it was one of those automated telemarketer services based out of some foreign country that isn't in our time zone.
I'm in bed. I'm not going to spend twenty minutes answering a fucking survey or arguing with someone about made up student loans.
Rolling onto my side, my phone goes off again. Picking it up, my voice is loud and I'm angry as shit. “Listen you telemarketing piece of—”
“Sylvia?”
Sitting up, I push the phone hard against my ear. “Who is this?”
“It's me.”
“Phade?” Squinting, I look at my clock again. “It's three in the fucking morning, why the hell are you calling me right now?”
“I'm sorry, I know it's late, but—”
“Nope, I'm not a bootie call. Not happening.” Raking my nails through my hair, I pluck at a string on my blanket.
“No, I'm not calling for that. I need. . .” he says, pausing as he lets out a brea
th of air. “I need your help.” There's a soft plea in his voice, subtle and hidden between his ego.
“What's wrong? Are you alright?” I'm awake now. Wide awake.
Is he okay? Is he hurt? What the hell happened?
“Yeah, yeah, I'm fine.” His voice grows quiet as he whispers heavily into the speaker. “I need a favor.”
“A favor? What kind of favor? And don't say it's a sexual favor, because I'll hang up right now.”
If this is his way of trying to get in my pants because he's got a hard-on and doesn't want to jerk off, I'm not falling for it.
“No, don't hang up. I need a ride. Can you pick me up?”
“From where?” My shoulders relax back, but his silence makes me nervous. “Where are you Phade?”
He isn't answering, all I'm hearing is his breathing as it creates pops and crackles in the receiver. “Where, Phade?”
“Cook County,” he quietly says.
“You're not serious?”
Jail? He's in fucking jail? Are you kidding me?
“Before you get upset, I want you to know it's not what you think. Can you just come get me? I'll explain everything.”
“Right, not what I think.” I laugh, but it's not because I'm amused, I don't think any of this funny. I laugh because I don't know what the hell he thinks he's going to get from me. Does he really think I'm going to jump out of bed to come rescue him? “Am I your one call?”
“Yeah, and they actually let me call you a second time because the first one didn't go through, we got cut off.”
“Oh, well isn't that nice of them. I'm glad you have friends in there, maybe you can ask one of them for a ride home when you get out. Goodbye, Phade.”
I'm not playing this game with him. I'm not his fucking sober ride home. I'm not here as a taxi service. He can't use me like this, that's not how this thing is going to go.
“Syl, wait! Don't hang up!” he calls out, and I hear the desperation in voice. He's pleading, he's trapped, and he knows there's no one else he can reach out to.
But that isn't my problem, it's his. Maybe he should have thought about that before he got himself locked up again.