by Penny Wylder
Except I don't hang up, even though I want to. My thumb is so close to hitting the end button, the pad is hovering over that little red circle, but I just can't do it.
“Syl, you still there?”
“What?”
“Please, I can't call Daniel, you're all I have. Can you please just come get me?”
“Maybe you should have thought about that before you did whatever the hell it was to get arrested. You don't use your head, Phade. You react and do shit before you think about the consequences. This is all on you, don't drag me into it.”
Click.
A sense of satisfaction seeps down my spine. I won’t let him treat me like a doormat. It felt good.
This is exactly what we're trying to avoid, and he just couldn't help himself. I shouldn't be surprised really, once a playboy, always a playboy. His blood is made of nightclub air and alcohol. He deserves to sit in prison. I'm doing him a favor by not rushing to save him.
Pulling the covers over my head, I let out a growl. “What the hell,” I say to myself, unsure of what I should do.
I know he should just stay there, deal with the consequences of his stupidity. And in the same breath, I feel bad for him. I don't want him there. I don't want him to feel abandoned. I don't want him to think I hate him. Because I don't. I just hate the man who thinks getting drunk and reckless is a good thing.
I just can't understand why he's so self-destructive. Why would he risk everything he has for a night of fun? I can't make sense of it at all.
Screw him. It's his own fault. He's a big boy, he knew what could happen, and he still decided to go.
Closing my eyes, I bury my face in the pillow and try to force myself back to sleep. I toss and turn for some time, counting sheep, and wishing myself into good dreams.
It doesn't work. All I keep picturing is Phade locked up behind bars, his entire future disintegrating around him like dust in the wind.
Toss and turn, toss and turn, I roll around unable to get comfortable. I can't sleep. “Fuck,” I bark, shooting the word out like a dart at my pillow. “Son of a bitch. Why? Why do I give a shit?”
Slamming my arms down on the bed, the blanket flips onto my lap and I stare at the ceiling.
I wish I was coldhearted; I wish I could shut off everything and not care at all. It would be so much easier, except I don't work that way. My heart hurts and it feels like there's a pile of rocks in my gut.
I can't sit here like this anymore. So, I do what feels right, and it isn't going back to sleep, pretending like he didn't call.
Climbing out of bed, I throw on a t-shirt and jogging pants, give my hair a quick brush. Pulling it back into a bun, I grab my keys and purse, and head for the door.
Before I know it, I'm standing in a room full of chairs bolted to the floor, with walls that are bare. There's a large glass window against the back wall, and a man sitting securely behind the inch thick, bulletproof glass.
The white of the brick is almost too much, making my stomach turn like I'm on a boat at sea. I walk in a circle, unable to sit down because I'm afraid if I stop moving I'll puke all over the floor. My hands are getting sweaty, so I keep wiping them on my pants, hoping whatever is happening to me will just go away.
A loud buzzer rings overhead, and I almost drop to the ground like a tornado is coming. I've never been in a jail before; the sounds, the smells, all of it is overwhelming and aggravating my nerves.
The door swings open and Phade walks out holding his jacket and laces. “You came,” he says, the corner of his lip twitching in a soft smile. “I didn't think you were going to.”
“Yeah, well, it's better I come get you than Daniel. At least this way, maybe I can do some damage control before he sees the paper tomorrow.”
“Thanks for doing this.”
“I didn't do this for you,” I say quickly, darting my eyes up to his. “I did it for Daniel. He's dealt with enough of your shit.”
Fiddling with my keys, I move to the exit and throw the door open. He follows behind me, his head down, hands at his side, but I can feel his eyes on me. And I swear he's smiling, not on the outside, but on the inside, like he won because I'm here.
We reach my car and I climb in, starting the engine with a turn of the key. My body shivers and it's hard for me to tell if that's because I'm cold, or if it's because I can already smell his cologne, and it's making my thighs clench.
As he drops in beside me, he lets out a sigh as he buckles. “I can't believe this happened. This wasn't how I thought the night would end.”
“Yeah, well, drinking tends to lead you here, so you shouldn't be surprised at this point, I know I'm not.”
“That's not what happened, I didn't get drunk and do something stupid.”
“Right, this time was different, is that what you're saying?”
His eyes lock on mine and he nods. “Yes, that's exactly what I'm saying.”
“Oh, come on, Phade—you expect me to believe that? People don't just end up getting arrested for nothing.”
“I didn't say I did nothing, but it didn't happen how you think. I wasn't drunk, and I wasn't being stupid.”
The car idles and I press the tips of my fingers into my temples. I feel like I've heard this before. Not from him, but from exes in the past. The same crappy story about how it’s someone else's fault. It's always someone else's fault.
How about taking responsibility some time? Does anyone know how to do that?
I'm not in the mood to ask, because I really don't give a shit. Phade doesn't need to explain himself to me. I'm not his mother, he doesn't owe me a damn thing. He doesn't even owe me the courtesy of an explanation, we're co-workers. Simple as that.
“You know what, I don't really care, okay? I don't care what happened, I don't care if you were piss drunk or fucking drugged and you can't remember shit. You don't owe me an explanation, we're not really a couple, we're not really engaged. You obviously didn’t give a shit about what I'm trying to do for you when you walked into the bar, so why should I care about your bullshit excuses?”
“Because this time it really was different.” He softens his eyes, shoulders rolling forward as his hands fall between his thighs.
If I didn't know his type better, I'd think there was true remorse in his expression. The puppy dog eyes, the soft forehead creases, the pouty lips. He's got it down to a science, but that doesn't mean he's sincere.
“Save it, Phade, save it for someone who cares.” Throwing the car into drive, I speed out onto the road and head toward his place. “If you want to throw your entire career away, be my guest. You're a big boy, I'm not going to hold your hand. If you can't recognize your own self destruction by now, you never will.”
“Will you just listen to me for a second. I'm not lying. I'm not drunk. Do I look or sound drunk to you?”
“You're a seasoned professional, Phade. Who knows how long you've been in there? Maybe they let you sober up before giving you your phone call.”
“Or maybe I got arrested for standing up for your ass.”
“Me?” I snap, jaw hanging open. “Don't bring me into this.”
How dare he try and blame me for any of this. I wasn't even there. How could he spin this into something that's my fault?
“Yeah, you. Does the name Gil Flanigan ring a bell?”
“What the hell does he have to do with anything?”
“So it's true then?”
“What's true? What the hell are you talking about?”
“You fucked Gil Flanigan?” Twisting to look at him, I don't answer. “So it is true. That's all I needed to know.”
Swerving over to the side of the road, I slam on the brakes and throw the car in park. “Don't you dare judge me,” I snarl through clenched teeth as I hold a finger up. “You of all people have no right to judge me.”
Phade crooks his jaw as his eyes turn to slits. “Why not? You and your father obviously judge me. You both have me pegged as a drunk who can't make decisions for myse
lf. Why is that all right?”
“That's not true. I never judged you.”
“Sylvia, you had picked me apart before we even had a real conversation. Your little binder was more than just a guide, it was a rule book on how to change who I am.” Phade unbuckles his seatbelt and starts to open his door.
“What, you're going to get out and run away now? Because that's what you do, right? You run from anything that's real.” My jaw grinds down hard, wanting to say more, but choosing to keep it in.
Phade rests his hand on the roof and leans in the door. His eyes are dark in the faint light from the dome above me. “I didn't decide to do this little charade because I was afraid of losing my job, or because your step-father threatened to take everything I worked my entire life for. I did it because I wanted to get to know you.”
The door slams shut and Phade walks off down an alley into the dark. I watch him go, my insides on fire, the voice inside my head screaming at him to come back, but I can't get out the words.
Because he's right.
I thought of him as the superficial guy who loves tits and ass more than having a meaningful conversation. I thought he was a muscle-head, living on alcohol and sex.
I was wrong.
I've never felt like more of an asshole in my life. Here I am thinking that I'm helping this man, when he's only been here for me all along. I didn't expect that. I never expected the depth this man has shown me.
Our little play has become a one man show and I'm the star, because I'm the only one acting.
Maybe I'm the only one who's been acting all along?
13
Phade
Wrapping my knuckles in black tape, I make sure it's tight. Balling my hands, I roll my wrists in a circle until I know nothing is going to come loose or undone.
Satisfied, I drop the tape back into my bag. I'm sweating, I can feel it dripping down my neck, slipping between the muscles of my shoulders, and down my spine. Tipping my head forward, I close my eyes, and take in a few deep breaths.
Sitting back up, I straighten my back. I'm ready to go. Ready to taste the sweetness of victory and the bitterness of false happiness.
Things haven't been the same between Sylvia and me. There's a dullness in her eyes when she looks at me, and I hate it. The first time I laid eyes on her I saw fire. Now, all I see is smoldering ash.
I wish I could go back to that night at the bar, where we were nameless strangers. Where nothing else mattered in that moment but us. I miss that freedom I felt with her. I gave her something I never gave anyone else. I let her in. And now, I can't get her out.
She's all I think about. Awake, asleep, it doesn't matter, Sylvia is there. She's carved her name into my heart like the bark of a tree.
“You ready?” Daniel asks as he comes into the locker room with his hands braided behind his back. “Big day today.”
“I ain't worried, if that's what you're asking.” Pulling a padded glove up over my hand, my fingers stick out the ends. I wiggle them as I tighten the strap around my wrist. “It's just another fight.”
“Yeah, but this one is live, the entire nation is going to be watching you.” His smile grows as he sits down next to me and grabs my other glove. Taking my hand he slides it over my knuckles and pulls it tight. “This is where it matters, you know that right?”
Peering up at him with my lids lowered halfway, my mouth folds down hard. “It always matters, every fight matters. How the hell do you think I made it here?”
Bouncing his hand in the air, he runs an open palm over the top of his head. “I know, I know, and you've earned all of it.
“Have I?” I ask, cocky and defiant.
Daniel's eyes stiffen in place, filling with words he isn't going to say right now. “But. . .” Drawing out his voice, he ignores my comment. “This fight will take you to the next level, it'll put your name on top of everyone else.”
And yours too, right?
He isn't fooling me with this little pep talk. Daniel is picturing his name in the lights, not mine.
“Yeah, I got it.”
Daniel stands and adjusts his suit. “My daughter's going to meet you in the ring before and after. Regardless if you win or lose, you make sure the world knows you're taken now. Let them see the new you—Phade Manson the man, not Phade Manson the boy.”
I eye him, he eyes me back. Two bulls, tapping horns, ready to charge. The world doesn't give a shit about my status, only Daniel Cross does.
This fucking show is getting old.
Turning, he walks out to the arena, shaking hands and smiling along the way. The master manipulator, hard at work, trying to sell me to the world.
Stretching my arms above my head, I grab my elbows and pull my arms across my chest. I'm not worried about this fight, it's not even on my radar as something I should be nervous about.
I'm keeping my word, not going out drinking, staying away from the bars and the guys that tend to get me in trouble. Sylvia hasn't asked me to, but I feel like I should. I want her to trust me, I want her to see that I really am trying. But I also want her to understand that I can change without changing completely.
I can still be me without having to pretend to be someone I don't recognize.
She's here. Daniel didn't have to tell me. I know she's here because I can feel her. It's like I developed a sixth sense, one that knows if she's close by. My skin prickles, the hair on the back of my neck stiffens, and my skin starts to buzz.
Looking down at my arm, goosebumps ripple up my forearm, covering my skin in tiny peaks. She's close by.
I hear the announcer as he yells into the microphone and my entrance music starts to play. The guitar riff starts heavy, thick, and the drums kick in hard and loud. The crowd is cheering and I haven't even shown my face yet.
Moving to the door, I bounce on my feet, rocking my hips and slamming my knuckles together hard. I have to get angry, pissed, to the point I want to tear the fucker's head clear off his body.
My thoughts grow dark, looming on pure insanity to feed the rage brewing inside. I think of Sylvia and someone trying to hurt her. I think of Gil and what he said about her. My muscles start to shake, convulsing under my skin.
“Weighing in at a massive one hundred and ninety-four pounds, with a record of eleven wins and one loss, a man who doesn't back down and won't lighten up, Phade Brass Knuckles Manson!”
I jog out into the arena, and the room explodes with cheers and yells, hooting and hollering. Bobbing and weaving, I move to the music, letting it lead me to the ring.
Sylvia is waiting in my corner, her smile broad, spreading from ear to ear. She looks incredible. Her hair is a curtain of chestnut colored silk, with huge curls bouncing off her shoulders. A tight red dress hugs her body like a second skin. Black heels extend her legs, making them leaner and longer.
The only thought that pops in my head is bending her over the rope and taking her, making her mine. Protective and powerful, I want to fuck her, coming inside so every man in this room can smell that she belongs to me.
Does that make me an animal?
Climbing under the rope, she smiles as I step close, and runs her hands over my arms. I shiver, I feel it deep in my bones, but I don't show it. It's part of the act, I know it is, but I love the way her hands feel on me, fake or not.
“And in this corner, weighing in at one hundred and eighty-nine pounds, a man on a mission, Forest Crusher Jones!”
The crowd erupts again, and my opponent throws up his arms like he's already won. He twists his face to me, giving me a toothless grin and points his finger in my direction, then runs it across his neck.
He's got it all wrong. But I'm not the type of fighter to gloat like that. He'll learn that right quick when I knock him out in the first minute. I've seen this guy fight before. Sloppy, slow, bad with his fake out, this will be one and done.
The bell rings and we both work our way out to the middle. His hands are up by his face, and his head is tucked into his neck. He's
bouncing on the tips of his toes, and it reminds me of the old boxing matches I used to watch with Dylan.
Black and white film, featuring Muhammad Ali, Tunney Hunsaker, Don Warner. Dylan would set up his projector in the gym and we'd watch the fights as if they were happening live. Those were good memories, the kind that have stuck with me all these years.
Forest hops around me, jabbing at my face, testing the waters. I dodge, keeping my eyes on him, just waiting for an opening. He'll give it to me, they all do.
That was one thing Dylan taught me, patience. Patience is key to winning. I have one loss, and that one loss was only because I let myself get sucked into the game. I won't do that again.
Forest smirks behind his gloves, kicking his leg out and throwing another jab at my head. Kick and jab, kick and jab, it's the only combo this guy seems to know.
After about thirty seconds of this dance in the ring, I know his pattern and I'm ready to end the torture of his terrible moves.
He kicks, I move, he jabs, I snatch his arm, twisting it as I sweep his feet out from under him and land him face down on the mat. He grunts as he hits hard, and I pretzel myself around him, forcing his face into the mat.
Quickly, with precise movements, I slip my hands up his ribs and lock my hands behind his head, and legs around his waist.
Forest is trapped. I hear the crowd cheering, and the ref is on his knees beside us, making sure neither of us do anything that isn't allowed. Forest is trying to free himself, but it isn't working.
Digging my arms in harder, I put pressure around his head and neck, willing him to tap out because his air supply is about to diminish. His heels are slamming the mat, and his fingers are raking over my forearms, trying to find a weak spot.
Then it's over. The ref slaps the mat, so I release Forest, and jump to my feet. He's gasping for air, rolling around on his back. The medics rush in to make sure he's okay, and the ref takes my hand, lifting it high into the air.
My eyes meet Sylvia's and she gives me a faint smile. I smile back. That one little smile means everything to me because it isn't being pulled by one of Daniel's strings.