The Sunset Prophecy (Love & Armageddon #1)

by P. J. Day

  “Hey, dude, calm down. Nothing is going on.”

  “Why were you holding her hand, huh?”

  “Matt, calm down. Nothing is going down or went down,” Keelen said, as the patrons surrounding their booth began noticing the rapidly escalating argument. “You’re making a scene.”

  Matt ignored Keelen’s pleas. His forearms tightened and his scowl remained. “I saw you hold her hand. You guys have history with each other, and we’ve been ice-cold, you think I was born yesterday?” Matt castigated, putting his rigid index finger squarely on Logan’s breastbone.

  Logan instinctively slapped Matt’s hand away from his chest. This was all the physicality Matt needed to trigger what he came down to the restaurant to do, dominate Logan physically for coming between Keelen and him. Matt wasn’t quick-tempered, but he had the tendency to let things build up. Despite relishing the confrontation of another human being at the sound of a bell, he disliked confrontation outside the ring. But as soon as he saw Logan’s hands on Keelen’s, Perry’s was officially a venue with spectators.

  The emotional buildup was too much for Matt to handle. Logan tapped into that inadequate part of Matt’s psyche. Matt was the polar opposite of Logan Drake; a physical brute, incapable of nuance or self-reflection. But Matt knew that in the end they were just men with needs, who were the same age, and on the same career path. In Matt’s mind, he wasn’t the bully. He was protecting what he held dear, a chance at Keelen’s heart.

  Matt wind-milled his arm toward Logan with an open hand. Logan stood still and emitted a quick flash of light that temporarily blinded Keelen, who was still sitting in the booth.

  “Matt!” Keelen screamed.

  Logan absorbed the blow. He remained unmoved. The only movements his body produced were the vibrations of his cheeks upon impact. Matt stepped back, surprised at Logan’s resilience, his eyes wide in shock. Professional fighters would usually stagger if hit with the same force, but here was this wiry-framed artist with the face of male model who looked as if he was cocooned since birth to feel and evoke comfort, taking the slap better than anyone Matt had ever fought or witnessed fight.

  Everyone in the restaurant gasped. The restaurant manager ran toward the table and lunged at Matt, desperately trying to hold his arms back. With the flinch of his shoulders, Matt fought off any external attempts of restraint. The restaurant manager fell to the ground and eyed Keelen, desperately looking for an answer.

  Matt lunged at Logan again, this time with a closed fist. Logan deflected the punch and kept retreating backward.

  Paparazzi, which had been camped outside for most of the night, waiting for the perfect picture, noticed the commotion inside the restaurant and began snapping away. “Who is that?” asked one of photographers, a tubby pony-tailed freelancer.

  “No way,” said the other paparazzo, whose specialty was hounding sports stars. “That’s Matthew Nix, the boxer.”

  Matt kept swinging at Logan with the same relentless energy he used to train for his fight on Sunday as they staggered their warrior-like choreography of swings and misses outside of the restaurant. A small crowd gathered around the fracas and snapped pictures and video on their smartphones.

  Keelen was behind the melee, yelling at the top of her lungs. “Matt! Enough, dammit!”

  Logan absorbed and dodged the punches. Matt took one last swing before landing on his hands and knees onto the sidewalk. His eyes dimmed with exhaustion. His exaggerated pants were fodder for the advanced microphone technology phones possessed—uploads commenced.

  Some in the crowd began looking at their screens as they filmed; they began chattering and murmuring among themselves.

  Logan calmly noticed the strange looks from the crowd. The rabid excitement they expressed over a potential street brawl was now subdued and filled with collective bewilderment.

  Logan flashed a grin and lifted his arms, embracing the crowd. “How was dinner?”

  The crowd remained silent.

  “I asked how dinner was.”

  A subdued bald-headed biker dude chimed in, “It was good.”

  Logan slipped his hand into his pants pocket and pulled out a sheet of paper. He handed it to a middle-aged woman who was standing in the front of the gathering. “Please spread this. Twitter, Facebook, YouTube, Google, message in a bottle, scream it, yell it just get it out there.”

  Keelen sat next to Matt, who was sitting on his behind, arms resting on his knees, staring at the ground in defeat, like an embarrassed ape.

  She glanced up at Logan. “What are you doing?”

  Logan looked down and held out his hand. “You still need a ride back?”

  Keelen shook her head and massaged Matt’s back.

  “I’ll see you at work on Monday then?”

  “Really?” Keelen snapped.

  Logan smiled and pulled out a wad of cash. He gave it to one of the waiters who got caught up in the action. “Sorry about the mess. Here, it’s on me tonight.”

  While on the floor, Matt turned to Keelen and said, “I’m sorry…I didn’t meant to embarrass you.”

  “I have no idea what’s going on anymore,” she responded, watching Logan turn around and walk away. Visibly annoyed with Matt, Keelen stood up and pleaded loudly at Logan. “Where are you going?”

  Logan backpedaled slowly as he observed the crowd. The stunned valet was right behind him holding his car keys. Logan turned around and calmly snatched his keys from the valet’s hands, streaked into his car, and zoomed out of the restaurant’s parking lot, leaving behind a gallery of confused stares and Keelen Grant, who was now thrust into a lover’s quarrel she’d never asked for.

  19

  Loose Lips Sink Sponsorships

  “Are you sure, Adam? You’re my boss and all, but this is a ridiculous waste of money,” stated Frieda, the senior member of the staff.

  “I agree with Frieda,” said Roger, the graphics editor. “I don’t see how pouring all our sponsorship money on one event, let alone one that is only a day away, can possibly be good for our whole organization, and probably piss off the shareholders, too.”

  Adam sat in his chair and looked at Roger. “We’re still going to need a couple of days more before we publish. We need to add some flavor from this fight,” he said, with sweat dripping down his golden sideburns. “Sponsoring this fight will help us attract young males. They want to be these guys. They want to be Matthew Nix. We need to do something different, drastic to pull them away from video games, internet porn, and the same old sporting events.”

  Awakened at the crack of dawn on a Saturday morning for an emergency meeting, the staff wasn’t all too thrilled with Adam’s hasty decision to use up the entire sponsorship budget on a sporting event, let alone one that was just an amateur boxing match.

  Tracy interrupted the group. “I get it. I understand why Adam’s doing this.”

  Adam sat back in his chair and let out a deep breath.

  “We’re trying to appeal toward the younger demographic. There is absolutely nothing wrong with that.”

  “The core demos have shifted toward Mixed Martial Arts. Traditional boxing is losing its luster,” said Harry, the sports editor.

  “Harry, this Matt guy is gonna be huge. Yes, boxing is no longer the draw it once was, but it’s still relevant enough to support a rising star. He’s the great white hope, plus more,” Tracy gleamed.

  “You mean the great white dope,” said Harry. “Did you see the video from last night?”

  “What do you mean?” Tracy asked.

  Harry turned his laptop toward Tracy and played a grainy video. Everyone, including Adam, neared the laptop screen. It showed Matt swinging frantically into the air at Perry’s steakhouse, yelling and screaming at himself, flailing wildly at nothing.

  Tracy squinted and shook her head. She turned toward Harry. “Is he fighting himself?”

  “It looks like that, doesn’t it?”

  Adam’s confused look morphed into a grin. “Matthew Nix,�
�� he said to himself. “You’re either crazy or letting me know who you are.”

  “What did you say, Adam?” asked Tracy.

  “This is why we need to sponsor this fight immediately. Strike while the iron is hot. Not only is this guy a superstar, but he’s crazier than Tyson ever was,” Adam said, recovering from his ramble.

  Harry laughed to himself. “I feel bad for the girl in the video. She probably looked forward to a juicy 32 oz. steak, but ended up with a cut of schizophrenia on her plate.”

  Adam peered into the screen. He focused on Keelen’s fine features and her howls of agony. “She’s certainly pretty. Harry, turn up the volume,” demanded Adam.

  Logan, don’t. He’s a professional boxer, yelled Keelen’s strained voice in the video.

  “Did she say Logan?” Adam asked. “Who’s Logan?”

  “I don’t know,” said Harry, brows furrowed in confusion.

  “She’s screaming, Logan,” said Tracy. “I don’t see anyone else in the video. She’s probably just as crazy as Matt—two peas in a pod.”

  “Can someone get me Mel’s number over at DMZ, please?” demanded Adam.

  DMZ was the most popular photo and video gossip site online. Their motto was, if you don’t see it, it’s because you’re living in North Korea.

  Everyone quieted down around Harry’s laptop as Adam called Mel.

  “How you been, Mel?”

  “Mr. Cagle, wow a bit early in the morning, I must say. I still haven’t even brushed my teeth,” said Mel, who talked faster than a coked-up Robin Williams. “What can I do you for, sir?”

  “This video of Matthew Nix...”

  “...yeah, the guy turns out to be a loon...well, I shouldn’t say that, it just seems that way.”

  “What do you mean?” Adam asked, as he made eye contact with his staff.

  “Jerry, this grease ball I got workin’ for me, but he’s good and is always where the action is, said Matt was fightin’ someone. In fact, his partner says he was fightin’ someone and other people that were there, said he was fightin’ someone. So, I don’t know who to believe or what to believe, all I know is that I got some nice hits for a Saturday morning, especially gearing up for his big fight tomorrow.”

  “You always seem to have the best timing, Mel,” Adam added. “Tell me though, from the eyewitness accounts, what did this guy fighting Matt look like?”

  “The photographers described him as a good lookin’ kid—thin, dark hair, sharp features, around 22...23. They can’t explain how the kid didn’t show up in the video. Honestly, they don’t care. This is some crazy shit caught on camera,” Mel paused. “Now, I gotta make sure I filter all the hits toward our website, before YouTube blows up with the camera phone videos.”

  “There’s a girl in the video, do you know what her relation was to either Matt or the invisible man?”

  “Probably Matt’s girl. We’ve run some Google image searches for her one of her stills, no luck. Who knows, probably some actress,” Mel said, dismissively. “Hey, why you so curious about this video anyway? I thought we were just some cheap gossip site. At least that’s what you, the great Adam Cagle, said. Also, rumor has it you got some disease or somethin’ that’s made you gain 300 pounds, is that true?”

  Adam stared at his staff and flashed an uncomfortable grin. He scratched an itch on that had been bothering the excess flaps underneath his collar. Adam hated to show weakness in front of his staff, so he internalized Mel’s attempt to get under skin. “I’m wearing a fat suit. I’m just raising awareness of body image.”

  “Oh, really? That seems so unlike you. I’m surprised. You’ve always come off as some selfish, sociopathic elitist prick, and I say that in the most complimentary way. It’s nice to see you’re giving back. “

  Adam bit his lower lip and held back the insults. He still felt Mel was beneath him and again was cognizant of his staff’s perceptions of his strength; however, they did exchange information, occasionally. Their relationship was nothing but a cold and calculated symbiosis that was necessary in the cutthroat world of entertainment.

  “As always, you’re a big help, Mel,” said Adam, facetiously. “I’ll let you brush your teeth...”

  “Adam?” Mel cut him off abruptly. “How about some credentials to that Louis Vuitton fashion show everyone’s goin’ to next month? Huh?”

  Adam paused and rubbed his finger on his eyelid with masked tension. “Sure,” he reluctantly agreed. “But please, be discreet, okay?”

  “I won’t send the grease ball, he’ll look out of place. I’ll send Danny, he’s got a bit of a lazy eye, but he’s still good lookin’. He’ll fit right in.”

  “Sure,” Adam said. “Thank you Mel, Take care and we’ll talk later.”

  Adam hung up the phone and stood up from his chair. His back was killing him again and he could no longer stand the pressure on his lower lumbar region. The pain added strain to his voice. “Who here wants to keep their jobs?”

  Everyone’s faces sagged in shock. Frieda, who wasn’t young enough to score another job in an industry obsessed with youth, was the first one to raise her hand. Everyone quickly followed.

  “Good. We’re doing this fight. However, I’m attending alone. You all stay home, since you all showed reluctance, except Tracy,” said Adam, smiling toward Tracy’s direction. “She’s the only one that believed in me, plus, she’s writing the feature.” Adam then thought about the Israfel’s promise, promise of a disaster. “I want you to sit by an exit, though, okay?”

  Tracy nodded her head rapidly as she was taking notes. Annoyed, Harry smushed his face and raised his hand. “Hey, I’m the sportswriter. Wouldn’t logic dictate I attend?”

  “Watch the fight from your television. Better views, anyway,” Adam joked. “Let’s get all the candidates front row seats. I want them front and center for the big event. I want to see their reactions if something big were to happen.”

  “It’s just a fight,” said Harry.

  “Hey, you never know what’s going to happen with this Nix fellow. He’s deliciously unstable,” Adam grinned.

  “So, Logan Drake, the artist,” said Tracy. “I’ll go meet Jack at Sotheby’s and try to get him to give Logan tickets.”

  His swollen hand dove into his back pocket and pulled out his wallet. “Here’s $5,000 cash. Pay off Jack at Sotheby’s. You get Logan’s address and you personally deliver the tickets to him.”

  “That money better not have come from our marketing budget,” said Roger, who looked increasingly annoyed at Adam’s unexpected and uncharacteristic aggressiveness.

  Adam put his hands on the table and flashed Roger a cold, prophetic stare. “A few days from now, all this will seem extremely petty. I suggest you get your shit in order.”

  Roger slinked back in his chair, sinking his head into his black turtleneck. He stammered, “Yes, Mr. Cagle. I’ll…I’ll make sure to update the layout once it’s ready, before release.”

  He paused and scanned everyone’s terrified eyeballs. “Hug your loved ones. Hug them and kiss them every day for the next few weeks. I just want to say that no matter what happens, it was a pleasure working with you. Once we go live with this magazine, give yourselves a month-long vacation.”

  “What about next month’s edition?” asked Frieda.

  Adam closed his laptop, tucked it under his armpit and left the room without saying another word.

  “Is he laying all of us off?” asked Maggie.

  20

  Viral Jabs

  “Platea me 22 quasi revelationem,” repeated Cindy, over and over on the kitchen table early Saturday morning, as she crunched on a bowl of Cocoa Puffs. “Iliovaslimea...the sunset...dammit, what does platea mean, is that a plate...sunset plate?”

  Matt had a few beers before crashing Logan and Keelen’s dinner. He slept on the girls’ couch after he hounded Keelen incessantly, asking for forgiveness, as they walked up the stairs to the apartment. She was so furious she stormed straight to her room an
d closed the door on Matt almost breaking his nose without even stepping into the ring.

  Matt rose up from the couch and knocked on Keelen’s door. “Listen, give me a chance, please. I messed up, I know. I shouldn’t have done that. I’m so sorry. I need you. Tomorrow is a big day. I’m nervous. I need you there.”

  With a mouthful of sugary puffballs, Cindy interrupted Matt’s desperation. “You know, when I told you where they were at, I didn’t think you’d turn into Stalker McBoyfriend.”

  Matt knocked on the door one last time, before planting his forehead on Keelen’s door. “I’m sorry. I was drunk,” he said.

  “Stop knocking on her door. You should go home. Let everything cool off. You got a big day tomorrow.”

  As Matt moped on Keelen’s door, his cell phone rang repeatedly on the coffee table.

  “You should take that as a cue to go home,” deadpanned Cindy.

  Matt walked toward the kitchen table and answered his phone. It was his trainer, Jacob Jacobs.

  “Matt, what the hell are you doing?”

  “What?” he said, blushing and looking at Cindy, his eyes immediately sagged with worry.

  “Where the hell are you?”

  “I’m at my girlfriend’s.”

  “Have you been on the internet today?”

  “No, why, what’s going on?”

  “Are you crazy? Don’t you realize what you did last night? Your chance at endorsements went out the window with your stupid little performance last night.”

  “Look, Jacob, I’m sorry. I thought my girl was with another guy, and I let things get out of hand,” Matt said, as he rubbed his face with despair and anguish.

  “Another guy?” Jacob yelled. “You had a nervous breakdown—there was no other guy. We need to get you help. We need to cancel the fight. Really, where are you?”

  Cindy overheard Jacob’s screeches from the kitchen and began browsing her laptop, searching for any evidence pertaining to Matt’s little episode at Perry’s. She found the video on the DMZ website and played it. Her eyes widened and she placed her hand on her mouth. “Is this a joke?”