Two Weeks

by Andrea Wolfe

  I can see his eyes, furious, odious eyes that ooze pure hatred. They glimmer as they reflect the moon and street lights. Other than our madness, the night is quite peaceful.

  He shoves me hard, but I'm braced for it. My legs take most of the shock. "C'mon, you fucking pansy. Maybe I'll have to steal your girl and taste that sweet pussy of hers myself—while you watch."

  The other guys cheer him and I hold my tongue. I know he's just drunk and belligerent, but I can't totally quell the disgust inside of me. He shoves me again and again, and I just take it.

  "Enough, Vince. We're not going to fight right now. Just back off and I'll let this all go."

  He tenses up. "You're not the one in charge, buddy." His face twists into a scowl and he sends a fist my way. I easily dodge it and his hand hits the brick wall, shaving flesh right off his hand like he ran it through a cheese grater.

  "You fucking asshole!" he screams.

  I consider running, but he's already on me, kicking and punching and doing everything possible to hurt me. My forearms and thighs take the brunt of the impacts. He's relentless, and as I try to back away, he jumps on me, wrapping his arms around my back, trying to pull me down.

  I should have run.

  As he's up there, I feel the sting of his hands as he repeatedly slaps my head. I grapple with him, trying to forcibly remove him and shove him to the ground. The guys behind us continue cheering.

  "Kick his ass, Vince!"

  I push him off, but he grabs my arm and brings me down with him. His one-hundred eighty plus pounds aren't something I can ignore, and he's like deadweight in this drunken state.

  Please don't come out. Please don't come out.

  I beg that Ally won't have to see this. I'm more focused on shielding her from the potential gore of street fighting than winning.

  I land on my side next to him, hitting the ground hard and scraping my elbow on the pavement. He still won't let go, so I punch him in the nose, sending his head back against the ground. My attempts to be non-violent have failed and this is all I've got left. Drastic measures are required.

  I pull away and rise to my feet. Somehow, he's right there with me. All I want to do is get away from this bullshit, yet everything he does serves only to perpetuate more violence.

  "Stop, Vince. I don't want to have to—"

  "Have to what?" he shouts, cutting me off. He pulls up his shirt to wipe the blood from his nose, leaving a huge crimson stain in the middle of it. The blood from his hand is blotted there too. "You motherfucker. You broke my fucking nose! I'm gonna kill you!"

  "You wouldn't stop!" I scream. "I didn't have a choice."

  It doesn't matter what I say because he's right on me again—and so is someone else. The others are joining in, just as I feared they would. I shove Vince forward and elbow the guy behind me with my arm.

  Holy shit. It's like I'm in an action movie, the hero that takes on twenty guys at once and beats them all to a pulp.

  Well, I hope I can beat these guys to a pulp.

  I back against the wall, ensuring that no one is behind me. All four of them crowd around my position, and when I realize that my defensive maneuver has left me trapped, I start to panic. Although I definitely put in the time to learn how to fight, this sort of encounter is still foreign to me. It's not just for fun, and yeah, he just said he was going to kill me.

  What if he has a knife?

  "Knock it off, you guys! I didn't want any of this!" I shout frantically as they approach me. My heart is like a freight train. Now I need Ally to get out here. I need help. I can't believe that no one has entered or exited the bar since I stepped outside.

  Is someone robbing the bar and holding everyone hostage? Either no one is coming or going, or roughly no time has passed at all. One way or another, I feel dreadfully unlucky.

  Fight or flight are my options, and given the fact that I'm severely outnumbered, flight is my only choice. I take a deep breath and charge right into the middle, toward the weak point between Vince and the guy next to him. It's the widest gap there is, and the best opportunity I've got to escape.

  I turn my body to fit through the space, but someone grabs me from behind. And before I can turn to free myself, something hard and heavy hits me directly on the back of the head and shatters. The last thing I feel is liquid spilling across my head.

  Everything fades to black.

  ***

  Ally

  The line for the bathroom isn't long, but it takes forever. My eyes vacillate between my cell phone and the door, trying to make sure I don't miss an opportunity to get in and get out quickly. However, after many minutes pass and I'm still exactly where I was when Jackson left, I start paying a lot more attention to the cell phone and less to the line.

  I have no idea what's going on in there. I can only assume it has to do with vomiting and passing out, and the vomiting part makes me queasy. Or maybe there's sex going on there.

  And if it's between vomiting or sex, I really hope it's sex.

  The two girls in front of me appear just as perturbed as I am. The one at the front bangs on the door, and we're greeted by the infamous "Just a second!"

  Jackson is probably pissed that I'm taking so long. Although I'm drunk, I'm definitely not that drunk, and I hope he doesn't just assume that I'm the one in the bathroom puking my guts out. I really don't want him to think that about me.

  I go back to Angry Birds on my cell phone when suddenly the door flies open and a girl leaves abruptly. By the time I look up, I only see her back as she strolls by. Only one person, so most likely not sex.

  The line finally moves—and it's only been like fifteen minutes.

  The next time the door opens, it's the girl from the front of the line re-emerging. "Oh my God, it's fucking disgusting in there." She shakes her head in disgust and walks away. The girl in front turns and gives me an apprehensive what-the-fuck-do-I-do-here look and then finally goes inside. It's clear that she's just as terrified as I am.

  I gulp. I don't know what went on in there, but if it's still that noxious, I don't know if I can handle it right now. I almost get dry heaves from just thinking about it.

  There's one girl behind me, but she's on her cell phone too. I take a deep breath... and go into the men's room, promptly locking the door behind me.

  Oddly enough, it's spotless. I'm impressed, although I don't spend any time admiring the place. I use the bathroom and get the hell out of there. As I leave, a tattooed guy in a denim jacket waiting at the door flashes me a creepy grin. I ignore him and head straight toward the front, trying to break through the droves of bar patrons. Jackson is probably seriously wondering what happened to me.

  I also wonder why he didn't just send me a text—and why I didn't send him one. I mean, is he really so patient that he wouldn't ask any questions about my twenty minute bathroom trip? Something seems a little iffy. I shoot him a text immediately and then head out.

  Me: Sorry, I got stuck in the line. I'm coming out now.

  I wave to Todd as I leave, but I don't think he sees me. He appears to be having a rather serious conversation with one of the other fighters, motioning excitedly with his hands as usual.

  Before I walk out, I do one final sweep with my eyes to make sure Jackson didn't come back inside to wait for me. I don't see him. I push open the door and step out, immediately greeted by the cool summer breeze. The air is so much more pleasant and clean out here.

  "Jackson?" I call. I look left and right, but nothing. I start walking in the direction that we came from, but I hear what sounds like commotion and turn around.

  Oh my God.

  Near the other side of the parking lot is a group of people gathered around a body near the ground. Shit. Shit. Shit. That can't be Jackson down there, can it? He's so tough, so strong, so bulletproof. And he's a good guy. Why would anyone hurt him?

  I run toward the group as fast as I can. My thighs burn with every rapid step. "What happened?" I shout.

  "Bar fight, I
guess," one of them says, an older guy that appears to be with his wife. "This big feller's bleedin'." He points down and panic floods through me, coating every interior surface of my body until I'm literally sweating it out.

  "Oh my God," I say, kneeling down to look at him. "Jackson."

  Yeah, it's Jackson, all right. There's glass shattered on the ground all around him, glass that he somehow managed to miss when he fell. The area reeks of whiskey. He's not conscious. He's slumped against the wall, but his chest is still rising and falling.

  Okay, so he's not dead.

  How can this be the same guy that was dazzling everyone on the stage just a couple hours earlier? The same guy that pummeled Goliath and took home the championship title?

  "Is he your—"

  "Yeah, he's my boyfriend," I say. "Did you see what happened?"

  "Just saw some guys running away. And I don't think they went to go get help."

  Frustration replaces my panic. Who the hell would do this to him? Was this like in the movies when someone accidentally saw something they weren't supposed to see and wound up tangled in a murder conspiracy? Had he just been in the wrong place at the wrong time?

  "Guys? What kind of guys? What did they look like?" I've got plenty of questions and very little patience.

  "Miss, I'm afraid I didn't see anything but shadows runnin' off. I'm terribly sorry."

  I start panicking more, but before it goes too far, I remember that Todd is inside.

  Todd will know what to do.

  I flee the scene and run back into the bar.

  "Todd!" I shout. "Something terrible has happened to Jackson."

  A look of horror spreads across his face. "Where is he?" he snaps. He slides along the booth so fast that he elbows a glass of water, sending it spilling across the table.

  I lead him back outside and he's instantly right there with Jackson, lowered to his level. "Jackson, c'mon, buddy, you all right?"

  "Did any of you call an ambulance?" I ask.

  "No," one of the voices says. "We thought he'd be all right. Just a bar fight."

  "Why the hell are you just standing around then?" I catch some dirty looks, but I'm not in a position to give a damn about them. I'm about to call 911 when Todd starts shouting.

  "He's okay!"

  "What?" I say, still staring at my phone.

  I hear some groaning down below.

  "Jackson? Can you hear me?"

  "Yeah, Todd, I'm here. Just got a bit of a headache." Jackson rubs his face and takes a deep breath.

  There's some more commotion from the people that gathered around. "Okay, folks," Todd says, "you can clear out now. The show is over."

  After some grumbling and drawn out shuffling, they finally leave. Now, it's just Todd and me with Jackson.

  "What the hell happened out here?" Todd asks.

  "I don't know," Jackson says tersely. "I guess someone smashed a bottle of whiskey on my head." He starts to stand up, but Todd stops him.

  "Whoa, not yet, tiger. Are you sure you can stand up? Your head is bleeding pretty bad."

  Jackson lets out a groan, but this one sounds more like annoyance than pain. "Yes, Todd. Let me stand up." The glass crunches under his shoes as he rises and shifts his weight around.

  "Tell me what happened again," Todd demands.

  "I told you—I got hit in the head and it knocked me right out. I didn't see who did it. Snuck up on me."

  Although Todd's much smaller than Jackson, I'm really shocked at how big his personality inflates when he gets angry. "God dammit, Jackson. If you were anyone else, I'd believe you. But not you. Tell me what really happened here. Did that fucker Vince do this?"

  I'm confused by the interaction. Some crucial detail is missing, leaving me with an unfinished understanding of the situation. The silence is deafening.

  "I don't know," Jackson says firmly. He's not making eye contact with either of us. He seems quite aloof.

  "This isn't fucking prison, Ames. Nobody's gonna shank you because you told the truth. Tell me."

  Jackson walks up to Todd and puffs out his chest. "I already told you, Todd—I don't know. Now, excuse me, I'd like to wash my hands. They're filthy." He pushes past us and heads back into the bar.

  After he's out of sight, I turn to Todd.

  "I know it's not really my place, but what the hell is going on here?"

  Todd shakes his head disbelievingly. "This guy, Vince, hates Jackson's guts. Jackson beat him fair and square, but he thinks the match was fixed. Everybody knows about it. Vince is just a sore loser, that's all. He won't let it go. And now I think he did this."

  I take a second to digest the information, but my head remains overloaded with questions. "I still don't get it. Why do you think Jackson is lying?"

  "He doesn't want to be seen as a narc because he thinks it will rile Vince up even more. He'll have even more ammo for his conspiracy theories. He never wants me to do anything about it, but this time, I'm not gonna listen. They could have killed him. I'm not about to lose my star prospect to some schoolyard antics. Did you see all the blood?"

  I reluctantly nod. "Yeah."

  "I don't get him sometimes. I mean, I love the guy, I really do. Underneath that tough exterior is the biggest heart in the world. Sometimes it's a good thing, and sometimes it's not." Todd looks like he really needs another drink. "It's just one thing after another. He's playing hard to get with this contract and now this. Who knows what'll happen next time."

  I'm just as confused as he is. Although I've only been seeing Jackson for less than a week, I'm already starting to understand Todd's frustration. "I wish I could help you somehow," I say.

  Todd gives me a hopeless smile. "Well, thanks for caring. I've really got to figure this out." He paces back and forth in the parking lot while I stand still. I stare down at the shattered glass and spilled whiskey, fighting to relax. "Let me give you my number. In case anything else happens."

  He rattles it off quickly and I type it into my phone. "Got it," I say.

  "Ally?" I hear suddenly. I instinctively put the phone back in my purse like I've been caught with my hand in the cookie jar. "I should probably go to the hospital. I need stitches. Let's get moving." Jackson is standing at the entrance, motioning to me. He's got a bloody wad of paper towels pressed against his head.

  "Jackson!" Todd shouts again. "Tell me who did it!"

  "I'm fine, Todd. And again, I don't know who did it."

  "I'll try to ask him, I guess," I say quietly. "I'll let you know."

  Todd doesn't even seem to hear me. "I'm gonna figure this out. Vince is gonna pay this time." He's acting kind of maniacal now, so I decide that getting Jackson to the hospital should probably be my priority.

  Jackson and I walk in silence until we're almost to the truck. "Are you okay?" I ask, hoping to change the subject from whatever Todd assumes he's avoiding.

  He laughs, and I'm happy to hear the sound of it. "Yeah, Ally. We fighters are remarkably resistant to, well, fighting. I'm actually okay. I just need to make sure this cut is nothing serious."

  I tell him about my extended bathroom visit on the way to the hospital. He's abnormally amused about the part where I use the men's room. I'm happy to see him laughing and goofing around, especially after seeing him passed out on the ground with blood trickling from his head.

  We go the emergency room, and thankfully, we don't have to wait long. He's got a few minor cuts and bruises on his arms and legs, and his head needs three stitches. The doctor takes care of him while I play Angry Birds in the waiting room.

  This has been quite the night. I can barely remember much of what went on. So many highs and lows.

  Finally, he comes back out and smiles at me. I start to see him as his old, sexy self again. "Sorry for the delay," he says playfully. "I'm back!"

  I hug him and wish I never had to let go.

  We leave the hospital and drive home. After all the excitement, I'm no longer drunk—but I'm still sleepy. I'm just thankful
that Jackson is okay—well, and that he's driving too.

  I'm too worn down to ask for any other details about the situation. I figure I'll have time to ask him later.

  "This isn't going to affect our trip, y'know," he says, about halfway home. "We're still going."

  "What are you talking about?"

  "Did you already forget about the trip tomorrow?"

  I let out a nervous chuckle. "Oh yeah, that trip." I fill with giddy excitement. "But what about the stitches? You can't swim, can you?"

  "I can definitely swim. I just can't put my head under the water. Well, I'm not supposed to."

  I nod. "But I'm only going if we sleep in tomorrow."

  "Fair enough," he says.

  We arrive home soon after that. Jackson carefully washes the whiskey out of his hair while I lie in bed.

  After he's done, we cuddle up and promptly fall asleep.

  12

  Jackson

  I wake to a dull, throbbing headache. It's still early as hell, but I'm awake. The sun is rising over the horizon. I stare over at slumbering Ally and feel a sensation of warmth I can barely comprehend. She's so peaceful, shielded from every bad and unpleasant thing in the world by her unconsciousness.

  Her hair is splayed in every possible direction across the pillow, and she's wrapped tightly in the blanket like it's a cocoon.

  I quietly climb out of bed and go into the bathroom. I dump a few aspirin down my throat and chug water directly from the faucet. I feel the stitches—they're tender. Vince and his crew really did a number on me.

  I'm lucky, for sure.

  Before I even notice, I'm sitting on the closed toilet, thinking rapid, circuitous thoughts. I'm confused about so many things in my life right now.

  I've got a beautiful girl in my bed, one that's leaving at the end of the week. I've got stitches on the top of my head, stitches that I'll lose around the same time I lose Ally.

  There's a contract, a possibility of going pro. Another victory last night. A renewed rivalry between Vince and me.