by Mandi Beck
If I’m not training, I’m thinking about Frankie and how she quit us without even trying. Yeah, I fucked up, but that was before I made a commitment to Frankie. I let myself down by not following through with the promise that I had made to myself to be a better man for her. I never set out to hurt the Princess, and once I claimed her, there is nothing and no one that could ever tempt me into being disloyal to Frankie in any way. In her heart, I know that she knows that. She’s running scared right now, and I’m pissed at us both for letting it happen. So fuck her, and fuck me, for this drowning feeling that I can’t shake, which only pisses me off more.
Sonny shouting angrily breaks into my thoughts.
“Yo, Deacon! Get the fuck out of the ring. We have the fight in less than four hours. We need to get back to the hotel and rest up.”
Still ignoring my brother, I give the poor fucker I’m about to tear apart the signal to go ahead and come at me. Unfortunately for him, he does. I let him charge me and swing wildly, ducking his punches easily. I come up at him from his left side and counter with a combo that has him staggering back, but not far enough out of my reach as I hit him with an uppercut under the chin that knocks him out cold. Standing over him, I’m not prepared when Sonny steps in between us and pushes me back forcefully. Stumbling a bit, I don’t think about what I’m doing when I swing on him, connecting with his jaw with a right hook before I sweep his legs, causing him to hit the canvas hard enough to knock the wind out of him. Eyes narrowed, I’m seeing red and seething with anger. I’m just about to hit him again when I’m tackled from behind and pinned down with a forearm to the back of my neck. Mav’s face comes into focus at the same time as my pop’s gym shoe-clad feet come to a halt in front of me.
“Let him up, Maverick. He’s done now.”
“Pop, he just knocked out his sparring partner and then took Sonny down. He’s out of fucking control!” my brother says in exasperation, his minty breath warming my already overheated skin.
Cheek pressed against the mat, I let them discuss me like I’m not here, as if I can’t break his weak ass hold whenever the fuck I want to. Clearly, my dad is thinking the same thing.
“Mav, if Deacon wanted to continue on this stupid fucking rampage of his, he would. You’re not containing him, son—he is containing himself. Now let him up before he decides to take you out next. Your little brother is obviously in the business of throwing temper tantrums today,” Pop says in a very unamused voice.
Getting in a cheap shot by using the forearm across my neck as leverage, Mav finally gets off of me, allowing me to get to my feet to face the firing squad. I don’t look at any of them, the adrenaline coursing through me, making me feel even more out of control than I did when I hit my brother. Was I sorry that I hit Sonny? Yeah. Did I care? Not even a little right now. Feeling all of their eyes on me, I sigh deeply, as if they’re boring me. I focus on my hands, yanking my fingerless gloves off.
“We done here, Pop?”
Tossing them behind me, I watch them over my shoulder as they land in the corner before I turn back to my dad and meet his steely gaze.
“Yeah, we’re done, Deacon. Head on back to the hotel with Trent. We’ll come that way as soon as I look at your brother’s jaw.” The last was said to make me feel bad. It doesn’t work.
I know why he’s letting me go without giving me shit over hitting Sonny. He’s trying to let me get myself straight, rein in the mad taking over. That isn’t going to work either. On bare feet, I turn and hop out of the ring, stalking over to my duffel, stopping only long enough to put my shoes on. I pull my Blackhawks hat low enough that hopefully nobody recognizes me as I slide into the back of the car Trent already has waiting at the curb. He tosses me my phone.
“Carter called, said to tell you to give him hell tonight.”
It’s the same thing he always tells me before a fight. I grunt in acknowledgment, palming the phone and typing out a text without even thinking about it. “Are you going to be there tonight?” Before I can hit send, I shake my head at myself, disgusted, and shove it in my pocket. I’m not ready for her answer. I don’t want to give her the opportunity to say no. To anything. I’m giving her space because I have no choice right now. These next couple of fights will make or break my career and I am already at a disadvantage with my fucked up hand. My pop was right—I have worked too hard, they have worked too hard, to get me where I am to throw it all away because of a broken heart. I just have to keep it together for a little while longer. Stick and move. Stick and motherfucking move.
Back at the hotel, I spend the time waiting for them to come knock on the door doing sit-ups, pushups, shadowboxing, and showering over and over, in that order. I can’t shake the feelings that have taken me over completely since I left the gym. I run hot and cold from moment to moment and have to talk myself out of hopping on the next plane out of here, straight to my girl. The only thing keeping me from doing just that is the very small possibility that she’s here in Cali for the fight. Before all of this—her, me, us, the breakup—she would’ve been here. Nothing would have been able to keep her from being in my corner. That thought alone is enough to set off my already volatile temper. Reaching for the towel on the bar, I step out of my fourth shower of the night. Rubbing the soft cotton over my too tight skin, I look at my reflection in the mirror, my eyes locking on Frankie’s name on my chest.
Soft fingers flutter over the elegant letters, “When did you do this Deacon?” Blue eyes framed by thick lashes meet mine before searching my face, then come back and hold me there, nowhere to run. “Why?” she asks softly.
Shrugging nonchalantly, “It’s not the first ink I’ve gotten for you, Princess, and I’m sure it won’t be the last either.” Chuckling, I pull her into my side trying to put an end to this conversation.
“Yeah, but this is different and you know it,” she says, looking down at the feminine curves of black inside the angry red heart. “Please tell me, baby. I won’t be upset or judge. I know that you were probably angry with me.” Leaning forward, she places a kiss over the tattoo, her lips lingering, and then they’re gone and she has me pinned with those blues again, the ones that see everything, see me.
I groan and look up at the ceiling.
“Frankie, it’s not a pretty story. I don’t want to bring any of the stupid shit I did to this place,” I say, raising my arm to encompass the bed that we’ve just fucked each other stupid in.
Meeting her gaze again, I see that she is not going to budge on this, the stubborn ass.
Huffing, “Fine. So I was listening to some music, drinking—heavily and about to do something that we won’t talk about,” I say looking away from her, the muscle in my jaw bulging from the strain of me clenching my teeth so hard at having to tell her the next part.
“The song ‘Un-thinkable’ came on and I stopped what I was doing to listen to the words, pulled ou—”I shake my head at my slip—she doesn’t need the specifics. “Anyways, Drake said some shit about living for destiny and having more of a thing and ink over his heart for his girl, and in that drunken moment, it just seemed like I wanted to—no, I needed to do it. I don’t know if I thought somehow it would make me feel closer to you or what, but I was doing it no matter what.” While I’m talking I’ve been drawing figure eights over and over along her back and still when I feel her lips on her name again. When those same lips find their way up the side of my neck to my mouth, I breathe in relief.
In between soft kisses, she whispers, “I love it, Deacon, thank you.” Kiss. “Play me the song.” Kiss. “I don’t want anyone else to share that with you.” Kiss. “Only me.” Kiss. “Ever.” Kiss. “Then I want you to play me a different song.” Kiss. “Our song.”
Determined to torture myself, I stride back to the bedroom in my suite, grab my phone off the dock and glance through the texts and calls that I’ve missed from Carter, Trent, and whoever else doesn’t matter because they aren’t Frankie and pull up my Spotify, setting it to play “Un-thinkable,�
� then add our song to the queue. I lie down on the bed to listen. Allowing the sadness to overtake the anger for a time, letting it bring a binding around my heart to add to the uncomfortable pull of tension weighing me down, I listen until the last chords of “You Got What I Need” play out. The words hanging in the air like a reminder. I feel them wash over me and then I tune them out and shut down. Effectively slamming the door on all the love that memory brought to the forefront and immediately surrounding myself with all the ugly shit I’ve been feeling instead. The anger I can handle, work it to my favor. Love and sadness and the bullshit that comes with them make me weak, and I have no fucking time for that shit.
I sit stoically on the table, staring at the wall over Sonny’s shoulder as he methodically wraps my hands in the bright pink tape that Frankie bought me that I never got around to replacing. I think about the last fight and who was taping me then. Her movements were not as jerky and agitated as my brother’s, then again I hadn’t punched her in the face hours before either. Seeing Mav and my dad out of my peripheral talking to the babysitter sent by the EWF, I let my thoughts swirl and for the first time in my life I don’t even want to fucking be here. In this moment I want to give up because I don’t fucking care. The notion is so foreign to me it makes me irate that I’ve been brought to this.
Closing my eyes, I think about the fight and try to get my head in the game as I feel Sonny start his prefight rubdown. The silence in the room is deafening, the tension adding to the heaviness inside me. Opening my eyes, I’m startled to find my pop staring at me. I look away, swinging my gaze instead to the bruise covering Sonny’s swollen jaw, and still can’t find the strength to give a fuck. Focusing on my pop again, I allow myself a moment of weakness.
“She here?” I ask gruffly.
Shaking his head no, he starts to say something, but I cut him off by hopping down from the table.
“Let’s do this shit then, yeah?” Yanking open the door, I stomp to the tunnel and wait for my intro music, not bothering to see if my team is behind me. The one person who has always been in my corner, the only person I want there isn’t. So fuck it, fuck it all. This may be an important fight, but I have yet to get my heart in it.
As soon as my song starts, I start for the Octagon, my home, the place I need to be right now to release the fury and despair that I feel. I stand impatiently at the bottom of the steps, just going through the motions as they check me out and the cut man tends to me. Scraping my hair back into a tight bun, I step into the cage and wait for some relief. I get none. Looking around the arena, I see the blur of faces as I raise my arms in greeting, though not in my usual fanfare. I’m making my way back to my corner to wait for Holloway when I see the ring girls for the evening. When Veronica blows me a kiss and laughs as she takes her seat next to the other bikini clad chick, I want out more than ever.
By the time The Tank enters through the gate, I’m way past ready for it all to be over. I don’t pay attention to anything that the ref says or the taunts from Holloway; all I hear is white noise and the rush of my own blood coursing through my veins. As soon as the bell dings, I spring into action, following his dancing and bouncing form as he circles me trying to find an opening to lay me out. I never even give him the chance as I land a high kick to his temple, then as he staggers back, I get a grip on the back of his head and bring my knee up as I pull his face down, connecting with his nose, bringing an instant gush of blood. Not pausing in my assault, I unleash a flurry of left and right hooks, not letting the pain in my left hand slow me down. I follow him as he slides to the mat still taking my hits, until the referee slides in between me and a nearly unconscious Holloway, stopping the fight, nearly taking one of my punches himself. Chest rising and falling rapidly from the exertion, I don’t wait for them to announce me as the winner—I already know I am. Without more than an arm raised briefly in acknowledgement, I storm out of the cage, letting the gate slam against the outside of the cage when I throw it open. Not slowing, I charge back down the tunnel I had come from only minutes before, knowing that I’m going to catch hell from all sides and still not able to find my give a fuck.
I hear Trent on the phone talking to Reggie about the fight, telling him that we’re on our way back to the hotel now. Reggie, being the head of my security, takes his job very seriously. Since I’d made him stay behind with Frankie, he sent Trent and some new guy, Bo, with me on this trip. I don’t give a fuck who he sends where, as long as he keeps Frankie safe. Andrew still hasn’t surfaced and I need eyes on her in case he’s planning something. I usually never have this much security, but with things the way they are, it makes everyone feel better that Frankie and I are covered. This checking in bullshit is pissing me off though—I don’t need a fucking keeper.
“Ask him if she’s okay,” I demand kicking underneath Trent’s seat.
He locks gazes with me in the rearview mirror and nods in acquiescence. Satisfied, I go to watching the lights flash as we speed by. I’m not sure how Reggie knows Bo or what his deal is, but I know he’s one hell of a driver. Maneuvering through the shit traffic of L.A. like its nothing. I pull my phone from my duffel. Scrolling through all of the missed calls, I notice that I already have one from Derek, the President of EWF, and about fifteen from both Carter and Mav. Since the two of them work together on all of my PR stuff, I’m assuming that they are busting ass on damage control and probably have received a call or two from Derek as well. I keep flipping, not finding what I’m hoping for, and go to my texts, stopping when I see one from Indie.
Jones: Hey, you. Just wanted to wish you luck tonight and let you know that WE’RE watching. Knock him dead, asshat. On second thought scratch that, it’s probably frowned upon. Just win the damn thing, okay?!
Smiling faintly for the first time in days, I shoot off a reply.
Me: Thanks, Jones. I’m sure I’ll be in a world of shit, but I won, so fuck it.
Hitting send, I lean my head back and close my eyes. I want to grill her on why the Princess didn’t come. What she’s doing. If Rico fucking Suave is there. If she’s okay. Someone tell me again why I can’t just go get my girl. Lock her up somewhere and make her love me. I pinch the bridge of my nose with my calloused thumb and forefinger, exhausted despite the adrenaline still shooting through me. I’m already tired of fighting myself, convincing myself that I have to wait and it’s only been two motherfucking days. Not expecting a response, I’m startled when my cell dings with an incoming message.
Jones: We saw. WTF was that all about, dick? She’s really upset and if you tell her that I said so I’ll kick your ass! You’re probably gonna get fined, huh? She’s on the phone with her dad now, speaking Italian, don’t know what they’re saying.
Me: Why is she upset? She okay, Indie? Fuck the fine.
Jones: She’s upset bc you’re so angry. She’s worried.
Me: Yeah, well, if she’s so worried there’s an easy fucking solution.
Jones: Not that easy, caveman.
Me: Whatever. Gotta go.
Phone switched off, I throw it back into my bag and go back to watching the city fly by.
“Hey, Deacon?” Trent’s voice breaks through the silence.
“Yeah?” I bark out.
“Reggie said that Frankie is fine, hasn’t left her place all night and…nobody came over. It’s just the two girls.”
Reggie’s way of letting me know Cristiano hasn’t been there. I nod but don’t say anything to him.
“He also said that he’s staying the night.”
Whipping my head in his direction, “Why the fuck is he sleeping there, did he say?” He hasn’t slept there in months. Then again she’s either been in my bed or I’ve been in hers during that time, and I can protect my girl without his help.
Wiping the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand, he brings his gaze back up to mine in the mirror.
“He said he doesn’t think she should be alone.” Shrugging he holds his hands up in “don’t shoot the messenger�
� fashion and goes back to texting.
Whatever the fuck that means.
I curse under my breath and reach for my phone again. As I wait for it to fire up I think about all I want to say and wonder how much of it I’ll actually get out. Should I call or just text her? The phone comes alive in my hands and I look down at the picture of me and Frankie wrapped around each other laughing, me kissing her on the cheek. I stroke a finger over our smiling faces and then swipe it away, opening up to the apps. I hover over the call button and then switch to the text.
Me: Reggie will stay there, he’ll keep you safe. Don’t fight him, please. For me.
Tapping the send button, I sit and wait for a response, my leg bouncing up and down in agitation. When three minutes go by and I still don’t get one, I shoot off another text.
Me: You don’t need to text me back. Write this shit down though, one fight down, two more to go. Don’t think I’m not coming for your ass, Princess.
I let out a deep breath and wish like hell I had a drink. I’m just about to tell Bo, the stunt driver to stop at the next liquor store he sees when I hear the ping of my phone, letting me know I have a text message. Palming my phone, I look down at the glowing screen to see,
The Princess: Bumper Cars, Deac <3
Bumper Cars? What the fuck does that even mean? I huff out an exasperated breath about to man up and just fucking call her when it dawns on me. It’s a song. Spotify app open, I search the title and put my earbuds in to listen. It’s so Frankie it makes me feel closer to her, and then I stop to actually listen to the words. They say so much, tell me the things that she’s afraid to say, the things she’s fighting. Her pain comes through in every word. My girl. She loves hard, but she knows me better than anyone else and that’s where her fear lies.