Love Hurts

by Mandi Beck

  “Deacon, can you come here and look at this real quick?” Pop calls from the small TV that they have set up in the corner.

  I stalk over to them, rubbing a towel over my hair and chest.

  “What’s up, Pop?”

  He and Guy are watching tape on the oldest fucking TV I have ever seen.

  “Look at this, what do you see?” Guy says pointing at the grainy screen.

  I lean forward, squinting to get a better look. After a few moments, I see what they’re talking about.

  “Dair has a weak jaw. He wobbles like a fucking top with anything heavier than a tap.” I straighten and I see them both nodding their heads in agreement.

  Pop points at the men fighting.

  “Did you see that? Jab, jab, down to his knee. Now watch this.”

  He fast-forwards to another bout.

  “Look there, uppercut to the chin, dropped to his knee. Same thing in the next fight.”

  “How didn’t we see this earlier? Me, Sonny, and Mav have been watching him fight all season,” I ask, confused.

  Guy pauses the video.

  “These were his last three fights. I think that he may have taken a hit and softened it. We aren’t sure, but that is now your target,” he says excitedly, which only makes his accent more pronounced.

  I nod.

  “Okay. I’ll wobble him then,” I tell them shrugging nonchalantly.

  My dad glares at me, shaking his head in exasperation.

  “Deacon, it isn’t going to be that easy. I need you to be focused. Calm and collected is the only way to beat this guy. You can’t go in there like a powder keg ready to blow like you have been during training and against Holloway. Do you understand what I’m saying to you, son?” he implores.

  Looking between the two of them, I see the worry on their faces, in the tightening around their mouths and eyes. I want to put them at ease but I won’t lie to them.

  “I can’t. I am all out of calm and collected, Pop. I’ve been trying for months to get a hold of it and haven’t been able to, so I’m adapting. That’s the best I’ve got right now and it’s going to have to be enough to win. I won’t lose this contest,” I assert and I mean it.

  Win here, take the strap in Vegas, and then get my girl. Stick and move. Stick and motherfucking move. If I keep saying it enough, maybe it’ll sink in and I’ll start believing it.

  Here in Brazil, I’m given a whole locker room to get prepared for the fight, instead of just a room like most arenas. My team is still at the hotel, but I was going crazy there so I headed here instead of staring at the fucking wall in my room. I am slipping my board shorts on, Frankie’s Place in bright pink over my ass and my sponsors down each leg in the same color, when I hear the door behind me open up. Turning, I’m about to tell whoever it is that they’re going to have to find somewhere else to shower when I see that it’s the Princess. My breath catches in my suddenly too dry throat. I want to kick my own ass when I feel the excitement at seeing her here. For my first thoughts being that she’s here. In Brazil. For me. And that she’s beautiful.

  Slowly I turn my back on her to give myself a second to get my shit together. I try to ignore the fact that she’s wearing her “Hitman” shirt, the one that falls off her shoulders over a pair of shorts, and of course her requisite fuck-me heels.

  “What are you doing here?” I bite out in aggravation.

  I look at her and all I see is that picture in the Trib and the words written beneath it.

  She clears her throat delicately. I can feel her coming closer and my body tenses.

  “Deacon, I wouldn’t miss this. I know that we aren’t in a good place right now, but that doesn’t change how important you are to me.”

  A derisive snort escapes me as I turn, pinning her with eyes I know are wild with emotions. Emotions that I don’t want to feel right now.

  “What do you want from me? I don’t have time for this shit right now.”

  “Deacon, please, I—”

  “You what? Please what? You made your choice, I get it. So again, what do you want from me?”

  “I just want to talk to you, to see if you’re okay. This fight is a big deal, Deac, and I’m scared for you. I just want to be here for you.” She’s sincere—I can hear it in her voice. I just don’t care right now.

  I feel all the anger and hurt simmering just below the surface and I know that it’s too late. There is no way I can hold it in any longer because right now the feelings are just too fucking much. All of it, her being here, is just too fucking much.

  Scoffing at her, “You want to be here for me, Francesca?” I spit out, using her full name because I cannot bear to call her anything else right now.

  I stand straight, hands balled into fists, my chest heaving. Forcing myself to ignore how she flinches as the name registers with her, as if I’ve reached out and smacked her in the face. I try to drag in air, but all I get is a coconut-scented lungful. My body trembling, I want to grab her and crush her to me, but I can’t and that only feeds the pain and anger inside of me right now.

  “So what? I’m supposed to thank my lucky stars that now you want to be here for me? Where’s Cristiano tonight?” I ask, his name like fucking acid on my tongue.

  “Deacon, I’ve always wanted to be here. Always. We just want—”

  “I. Want. You,” I roar, slamming my fist back into the locker I’m standing in front of, the soft metal caving without resistance. “I only wanted you, Frankie. Don’t fucking tell me what ‘we’ want.”

  She’ll never understand how hard it is for me to ignore the tears silently streaming down her face. I shake my head to try to rid myself of the sight. I can’t let them affect me. Her pain is apparent, but I hurt too and I just can’t afford to right now. Blowing out a deep breath that does absolutely nothing to lessen this feeling that I’m suffocating, I look away from her.

  “I can’t do this right now with you. I have to get ready for Dair.” Turning to face her again, I plead,

  “You’re gonna get him killed, Frankie. I'm so fucking heated right now, so out of fucking control I can't see straight, and that's…do you know how dangerous that is, how dangerous you are—for him?”

  On a sob she nods her head and moves past me toward the exit, stopping in the doorway. She turns hesitantly, immobilizing me with her watery blues and quivering voice, “I know you don’t believe me, Deacon, or you don’t want to hear it, but I do love you. I love you enough to let you go, because in the end, we would have only hurt each other more than we already have. If that’s even possible.”

  Blinking slowly, I focus on her trembling lips for a heartbeat before meeting her eyes. “I never wanted there to be an end,” I tell her matter-of-factly. Not waiting for a response, I stride away, locking myself away in the First Aid room to wait for my brothers and pop. As the door is closing I hear her whisper softly, “Little do you know.” That song. Those words. They give me hope, but I tamp it down. I can only focus on fighting one person trying to hurt me at a time and she’s already had her turn, now it’s Dair’s.

  At the entranceway into the arena, I stand in the shadows waiting for my intro music. Pop is replacing Mav as one of my two corner guys tonight. I’m not sure if it’s because he thinks he’ll be more helpful since we’ve changed tactics or because he is afraid of what the fuck stunt I’m going to pull tonight. Bouncing lightly on my toes, I wonder a little myself. I’m doing my best to keep it locked up, but knowing she’s here is fucking with my head, adding fuel to the fire. My dad nailed it earlier—I’m like a powder keg ready to blow. That’s exactly how I feel and my detonation isn’t something anyone will see coming or even be able to stop. Myself included.

  When “Radioactive” starts streaming throughout the arena, I snap to attention. I will my muscles to loosen as I let the drum beat, which is what I love so much about this song, flow over me and hope for it to slow my racing pulse and ease the tension throughout my body. Inside and out, pulling me taut. Forced to give up
on the relief I’m unable to find, I follow the team out to the Octagon and pray that “The Kid” survives this fight. Survives me.

  If I didn’t already know about his weak jaw, I would have figured it out ten seconds after the bell sounds. He’s so busy guarding his wobbly chin that he leaves the rest of his body wide open, allowing me to unleash some of the pent up anger overrunning me right now. I can hear my pop and Sonny yelling at me to slow down, that I’m going to tire myself out, but I feel nothing but determination and ice coursing through my overheated blood, and neither of them has me pulling back. I’m able to catch him with a quick jab to the kidneys and then another. He lets his guard fall enough for me to land a left hook to his face and a left uppercut that shatters his jaw and wobble he does.

  The crowd erupts in thunderous applause and screams, so loud I can feel their voices. As everyone celebrates around me, slapping me on the back in congratulations, I’m led to the center of the Octagon by Sonny, who obviously isn’t going to let me bolt again. Waiting for the official announcement, I let my eyes scan the arena, telling myself that I am not looking for her, lying to myself. Finally finding her, I’m able to catch glimpses of her through the chaos going on around me in the cage as she stands with Guy, Trent, and Reggie just on the other side of gate. My gaze zeroes in on her. I can see the tears falling from her eyes. Her lips tremble as she smiles at me, but it does nothing to soften the godforsaken look in my girl’s eyes. The same look I’m certain she sees reflected in mine.

  My arm thrust in the air by the referee in victory, the crowd is brought to an even more deafening level. None of it matters, not like it should. I’m lost in Frankie’s blues. Two fights down, one more to go. Get the belt. Get my girl. That’s my end game. Stick and move. Stick and motherfucking move.

  I’ve been back from Brazil for almost a week now and have received either a picture or phone call every one of those days, not to mention the three that were waiting for me when I returned. I have no idea how they’re getting past Reggie and the new guy he has with me when he isn’t around himself. I do know that I can’t do this anymore. I’m exhausted and stressed to the point of making myself sick. I called Detective Adams, and she and Flores will be here sometime tonight to pick all of the pictures up and work on tracing the numbers that the calls came from. I kept every one and didn’t touch them, other than to open the envelopes. There are no signatures but I know who they’re from. The threats, the accusations, and cryptic messages…I’ve heard them all before, on that night. On the plus side, I haven’t convinced myself lately that he’s watching me or that I smell that same sweet scent that I have nightmares about. That was probably because after my panic attack, Reggie has amped up my security. I think he’s trying to make me feel more secure, which it does…to an extent. In fact, the only reason that security isn’t camped out on the couch right now is because Adams and Flores are on their way here.

  Pacing around Indie’s front room, Damien Rice is streaming from my laptop. I stop to listen to the words, thinking how the eerie tempo and melancholy lyrics are haunting and so appropriate to the battle that is raging within my heart. I debate for the millionth time whether or not I should call him. I want to, but that last confrontation with Deacon killed something inside of me. As much as he hurt me, I hurt him that much more. Never have I seen Deac look defeated by anything, until me. I did that to him. I put that look in his eyes and the fire in his heart that burned through him and scorched everything in his path. We flamed bright and then crashed, losing everything in the process. I know that we love each other, but I’m not sure that either of us can survive this kind of chaotic, passionate, infinite love. But I’m not sure we can deny ourselves of it or its soul crushing beauty either.

  My braid hanging over my shoulder, I finger the tip as I bite the inside of my lip in contemplation. I’m staring down at my phone about to make the call when a text comes in. I’m disappointed when I see that it’s not from Deacon. Although I never respond to the texts he sends, not after that one time, they still connect me to him and I need that little piece of him.

  Cristiano: I miss you. Can I see you?

  Inhaling deeply, I reply.

  Me: Not tonight, I have something to take care of. Soon.

  His reply is almost immediate,

  Cristiano: I’ll look forward to it, mi amor. xx

  Not bothering with a response, I go back to pacing, my bare feet slapping against the oak floor. I know that Deacon saw the picture of Cristiano and I in the Trib and I know how it looked. Yes, we were—are—comfortable together, and yes, we were “canoodling” in the club, but I’m blaming that on the copious amounts of alcohol he had been drinking and the utter despair I had been feeling over the scene with Deacon earlier in the day. It always comes back to Deacon. I’m afraid that no matter what I choose to do or whom I choose to be with, that it always will. Nobody will ever live up to him. An impossible task to even attempt.

  The song ends and the even more fitting sound of Madilyn Bailey’s version of “When I Was Your Man” fills the room. I’m manic with my music lately, not allowing for silence to eat up any space that I occupy. Afraid of my own thoughts and shadow at the moment. Sighing loudly, I unlock the phone and pull up Deacon’s picture. I take in his sexy smirk, and my own mouth tips up into a sad smile. Blowing out a breath of air, I let a curse slip past those same lips as I hit the call button. My finger tapping out a nervous beat on my thigh, I listen waiting for the call to connect.

  I’m startled when there’s a knock at the door, followed by the chimes of the doorbell. Slowly lowering the phone to my chest mid ring, I reach for the knob, cursing my lack of shoes not allowing me to see out the peephole. It doesn’t matter anyway—I’m not expecting anyone but Detective Adams and her partner. Opening the door wide, I immediately start to tremble uncontrollably. Blood running cold, I shake my head from side to side as if that can ward off the vision in front of me.

  “Hello, Francesca, aren’t you excited to see me, darling?” Smiling, he steps closer to where I stand stunned and frozen to the spot.

  I can faintly hear Deacon, calling my name as I gasp out on a terrified breath, “Andrew?”

  TO BE CONTINUED…

  I was told that writing these would be harder than writing the actual book. They were right. I worry that I’ll forget someone who was so important to getting me to this point. I’ve made a list. I’ve checked it twice and still, I’m certain people are missing. If by chance you are that person, I didn’t mean it! Every single one of you deserve a thank you, a hug, a damn medal for taking this ride with me. None of it would have happened without each of you there by my side. Thank you. From the bottom of my heart, thank you.

  I’m acknowledging people in alphabetical order. I’m not actually that anal, but for some reason that’s how I wrote my list out (don’t judge me). First though, I would like to start with my readers. You’ll have to forgive me because I am total shite at hearts and flowers so, bear with me.

  TO MY READERS:

  To even be addressing “my readers” is surreal! I never thought in a million years that this day would come. That I would put my words out there and people would actually enjoy them. I can’t thank you enough for taking a chance on me, a woman who wanted to just do something for her. Something that let her know that she wasn’t just “mommy” or “Sug.” You took a chance on me and my filthy mouthed fighter and thank you will never be enough.

  AMY:

  You, my scary stabby spice are invaluable. You’re my friend, my sister, Deacon’s trainer. You hit me with tough love when I needed it most and talked me through every bump in the road, especially in the aftermath when the easy part of writing was finished. You were never too busy, my questions and complete lack of knowledge, never an issue. I have learned a great deal from you throughout this process and I can’t thank you enough for always making time for me no matter what you had going on. For every name change, plot change, c-punch and “NO” I thank you. You believed in me,
supported me and guided me through and I will always love you for not letting Fat boy Slim win in the end. I love you #OZ

  BETA BERRIES:

  Who & RA, you ladies and your encouraging words, constant laughs, love and support kept me going! You let me torture you with half scenes, rewrites, more half scenes and weeks long breaks in between new stuff and I love you for every second of it. #dirtygirls

  CARA:

  My donut eating sprinting partner. I know that I say it all the time but it’s true. If it weren’t for you, this book would never have been finished. Every night, whether you had things to do or not, you made sure you set aside sprinting time for me so that I was able to reach MY goal. You read and researched, talked and listened anytime I needed you to and you never once complained even though you had your own thing happening. You never stopped encouraging for a second and your belief in me and my ability to finish and finish well is what kept me going. We bonded over douchebaggery and AT but that was only the beginning of the #ELC and a #synopsislesssister-hood. I love you my soul sister. My wildly inappropriate #notdeadOpie. Long live #teamstickyDandredsolocups and thank you for always being the friend I need exactly when I need her.

  CHERRY:

  Years ago I fell in love with your books and on a whim reached out to you through email. I will never forget the immense surprise, awe and total fangirl moment when I saw that you had responded. Not only did you respond but you answered my questions in great length and offered to buy me a cup of tea when we met in person to answer any more that I might have. You made a forever friend that day. But you’re more than a friend and mentor. You’re family and I love you more than you’ll ever know my African American lovey!