by Shandi Boyes
“Oh..." I shouldn't be disappointed, but I am.
“Not that type of plans. I just have something important I have to do,” he clarifies, making me realize I’d expressed my disappointment out loud.
“It’s fine. You don’t have to explain it to me. You’re free to do whatever...” –Or whomever— “... you want.”
I’m not surprised he has plans. I’ve witnessed numerous girls approach him and the members of Rise Up every time I work at Mavs. Even if I’m practically sitting on top of him, it doesn't stop their approach. They don't care if he may be taken, they still prowl for his scraps.
My eyes stray from my family home to Jacob when he asks, “See you next week?”
He sounds apprehensive, like me having a license will end our contact. It won’t. I like hanging out with him. I just need to keep up those barriers he keeps knocking down; then we’ll both come out of this “friendship” unscathed.
“Yep. I’ll give you a call later in the week.”
When I press a kiss to his lips, his tongue doesn’t wrangle me into submission. He keeps our exchange friendly, reminding me that is precisely what we are: friends.
Once I slip out of my seat, I make my way to the front door, not once looking back. I’m about to glide down the hallway when my mom steps out, scaring the living daylights out of me. “Jesus, Mom, you scared me.”
I stop clutching my chest when she asks how my driving test went. In true Lola fashion, I slump my shoulders and pout my lip.
“Don’t worry, darling, I’m sure you’ll pass next time.”
Before she can wrap me up in a condolence hug, I yank my license out of my pocket, ensuring my thumb hides my hideous photo. “I passed.”
After collecting her heart from the ground, my mom hugs me. “Well done. I knew you’d do it.”
Her arms slacken when I murmur, "Can I borrow your car?"
I wasn’t sure I’d pass, so I didn’t consider not having any wheels.
With a giggle, my mom nods.
“Yay!”
I spend the rest of the afternoon prepping for a night out on the town. I haven’t been out in weeks, so I’m more than excited to let go of the reins. It took me a few months to feel like myself again after what happened to Callum, so I’ve got a lot of good times to make up for.
With Emily taking forever in the shower, I rap my knuckles against the bathroom door. “Can I brush my teeth?”
“Yeah, sorry, come in.”
When I enter the steam-filled space, my jaw drops. Emily’s long, dark locks are no more. They’ve been cut to sit just below her shoulders, and honeycomb highlights frame her face, giving her an alluring yet mature look.
I twirl my finger in the air, motioning for her to turn around so I can get the whole picture. When she does as instructed, my mouth gapes more. Her highlighter-yellow dress fits her like a glove, and her pumps make her legs look like they stretch for miles. She looks incredible.
“We could be twins!” I slap her arm while laughing. “I just need to get you out of the sun and kink your hair.”
Our personalities are on the opposite end of the spectrum, but as she stands before me now, we look very similar. If it weren't for her tanned skin and stick-straight locks, I'd begin to wonder if I was looking in the mirror.
When my gaze floats up from Emily’s altitude-daring shoes, I catch her angry scowl. She's unimpressed with my taunt. I can't blame her. I hated when our mother dressed us like twins when we weren't, so I don't know why I made that reference.
“I’m joking. You look wonderful.”
Rolling my eyes, I snag my toothbrush out of its holder then exit the bathroom. With Emily hogging the only bathroom we have, I’ll brush my teeth in the kitchen sink.
Just as I spit the last of my toothpaste into the sink, my phone dings with a text message.
Jacob: When you asked me out earlier today, was it a date?
I can hear his nerves even over a text. Happy to keep him on tenterhooks, I reply:
Me: Hmmm, I don’t know... Maybe?
His message comes through at a lightning pace.
Jacob: Seriously?
Me: ... I am horny.
My honesty usually gets me in trouble, and I don’t see tonight being any different.
Jacob: Jesus, Lola, you can’t say shit like that to me.
Me: Why not?
He usually loves my honesty.
Jacob: Because I'm not alone, and you're giving me a hard-on!
My laughter bounces around my small kitchen as excitement surges through my womb.
Me: Sorry... Do you want me to take care of it?
Jacob: Fuck, yes!
My head shouts, "no," but my body ignores its panic.
Me: Where are you?
I glare at my phone, impatiently waiting for him to reply. It takes him a lot longer to respond this time around.
Jacob: Can I meet you later?
That’s not the reply I expected, but I’m too horny to care right now.
Me: Okay...
Jacob: Mavs at 11 PM?
I must be getting old because I was planning to be in bed by then.
Me: Alright, but don’t keep me waiting, Jacob.
Jacob: I’ll be there with bells on.
His reply makes me smile.
Me: Okay, I look forward to it!
Jacob: Me too xx
I arrive at Mavericks at ten PM, eager for my hook up with Jacob. I’m not desperate, but when you’ve been with someone as well-endowed as Jacob, a girl can’t help but get a little excited.
“Hey, Maggie,” I greet her when I see her at the end of the bar, wiping it down with her trusty red dishcloth.
Mavericks pulls in a decent crowd every Saturday night, but it's not as packed as the nights Rise Up performs. The band scheduled tonight is called Wanting Wombats. They're talented but lack the sex appeal Rise Up has. That might have more to do with them having the most ridiculous band name I've ever heard than their actual attractiveness.
“I thought I gave you the night off?” Maggie continues pulling beers for customers as we chat. Her work ethic is strong—nearly as sharp as her evil glare.
“You did; I’m meeting Jacob here.”
I shrink to one half my size when Maggie’s eyes snap to mine. “Are you two dating?”
“Nooo.” I shoo away her mothering with a wave of my hand. “We’re just friends.” Friends who like fucking each other, but I keep that to myself.
Maggie has more of a clue than I gave her credit for. “Friends? Or... friends?”
Wanting to avoid any further interrogation, I ask, “Can I grab a lemon vodka?”
She stares at me for several long seconds before murmuring, “You know where everything is.”
When she returns to serving other patrons, I dart around the bar to help myself to a drink. Maggie’s eyes remain slit, but nothing can hold back her grin when I stick my tongue out at her. She acts like she doesn’t like me, but she’s warming to me. Slowly.
I spend the next hour listening to Wanting Wombats while impatiently waiting for Jacob to arrive. I’ve been offered drinks and invited to play pool, but since I gave Jacob my word I'd meet him here at eleven PM, I refuse all advances.
I wish I weren’t a woman of my word when another hour ticks by without word from Jacob. It’s now past midnight, and I’m beyond pissed he stood me up. I know he said he had plans, but he shouldn’t have made any with me if he didn’t know how long his first “hook-up” would run.
“Can I buy you a drink?”
When I spin to face the mannish, accented voice, dizziness clusters in my head. I may be a little tipsy from the number of drinks I downed trying to cool the anger burning in my gut.
Flynn, the lead singer of Wanting Wombats, smiles before adding a head nudge to his offer. He's gesturing to the empty drink in my hand. “Looks like you could use a refill.”
Flynn is cute, but he isn’t the type I usually go for. His long brown hair hangs hal
fway down his back, and his face is so youthful, if I hadn’t carded him weeks ago, I would have never believed he was twenty-five. He isn’t as big as Jacob, but his athletic build is nicely displayed since he’s wearing nothing but tight black leather pants. His guns are blazing, his abs stacked, and he has the sexiest Australian accent I’ve ever heard.
Come to think of it, he has a lot of attributes that myself and my stinging ego can appreciate. He has the eye of every woman in the room, yet he’s talking to me. His attention is soothing the burn Jacob’s rejection caused, and it has me thinking recklessly—recklessly enough to ask, “Do you want a drink, or shall we just get out of here?”
Hearing the intention in my question, Flynn drags his teeth over the piercing in his bottom lip before nudging his head to the door. “Let’s go.”
Pretending warning alarms aren’t sounding in my head, I exit Mavs with my arms wrapped around his heavily tattooed torso.
Chapter Sixteen
Jacob
“Why did you do that, Hank?! I told you not to do that.”
Hank crouches down in front of the padded bench my ass is sitting in. I just finished my fight—an unjust and rigged fight.
“I warned you to stay off the cage walls, Jacob, and where did you end up?” His angry voice echoes around the locker room. “On the fucking cage.” He aggressively tugs on the tape on my hands. “I wasn’t going to watch you get killed just so you can remain undefeated.”
“I wouldn’t give a fuck about being defeated if he didn’t cheat! He cheated, Hank, making not only a fool out of himself but this organization as a whole!"
The instant my opponent dismissed my gesture of tapping our gloves at the start of the match, I knew he was going to fight dirty. Then, when he kneed me in the groin before executing an illegal punch to the back of my head, I realized it would be the dirtiest fight I had ever participated in.
Both tactics are illegal in the cage, but even with Hank protesting to the ref, no points were deducted from The Constrictor’s tally, and the fight continued as if nothing had happened.
By the time the second round started, I was so furious about the ref’s bias, I punished my opponent with a grueling left and right combination. It felt good watching him kiss the mat like the pathetic loser he was.
For the third round, we met toe to toe, chest to chest, eyes to eyes for an old-fashioned brawl in a back alley, neither willing to back down even when the bell rang. If it weren't for the ref dragging us apart, we'd still be fighting.
With exhaustion kicking in, the fourth round saw him bringing out his dirtiest tricks. While grappling on the ground, he gouged my eye with his thumb. When I stumbled back to protest to the ref, I ended up on the cage wall. I couldn’t see a fucking thing, so I had no clue The Constrictor was coming for me until he unleashed a barrel of punches and kicks to my already exhausted body. That’s when Hank threw in the towel, announcing my defeat against my wishes.
After removing the tape from my hands, Hank raises his nearly black eyes to mine. "Let me look at your eye." He lifts the ice brick from my right eye before completing a thorough inspection. "Your cornea doesn't look scratched, but we'll get it checked by an ophthalmologist."
“It’ll be fine. Don’t worry about it.”
My tone is gruff. I’m not angry at Hank. I’m pissed shit like this still happens in professional sports. Losing sucks, but you won’t get through life if you don’t learn losses are a part of it.
“You’ll get an opportunity to right the wrong that happened tonight, Jake, but not until I’m assured it’ll be a fair fight.”
After dumping the defrosted ice pack on the bench, I stand to get dressed. My muscles are stiff from sitting the last hour while doctors did a medical workup on me before clearing me to leave. Other than three broken ribs and a range of bruises, I’m uninjured. I just need to get my head in the right mind frame now.
“Do you want me to drive you home?” Hank questions from his station at the side of the locker room.
I shake my head. “No. I’m good. I have a date.” That instantly picks me up. I still can’t believe Lola has finally agreed to go on a date with me. It’s been a long time coming. “What’s the time?”
Hank’s eyes drop to the silver watch circling his wrist. “11:45 PM.”
“Fuck!”
Because my fight went longer than my previous bouts, and the medics wouldn’t release me until they gave me a full check-up, I’m late for my date.
“I have to go. I’ll see you bright and early Monday.”
I snatch my gym bag off the floor, then hotfoot to the parking lot. My body screams with every step I take, but I keep moving. There’s no way I’ll stand Lola up. I’ll lose the chance of a second date if I don’t turn up to the first one.
En route to Mavs, my phone pings with a text message. As I pull up to a red light, I dig it out of my pocket to discover the message is from Lola.
Lola: Maybe next time?
I throw my phone into the console, pissed that the one time Lola agrees to go out with me is the one time my fight runs over. When the traffic light turns green, I hesitate on which way to go. Should I continue to Mavericks, which is one block over, or head home?
After a short deliberation, I head to Mavericks. I’m so close, I may as well keep going. If I’m lucky, Lola may still be there waiting for me.
Mavs’ parking lot is deserted, revealing the band scheduled tonight has finished their set. Fans flock out Mavs’ doors the instant the talent leaves. The scent of smoke and stale beer filters through my nose when I break through the double wood doors. My shoulders slump when my scan of the nearly deserted place fails to unearth Lola. She must have left before sending her text.
Spotting Maggie behind the bar, I stride toward her. “Hey, Maggie, have you seen Lola?”
When her eyes pop up from the glasses she’s stacking, she sucks in a quick, sharp breath. “Jacob...” She stops to settle the crackle in her voice. “What happened?”
With a wave of my hand, I brush off her concern. “It’s nothing. I’m fine.”
I glance over her shoulder, wondering if Lola is in the back room Maggie reserves for employees only.
“Jacob...?” Maggie's stern tone demands my attention. When she gets it, she peers at me with worry etched on her features.
“I’m fine.” My assurance does little to ease her hesitation, but I don’t have time to settle it entirely. “Have you seen Lola?”
Her eyes stop absorbing the bruises on my face to lock with mine. “She left ten minutes ago.”
So she could still be close?
I thank Maggie for her assistance before yanking my phone out of my pocket, dialing Lola’s number, then squashing it to my ear.
Lola’s voicemail answers a few seconds later. “Hey, you’ve reached Lola; you know what to do.”
"Hey, it's Jake. . Ah, Jacob. Sorry I'm late. Maggie said you just left, so I thought I’d try and catch you before you head home. Call me.”
I hang up before sending her a message.
Me: Sorry I'm late. I'm waiting for you at Mavs.
When I place my phone on the bar, I notice Maggie has set two bottles of beer in front of me. One is open, while the other remains closed.
“One is for you; the other for your eye,” she advises when she notices my curious gawk.
I jerk my chin up in thanks before taking a swig out of the open beer and placing the unopened bottle on my swollen eye.
Malted liquid suspends halfway to my stomach when Maggie murmurs, “Jake the Giant.” Noticing I’ve almost finished my beer in one gulp, she sets down a second one. “You’re Jake the Giant, aren’t you?”
“How’d you find out?”
Her brows furrow so tightly, a V pops between them. “I’ve worked at this bar for twenty-five years; I know everything.”
She’s not being modest. Drunk people are horrible secret keepers. I’ve never met one who can keep their mouths shut.
“When patron
s mentioned a new fighter, I was stunned. His description sounded a lot like you, but I brushed it off, certain you’re more of a lover than a fighter.”
“I am.”
“Then why professional fighting? You could be anything you want to be, so why pick such a violent sport?”
I shrug, genuinely unsure how to answer her. I don't want to lie because she's always treated me like a son, but she also deserves more than a halfhearted shrug. “Fighting is just for me. It’s my thing.”
It sounds selfish, but when I’m sparring with Hank or fighting in the cage, the focus is on me. It might only be an hour or two each day, but it’s better than nothing.
“I’m glad you’re doing something for yourself, Jacob. I just wish you picked something less brutal.”
“It’s not always this bad.” I pull the bottle away from my bruised eye. “My opponent just...” –cheated, fought dirty, was an a-fucking-hole— “...caught me off guard.”
Maggie sighs, not believing me but also having no reason to distrust me. “Does Lola know?” My head stops mid-shake when she murmurs, “You can’t tell her.” She’s so quiet I can barely hear her.
“Why?”
Realizing she’s said too much, she moves down the bar to clear away visible spots on the countertop. Refusing to bow out of a fight for the second time tonight, I follow her retreat.
“Why, Maggie?”
I’m taken aback when I raise her head via her chin and notice the moisture in her eyes. Maggie doesn’t cry. She’s as tough as nails.
“It’s not my story to tell.” She dumps her dishcloth under the counter before propping her elbows on the bar. “But I will say one thing... Lola is not the girl for you.”
“You don’t know that.”
She gives me a look as if to say, yes, I do, before she serves patrons who’ve not yet gotten the hint to leave. I watch her in silence for several long minutes. I'm pissed but also shocked. Maggie is firm, but she's never straight up told me who I can and cannot date, and sometimes, I wish she would. It would have saved a shitload of heartache.
