Combative

by Jay McLean

  Jackson: I know the one. We’ve seen him go there a few times. Thanks.

  Jackson: By the way, I’m sorry about the therapy thing, but it’s out of my hands. Who knows? It might do you some good. I’ve made an appointment with the therapist. Trust me. You’ll like her.

  ***

  I wasn’t expecting to see DeLuca at the gym—but here he was. So too, of course, was Tiny. I bump fists with him as I enter, attempting to build some form of camaraderie. He jerks his head in a nod, then continues his stance—arms crossed over his fat gut.

  “You his bodyguard or something?” I say, motioning my head toward DeLuca.

  “Something,” Tiny answers—his deep voice lacking any trace of humor.

  My gaze moves back to DeLuca—his eyes squinted, focused on a laptop on the table in front of him. He’s leaning forward; rubbing his chin as his eyes move from side to side.

  “Boss Man,” Tiny shouts, and DeLuca’s eyes snap up. He smirks when he sees me, shuts the laptop, and carries it under his arm as he makes his way over to me. He hands Tiny the laptop, which Tiny locks securely in a briefcase. Then he pats me on the shoulder and says, “I hope you don’t mind. I like to keep all my fighters in one place. That way I know who I can trust.”

  “Whatever.” I shrug. “Just tell me what I need to do to fight.”

  Tiny’s deep chuckle has us both turning to him. “Sorry, boss,” he says, his slight smile still in place. “This kid’s hungry. I like it.”

  DeLuca’s eyes trail back to me—his head tilted to the side. “Me too, Tiny. Me too.” He shoves his hands in his pockets and takes a few steps toward the cage in the middle of the gym. After a beat, I put one foot in front of the other and follow behind him.

  “Let me introduce you to Gunner,” DeLuca says over his shoulder.

  ***

  Gunner is, without a doubt, a hundred percent focused on training. He quickly makes it known that DeLuca is his boss, and he was paid to train me.

  Nothing more.

  Nothing less.

  Which is kind of perfect.

  He tells me I’ll be training five days a week. Three of those days will include two sessions. I have no idea how people with real jobs train to this extreme but, obviously for them, the fights mean enough to find a way to make it work.

  Gunner’s good.

  Real good.

  Even after one sparring session I can tell that my fists and the hand-to-hand combat training the army provided isn’t enough to get me through my first fight. With a drunk at a bar? Maybe. But not with a professional.

  I had a lot of work to do.

  DeLuca: How’d your first session go?

  Ky: Fine.

  DeLuca: Good.

  I call Jackson, who answers first ring.

  “How was it?”

  “Fine.”

  “Get anything?”

  “You’re gonna have to either give me some time or at least some pointers, because—”

  “Just tell me what it was like...how many people were in there?”

  “A couple coaches, same number of fighters, I guess. . . and DeLuca and his bodyguard Tiny.”

  “They were there too?”

  I open the doors to my building and stop in my tracks. “Yeah,” I answer, distracted by the girl standing in front of the mailboxes, kicking the shit out of the wall and cursing.

  “What were they doing?” Jax says.

  “Can I call you back?”

  “No. Why?”

  “I’ll call you later,” I say, and then hang up.

  MADISON

  Footsteps behind me coming closer and closer causes my heart to race and my hands to shake. I do my best to turn the key in the lock, praying I can get inside before whoever it is can get to me. I twist left. Nothing. Right. Nothing. “Fuck.”

  I sense the person beside me now, their presence causing a shadow to cast over me. “Do you need some help?” a deep male voice says.

  He sounds genuine. Not at all intimidating as I’d feared. I relax my shoulders, hoping it’ll make me seem somewhat normal when I finally turn to him.

  Clear blue eyes stare back at me. His smile falters, but only a moment before he goes back to showcasing the deepest dimples I’ve ever seen. Words catch in my throat.

  His voice may not have been intimidating, but him—physically...

  “Yeah,” he says casually, taking a step closer, his huge frame covering me. “You definitely need help.”

  “I can’t get this open,” I stammer, unable to tear my gaze away from him.

  His hand reaches up and covers mine. I do everything I can to hold still. To not pull away. To not punch him in the dick like I’d been told to do if I felt uncomfortable.

  He moves both our hands to the box on the left. “That’s because you’re trying to open mine.”

  My eyes widen, and my cheeks flame with embarrassment. “Sorry.”

  He shrugs and rests a shoulder on the wall. “It happens.” Looking down, he shoves his hands in his pockets. “Are you new...in the building, I mean. You’re my new across the hall neighbor?” He shakes his head at himself and it makes me relax a little. Like I’m not the only awkward person having this conversation.

  “I guess,” I tell him, pretending to be occupied with the content of my mailbox. There’s nothing in there. After shutting it, I glance at him quickly. “I’m Madison.”

  He just smiles and nods.

  I take that as my cue to leave and head over to the elevator.

  He comes up next to me as we both wait. “I’m Ky,” he finally says.

  Ky.

  The doors open and I step in. He doesn’t—what he does is stare at me.

  I swallow nervously. “Um, are you coming up?”

  “Yeah...” He shakes his head again.

  We spend the ride to the third floor in complete silence.

  When the doors open, he rushes out and holds them in place, waiting for me to step out. Which I do—because I’m not eighty years old—I can get out of an elevator just fine. Still, I smile at him, no matter how fake it may look.

  He just smiles back.

  So here we are—two strangers standing in the hall—smiling stupidly at each other.

  “Bye!” he almost shouts, walking past me and to his apartment, which just happens to be opposite mine.

  Great, I think to myself. First person I meet out in the real world and he may be crazy.

  That makes two of us.

  I enter my apartment and sit on the couch, staring at the wall.

  I don’t know what to do. Or where to go. The freedom’s too overwhelming.

  Madison: I met a Ky.

  Sara: Good.

  Madison: I miss you.

  Sara: Me too.

  4

  KY

  PULLING MY EYES away from the certificates hanging on the wall, I look back at my therapist. “Is that your real name?”

  She smiles, and I can tell immediately why Jackson found it necessary to tell me that I’d like her. She’s in her late twenties with bleached blonde hair and the type of leathery skin that hinted that she spent way too much time in the sun. Her tits were huge. Fake, but huge. She was hot...if you were sixteen and didn’t have any standards. Or if you were Jackson.

  Her bright red lips curve even higher as she looks over at me, making a show of uncrossing and recrossing her long legs. She squares her shoulders—I suppose trying to maintain some form of professionalism.

  I look away.

  She finally answers. “My parents were on crack,” she says, an amused lilt to her tone.

  “Cinnamon Aroma? That can’t be real.”

  “I couldn’t make that up if I wanted to.”

  I kick my legs out and slump further into the chair.

  She clears her throat. “So why are you here, Ky?”

  “Isn’t it your job to tell me that?”

  “Do you want to be here?”

  With a sigh, I roll my eyes and sit up a little. “I�
��m sure you know why I’m here. You probably have an entire file Detective Davis gave you. Do you see cops too? Or just criminals?”

  “Both,” she answers flatly.

  I nod slowly.

  “Is that important to you?”

  “Do you see Jax?”

  “Who?”

  “Detective Davis.”

  “Doctor patient confidentiality.”

  “Right,” I lean my elbows on my knees; “I’ll take that as a yes.”

  She sighs. “So you have problems controlling your temper?”

  “You got all that from the two minutes I’ve been here or from my file?”

  “This will go a lot easier if you actually answer my questions. That’s how this works. I ask, you answer. We find your issues together, and we work through it.”

  I raise my eyebrows. “You’re saying I have issues? You don’t even know me.”

  “You’re here, right?”

  I avert my gaze and look at the frames on the walls again.

  She adds, “Can you tell me why you think you’re so angry?”

  My gaze trails back to her. “Again, shouldn’t that be your job?” I mumble.

  Her eyes move slowly from mine down to the notepad on her lap as she jots down God knows what. After a minute of listening to the pen scrape against the paper, she places both of them on the couch next to her. Then she crosses her arms and says, “My first crush was Taylor Hanson. You know that boy band, Hanson? You might be a little young. Anyway, the middle one. When I saw their first music video, I thought he was a girl and didn’t think twice about them. When I found out he was a boy, I started to pay attention. Of course, crushing on a guy you thought was a girl can do bad things to a pre-teen’s sexual assumption. It’s safe to say I questioned my sexuality for a good year after. I tried to like the older brother, he was more manly, but I kept going back to Taylor—”

  “What the hell are you talking about?” I cut in.

  She shrugs. “I’m paid by the hour. You need to be here. If you won’t talk, I will.”

  My eyes narrow.

  “So the older Hanson brother didn’t really—”

  “Jesus Christ. Okay! Ask your questions.”

  She smirks, then straightens up and puts the professional mask back in place. “So, Ky, why do you think you have anger issues?”

  “I don’t,” I said, point blank.

  “Your file says different.”

  “I was having a bad day.”

  “Oh yeah?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  I suck in a breath and release it with a huff. Then I give in to the inevitable. Because maybe she’s right. Maybe it’ll be easier this way. “I’d just left a buddy’s funeral.”

  Doctor Aroma quirks an eyebrow. “And how did that make you feel?”

  I scratch the back of my head in irritation. “How do you think it made me feel?”

  “Angry, I suppose, considering the outcome.”

  “I didn’t do it because I was angry. I did it because if I didn’t then one of my brothers would have. They have wives, kids, lives. They have a lot more to lose than I do.”

  “And why do you think you have nothing to lose?”

  My irritation turns up a notch. I’ve avoided thinking about it since that day, and I’ll continue to avoid it. “If I give you all of this now, we’ll have nothing left to talk about.”

  “I’m sure we can find other things,” she says, picking up her notepad and pen again.

  “So this Taylor Hanson...”

  She fakes a smile but goes along with my need to change the subject.

  I let her yammer on about her celebrity crushes during her teen years. The entire time, I fail at not thinking about Garcia, his parents, and his pregnant wife, who cried through the entire funeral.

  It should have been me.

  “Ky?” she asks, pulling me from my thoughts.

  “Huh?”

  “Do you have anyone in your life you can talk to?”

  I sigh. “Again, isn’t that what you’re here for?”

  She smiles, but it’s tight. “That’s a shame. Maybe you should work on that. I’m positive it will help, a lot more than you listening to me talk about the kid who played ‘the real boy’ in Casper.” She slaps her knees and stands up. “Today was good. You did well. Take my advice, Ky, and I’ll see you next time.”

  I walk out of her office, a couple blocks from my apartment, without uttering a word.

  Ky: On a scale of one to ten, how mandatory is this therapy bullshit?

  Jackson: Eleven.

  ***

  Stepping off the elevator onto my floor, the sight before me makes me forget everything. No lie; I’ve wanted to bump into Madison since the first time I saw her. Hell, I’d take ogling her from afar. I even stood in front of her door a few times and raised my hand to knock. At the last second, I’d stop myself and question what the hell I was doing. My game was rusty at best. The times I’d been home from tour, I was always with my buddies. We’d wear our uniforms, walk into a place, and the deal was practically sealed. Now I was alone, and Madison doesn’t seem like the type to give a shit about my uniform—though I’d be lying if I said the thought hadn’t crossed my mind.

  She sits with her back to her door, her knees up and her arms covering her head. “Hey...” I say cautiously, standing in front of her.

  She looks up, her eyes glazed and her cheeks wet.

  I squat down so we’re eye to eye. “Are you okay?”

  She shakes her head.

  “What’s going on?”

  She speaks so quietly I almost can’t hear her. “I locked myself out.”

  “Is the maintenance guy out?”

  “The what?” she asks, and I can’t help but laugh.

  “How long have you been sitting here?”

  She shrugs. “An hour. Not sure.”

  “And this is why you’re crying?”

  She frowns and wipes her tears. “I didn’t know there was a maintenance guy.” Standing up, she brushes her hands down her shirt. “And please don’t laugh at me.” She crosses her arms, keeping her eyes cast downwards. “I already feel stupid enough.”

  I stand up too. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you—”

  “Where is he?”

  “Who?”

  “The guy who’s going to let me back into my apartment.”

  I pull out my phone and dial the number I was given when I moved in a month ago. When he finally answers, I give him the apartment number and he shows up a minute later with a master key.

  “Enjoy,” he says, winking at us.

  Her eyes narrow at him before she steps inside.

  “Madison,” I say, and her eyes widen slightly. It feels good to be able to say her name—to her—out loud, instead of just in my head, over and over. “I’m sorry if I made you feel stupid.”

  Her forced smile cuts me off. “It’s fine, Ky. Good night.”

  She shuts the door.

  I look at the time.

  It’s one in the afternoon.

  ***

  Madison: I locked myself out today.

  Sara: Did you call the maintenance guy?

  Madison: I didn’t know to do that.

  Sara: So how did you get in?

  Madison: Ky.

  Sara: ?

  Madison: He called the guy.

  Sara: Did you let him into your apartment?

  Madison: No. He just opened the door and left.

  Sara: I meant Ky.

  Madison: Oh. No. Should I have?

  Sara: I have no idea.

  Madison: I hate this.

  Sara: Me too.

  KY

  “Hi,” she squeaks, looking down at the pizza box in my hand.

  “Your place or mine?” I try to joke, but the shakiness in my voice betrays the confidence I’m trying to exude.

  She doesn’t move.

  I square my shoulders and clear my throat. S
he still doesn’t respond. After a beat, I tell her, “It’s my form of an apology.”

  “For what?” she asks, brow bunched in genuine confusion.

  “For earlier—when you were locked out and I laughed at you.”

  “I’m sorry. I was just super sensitive after the shitty day I’d had.” She opens the door fully and steps to the side.

  I don’t hesitate. Not for a second. “I like pizza,” she says, following behind me as I walk to her kitchen. Her apartment’s the same layout as mine, only opposite. The front door opens to the living room, kitchen to the right, two bedrooms on the left, and a bathroom and laundry room between them. “How much do I owe you?” she asks.

  I wave her off. “Nothing, it’s a gift...for both of us, really.”

  “A gift for you too?”

  I turn to her and swallow my nerves—Doctor Aroma’s advice replays in my head. “Well, you kind of have to eat it with me.”

  She smiles—a shy kind of smile that completely intrigues me. “I can deal with that.”

  MADISON

  I think I'm doing a good job of hiding my nerves. It's not just him that makes me nervous; it's all of it.

  “When did you move in?” he asks.

  I finish chewing my pizza. “The day you found me fighting a war with your mailbox.”

  He laughs before saying, “Are you from around here?”

  I stand and pick up my plate and the now empty box of pizza off of the coffee table and set them down on the counter, and then I try to focus on exactly what it is my answer should be. “Yes,” I tell him, and hope that it's enough.

  “Oh yeah? Where abouts?”

  I tense for a moment, then squeeze my eyes shut, trying desperately not to panic. “Just around.”

  I turn to him, but he's right there, inches in front of me. His eyes narrow as he searches my face for something. I have no idea what. “Madison,” he breathes out.

  My breath catches.

  He smiles. “You wanna watch TV or something?”