Tyed

by L.J. Shen

  Back at Ned’s, the men are watching the rerun intently, even though avid XWL fans already know how this fight ended last weekend. Everyone here is rooting for the Zombie from Concord. It's like cheering for your home team. You don't have a choice. That's your team and you stick to it.

  “Such a great guy.” The man who I just poured a beer tugs his baseball cap at the TV and beams at a very pissed off Ty. “Always nice to everyone in my shop whenever he drops by. Says hi and takes pictures with my boys. They're fans," he explains.

  On screen, people are cheering and shouting and chanting for Ty, my Ty, the guy who used to snuggle with me every night underneath his comforter, his crooked nose in my neck, his tongue swirling and flicking my earlobe, his flexed muscles pressing against my skin. Now he’s everyone’s, and it makes me want to crawl into a cave and wait for a slow, painful death.

  The fight is about to begin. Ty is coming out of the tunnel, wearing his signature black skull bandana, the one he wore the first time I saw him. His eyes are dead, completely turned off and indifferent to the chaos that surrounds him. I see a flicker of something flash for a second when they grease his face before he enters the cage. It's not exactly pain in his eyes, but...sadness? Anxiousness? If he is worried about something, I know it has nothing to do with Doherty.

  It's about me. All me.

  The place is bustling with hundreds of people, swinging their plastic cups in the air, cheering excitedly and waving both American and Irish flags.

  I see you Ty signs to the camera, and I know that he’s signing to me. I know that tattoo doesn’t say “Be Mine.” The B is for my name. Blaire. Barbie. I’m the girl he branded himself with, who he’s claimed. Blaire mine. Barbie mine. The girl who doesn't want to hear from him ever again is his.

  Me.

  The minute both men step into the cage, my heart stops beating. I’m so anxious I find myself holding my breath. Mikey notices my expression as Ty and Eoghan circle each other, fists curled, throwing combinations at each other, but mostly missing one another.

  “You know this fight is from last Saturday night, right? Both guys are still alive. Well, one of them barely...” He pats my arm, chuckling to himself.

  I throw the towel over my shoulder and turn my back to the TV. “I know and don't care,” I sniff.

  Word got around fast at Ned’s that Ty and I were together. Before the debacle in Vegas, he kept showing up every chance he got while I was working. The gossip site piece didn’t help either. I'm not sure if Mikey has picked up on the fact that we are no longer an item, though.

  “Blaire,” Mikey says softly, as if he's reading my mind. “Come on, what's done is done. Watch it with us.”

  I turn around to watch the rest of the bout. Doherty may be good at hyping the fight, but Ty is an amazing fighter, who can spine-rip Doherty in seconds, Mortal Combat style.

  He blocks Doherty’s punches skillfully and has him on the mat in a matter of seconds. Then grounds and pounds him on the floor. He manages to take down Doherty in a minute and forty-five seconds. Months and months of preparations, endless hours of workouts and enough mental stress to rival a president at war, for less than two minutes of work.

  Ugh, men.

  It makes me giddy with emotion that he wins. Adrenaline pumps in my veins, making me dance behind the bar. The men at Ned’s look pleased with the result, and I watch as both fighters pull their tees back on. Ty’s is black with a white skull and says ZombieNation.

  They bow to each other and shake hands politely, like they didn’t just try to annihilate each other. The usual attractive woman reporter whisks Ty straight to the champion’s interview, and I sneak to the back of the bar to stock up on some more Bud Light, and also to avoid watching him more.

  He inked my initial. On his heart. He won the fight, despite being all messed up. This gives me hope, because if he can bury his feelings, so can I. And that’s exactly what I intend to do.

  Or, at the very least, I intend to try.

  Chapter Sixteen

  I decide to send the new phone that Ty got for me back to The Grind. I don't dare set foot in there, though. Not after how I had left things with Dawson, AKA the adoring coach, and Jesse, AKA the wingman. Both probably consider me public enemy number one now that I dumped their boy.

  As for Ty, I would definitely never risk bumping into him.

  No. I send the phone to The Grind via Izzy, who doesn't seem to share my disdain for the XWL. She returns home horny as hell and muttering about Shane. She’s already replaced my old phone with a new one—her graduation gift. I purposely get a new number so I won’t be tempted to text Ty when I get lonely, sad and teary-eyed at night.

  I earned my degree, but I skip the commencement ceremony. I never really dug the whole college thing anyway. In hindsight, I may have been better off studying somewhere else, far away from home, but considering my lack of success in high school, there was no way my parents would have funded an out of state tuition fee.

  Especially to major in communications studies.

  Needless to say, my parents were very disappointed with my decision to keep the festivities to a minimum, even more so when they suggested we celebrate my graduation at a restaurant and invited me to a steakhouse.

  Me. Their daughter. Who refused to eat meat since she was around nine.

  I declined politely, Mom was angry, Izzy reminded her of my food preferences, Mom apologized, and now we're all good. And by “good” I mean the usual not-talking-about-it state or repressed anger and silent tension typical in my family.

  But hey, I graduated.

  I freaking graduated, and no one can take that away from me. They thought I wouldn't, but I proved them wrong. Hah. Take that, Mr. and Mrs. Skeptical.

  Mikey and Bree throw me a little Sunday-afternoon graduation party at Ned's. It's nothing, really. Just a few beers and ice cream sandwiches with the staff. It's not even my shift, so I find myself sitting on one of the stools next to Bree, holding a root beer in one hand and an ice cream sandwich in another, grinning when Mikey goes on and on about how they're all so proud of me.

  After his speech, Bree studies my face. "How are you holding up, honey?"

  I'm not, I want to tell her, but instead take a big gulp of root beer, buying time.

  "Yeah, not bad,” I finally say. “Not bad at all." Jesus, even I don't buy this.

  Bree cocks her head, a funny look plastered on her face. "Hey, are you and Ty back together?"

  I snort loudly. "Not in this lifetime."

  Bree purses her lips. She's awfully quiet when she excuses herself from the barstool next to me, grabbing her drink and joining one of our colleagues, Amy. She doesn’t even like Amy.

  I turn my head in the direction that made Bree change her mind about sitting next to me, and now it's my turn to purse my lips.

  Oh, no he didn't.

  Only he totally did.

  Heart takes a nosedive and my shoulders tense.

  "What are you doing here?" I say quietly, my voice almost a whisper. The unbearable emptiness I've been walking around with for the past week turns into an excruciating pain that slams into me with anger. I may feel hollow without him, but seeing him now only makes things worse.

  "Can we please just talk? I'm running out of ideas about where and how to find you." His voice, that I missed so dearly, is pulling every emotional string in my body.

  "Good." I try to keep my expression neutral. "That's the general idea."

  But even after saying this, I know that I can't let him leave without hearing him out.

  "It won't take long," Ty reassures.

  I stride warily toward him, my quivering lower lip completely betraying whatever mask of cool I've been desperately trying to put on. Ty looks great, but not what I expected. Slightly thinner, not his bulky, usual self, and his eyes are tired. Usually, after a long-awaited fight, fighters go on binge-fests and rock a few days of relaxation, but Ty looks even worse than he did when he cut weight and trained like
hell. He's beat.

  "Let's take it outside." He nods at the door, and I follow him silently. He leans against the back wall outside, one foot and his back pressed against the bricks, his hands deep in his pockets. I fold my arms and wait for him to start.

  "Well?" I ask, expecting him to apologize. But he doesn't, he just stares at me blankly.

  "Well...what? I wanted to see you, see how you're doing, say congrats about you graduating. Have you gone to that job interview yet?"

  Is he kidding me?

  "Are you not going to apologize?"

  "For what?" He wrinkles his forehead. I'm floored. Is this a joke?

  "You were a male prostitute," I accuse.

  "Before I knew of your existence, before we've even met. I've never even looked at a girl since our first date."

  "You hid your past away from me. You had no right."

  "I had every fucking right. It's my past, not my present, not my future. Besides, I remember pretty clearly I did promise to share my past with you at some point, when I was ready, not when your little BFF decided to throw another bash-fest for me."

  "You put me at risk when you slept with me." I raise my voice, losing control over my emotions. My hands are shaking, but it doesn't stop me from waving them at Ty frantically. "I could've caught something. This is serious."

  He looks away from my face, staring at nothing in particular. I know this strategy. I hit a nerve.

  "I always used protection and I knew I was clean. Hell, you do realize we get tested before every fight to make sure we're all good, right? I'm sorry you were hurt, but I genuinely tried to up my game for you. It was never enough, though. You always kept running away every time things didn't fit into your perfect existence and listened to Shane instead of running things past me. But you know what? I don't remember giving you shit about it, Barbie."

  What the hell? This is not what I was expecting to come out of this conversation. Why has he even bothered showing up here if he intended to lecture me about my behavior? Un-fucking-believable.

  "How much did Nicole pay to sleep with you?" I taunt, feigning amusement. I can't seriously dignify his last accusation with an answer. I know I wasn't perfect, but I didn't hold a destructive secret either. "Tell me, so I can appreciate what you've given me for free."

  He rests his head on the wall behind him and lets out a bitter laugh that makes my skin crawl. Frankly, he seems as pissed off as I am right now. More.

  "Nicole was just for fun. I didn't charge her shit. She came along way after I wrapped things up with Ray. I've been out of the business for six months now. Happy?" His cheeks are flushed, his breathing heavy. “I didn’t come here to talk about Nicole.”

  "So why did you come?" I'm grinding my teeth, annoyed with myself for even mentioning her name.

  "I came here because I thought you might have calmed down. But I was wrong."

  It's starting to seem like he's the one who isn't happy with me. I keep quiet, my eyes clinging to his face.

  "Nothing to say, huh?" His sad smile fills the gap between us with more than words.

  Ty pivots, and I have to do something more destructive. I can't let him leave before I scar him deeper than he scarred me. And he got fucking deep.

  "Ray's right. You're still the guy you were, you know," I spit after him. “You haven’t changed.”

  He turns around slowly, squinting his eyes and zeroing on me. "This is your cue to run away, sweetheart. So run. I'm done chasing."

  Chapter Seventeen

  I suck at job interviews.

  When Mikey interviewed me for the position at Ned’s, I arrived half an hour late, broke the glass of water he had offered me and got caught lying about my experience as a bartender. So I’m keeping my expectations to the absolute minimum with the job interview as an intern at Diablo Hill magazine. In fact, if I manage not to break anything in the process, I’ll declare victory.

  The fact that I have absolutely nothing to offer—I didn't even major in journalism and my only connection to the school paper is that I once fooled around with a guy who wrote for the music section—doesn't help. But I'm eager to impress, and still on a high from graduating, so I'm hoping this will work in my favor.

  The sports editor is named Cameron, and he’s the guy I’m about to meet. I borrow an outfit from Izzy, because my wardrobe doesn’t offer anything vaguely representable. Fancy black pants with a white collared shirt and matching pumps. With my hippie, wavy hair and teenage posture, I look like I dressed up as a middle- aged bookkeeper for Halloween.

  Diablo Hill magazine’s headquarters is situated on the edge of Diablo Mountain in an architecturally dazzling loft with floor-to-ceiling windows. Beats me how a small, local publication can afford such lavish digs. I walk into the pristine white foyer, with blooming, fresh tulips carefully tucked into elegant vases and breathtaking pictures of the surrounding landscape hung on the walls. The receptionist greets me with a smile wider than the fields outside, her four-inch stilettos clicking against a pristine hardwood floor. She is insanely pretty and has the high-pitched voice of a toy dog, and I immediately know that I’m not good enough for a place like this. But I’m already here, so I might as well enjoy the ethically-sourced coffee.

  Violet, the rail-thin receptionist, leads me to Cameron’s office while engaging me in a casual chitchat, her huge grin both dazzling and scary. She knock on Cameron’s door and announces I’ve arrived. Then she leaves me on a sleek white chair to wait. Everything around me is white and wood and fancy, and it makes me feel like I’m in a Reese Witherspoon rom-com. I didn’t even know places like this existed in real life.

  Cameron opens the door, and I’m instantly taken aback by his looks. He is hot. Hipster hot. He’s got a messy, light brown hair, a dashing face and dreamboat blue eyes. He’s wearing a denim button-down shirt, quirky glasses, tight skinny jeans and a sophisticated grin he obviously perfected over the years. Had I been emotionally available, Cameron would be the guy I'd crush on, for sure. Tall, lanky hipster, designed and molded to be unique and quirky and all Oh, are those funky chucks personalized? Who-is-your-graffiti-artist? and Baby-Baby? Of-course, I've heard of them. Great band.

  But I can't get myself to get even remotely excited about the idea of working closely with him when I am still so totally and completely hooked on Ty.

  I shake his hand and flop into a chair opposite him while he sits behind his desk. Cameron is nice and cheery and asks me to call him Cam. His office window overlooks a postcard-worthy view of Diablo Mountain.

  “So tell me about yourself.” Cam knits his fingers together and gestures with his thumbs in my direction.

  This one is difficult. I'm not good at selling myself. I could sing the praises of Izzy, Shane, Bree, Mikey and even Ty...but telling people about my strong points? Ain't happening. Still, I need to say something, so I do.

  “I graduated from Diablo Hill School of Art recently. I majored in communications, and I’m very enthusiastic about my career. Professor Penniman was kind enough to recommend me after reading my assignment in journalistic reporting. I’m very grateful for the opportunity to be interviewed here.”

  Jesus. I just bored myself to sleep. I believe Cam has the same reaction, because he nods at an even pause, which means what he’s really doing is thinking about what he should have for dinner tonight. He presses his knitted pointer fingers to his lips, probably thinking of a way to break the ice.

  “What do you know about sports?”

  “Very little. People usually sweat but not always.” I downplay my knowledge so he won’t have any expectations. A shout-out to all my underachiever peeps. High five!

  “Follow any sport? NBA? NFL? XWL?”

  So, editor Cam has not been reading gossip sites recently. Good.

  "I follow the XWL whenever I can." I inwardly cringe when I say this out loud, because I really do condemn MMA as a sport, but I'm also aware that this is my strongest selling point at the moment.

  "Yeah?" He scans me
with an arched brow, obviously calling me out on my bullshit. "That's good, because we may have a local titleholder soon, and someone will need to cover that."

  I gulp hard. "I think Ty Wilder stands a good chance of winning the championship."

  Cam smiles, suggesting that I passed an unspoken test. He slaps his desk and straightens up quickly. "I think I need a caffeine fix. What about you?"

  I think I need something stronger, like a shot of vodka or maybe crack cocaine.

  "Sure, coffee sounds good." I follow him to the door, fidgeting with the hem of Izzy's designer shirt (too tight, as per usual).

  Cam cocks his head to my outfit. "You do know that we don't really have a dress code here, right? You don't have to be all buttoned-down. We’re a creative group."

  I let out a relieved sigh. "Thank God, because I feel like an accountant in this outfit."

  Cam smiles. "Oh, and we have cool stuff like pizza Friday and a pool table and PlayStation and Xbox in the common room. We’ve even got Wii. And a terrific sound system, of course."

  "I can work with that." I hitch one shoulder noncommittally. Cameron laughs and we roll out to the sunny afternoon. He immediately lights a cigarette and a pang of regret pierces through me. I would love to come home today and smoke a joint, take the edge off, but I know that I won't. Weed is no longer a part of my life, with or without Ty in the picture. We make our way to a local coffee shop and get our coffees, then Cam motions for me to follow him back to the office. We walk down the hallway but continue to talk. It's nice, knowing he can't examine my face while I answer his questions. It's less intimate, somehow.

  "So when can you start?” Cam asks as he pushes his office door open. I curl my fingers around the hot paper cup, thinking about Ned’s. I don’t want to leave there. But I know I’d be stupid to turn down this opportunity.