Fighting for Forever

by J. B. Salsbury

  “Do you still want her?”

  Yes! Well, not really, I mean . . . do I? I shake my head. “I don’t know.”

  He tilts his head and pulls at his lower lip that is usually hooked with a silver ring. “So it’s not losing the girl that’s pissing you off; it’s coming in second place you can’t get over.”

  No. That doesn’t even make any sense. Yet somewhere deep in my gut it makes perfect sense. “That’s stupid.”

  “Is it? You’re competitive. You have to be to get where you are today. You lost to the underdog, and that shit’s been festering for a year.”

  I blink and shake my head. Fuck, is that all this is? I’m completely over Jessica. Those feelings from high school fizzled out after I found out she was fucking my brother. And although I’d hoped for more with Eve, I don’t want to be with someone who doesn’t want me.

  Am I a better man than Drake, better than Cameron? Yeah. So all this is my bitch ass throwing a fit because Eve chose a guy who isn’t as good for her as I know I would’ve been?

  He puts a hand on my shoulder. “Take my advice, bro. Move on. Suck it up. Cut your losses.”

  “Yeah . . . maybe you’re right.”

  “If you end up fighting Li, you’re going to get international attention in a major way. You’ll need to focus, give two hundred percent of yourself if you want a chance at winning. The dude is out of your league.”

  “Thanks a-fuckin’ lot.”

  He shoves my shoulder. “This isn’t a joke, Baywatch. Don’t let something like hurt feelings get in the way and fuck up how far you’ve come.”

  I glare at him, wondering when the hell he got so damn smart. “What’re you? The love doctor?”

  “Fuck yeah, I am.” He smiles, and I twitch with the urge to throat punch him. “You still on for poker night?”

  No. Maybe. “I don’t know.”

  “Alright, well . . . let me know. Lane and Wade are in. If you’re not, I’ll get Talon.”

  I nod and shove out of the octagon and to the locker room chanting “I am a whiny ass bitch” over and over because everything Rex just said rang true.

  I’m just a sore fucking loser.

  Great.

  Trix

  It’s just past five when I pull into the back lot at Zeus’s for my shift. My phone tucked between my ear and shoulder, I grab my purse and push the long wet strands of my hair back off my face.

  “Did Isaac make the varsity team?” My weekly call home to my folks happened later than usual because of my little brother’s football tryouts.

  “We won’t know until later in the week, but you should’ve seen him. He did so well. I don’t doubt that he—oh, hold on. What is it, honey?” I hear the muffled sound of my mom pressing the phone to her chest, as she always does when our conversations get interrupted, which is often with five kids in the house.

  “Mom, I’ll let you go.” I push out of my car and hope like hell no one notices I’m late.

  “Leah wants to talk to you, is that okay?” My mom is the sweetest woman I’ve ever known, kind and gentle, gracious and loving, and she has the patience of a saint.

  “Sure, but I’m late for work, so it’ll have to be quick.” I lean back against my car, waiting to talk to Leah before I go inside Zeus’s, not wanting to expose my little sister, even in voice only, to the debauchery of a strip club.

  “Oh, dear. We’ll hurry. Here she is.” My mom mumbles what I assume is instructions to my sister.

  “Hello?”

  I grin at the sound of her tiny voice. “Hey, Leah, I miss you.”

  “H-hi!” My parents adopted Leah from an orphanage in India where little girls are given up freely by their parents. She came to live with us when she was four and has always had the sweetest stutter. “I m-m-miss you.”

  “I miss you too. How’s school?”

  “Good, except for the kids who’re mean to A-a-ron.” Aaron was adopted from Tanzania and is the same age and grade as Leah, so they’ve been raised like twins. “They call him n-n-names for being black.”

  My hand grips my phone so tight my fingers go numb. Those assholes! “Aw, well kids make fun of things they don’t understand. I’m sorry Leah-bear. Tell Aaron he’s perfect and that it doesn’t matter what anyone else thinks.”

  My poor parents. Raising eight kids adopted from all over the world and varied in color and ethnicity, Mom and Dad came up with a lot of creative ways to explain hate.

  “Okay, Leah,” my mom says in the background. “Your sister has to go now.”

  “I l-love you! Bye!”

  “I’ll see you in a couple weeks. Bye, munchkin.” My heart cramps that I’m not there—that I’m in Vegas rather than home with my mom shouldering the weight of raising kids from the ages of five to sixteen. Being the oldest now, I should be there to help now that Lana is gone. Pain slices through my gut, reminding me exactly why I’m not home. “Mom?”

  “Hi, yeah, sorry to keep you. They’re so excited for you to come home. We all are. I’ll let you go. Have a good night at work, honey.” There’s a sadness in her voice, but how could there not be? My parents know what I do for a living, and I’m well aware that it rips away at their hearts.

  They don’t understand why I strip, why I left home at nineteen to become an adult entertainer. Some days, when weeks and weeks pass and I get no new leads, I don’t understand either. I get lost in playing the role and forget the reason why I started in the first place: for Lana, always for Lana. And once I accomplish all I need to do here, I swear I’ll move home and take care of the only two people in this world who have ever loved and accepted me for exactly who I am.

  “Thanks, Mom. Give Daddy a hug and . . . I love you.”

  “Love you too. Speak soon.”

  I shove my phone into my bag and mentally prepare for my night. I try to convince myself that this lifestyle hasn’t gotten to me, that it’s not eating away at my soul, destined to leave me hallow and empty-handed. I’ve invested too much, given up too much to stop now.

  Six

  Mason

  “Can I get you boys another round?” A red-headed waitress, who I assume is also a stripper, stands with a tray in one hand and the other hand placed on her cocked, lace-clad hip. She’s wearing a tight dress made completely of white lace that showcases a blood-red thong and nothing else.

  “No, thanks. I’m—”

  “Don’t listen to him.” Jayden whirls his hand, motioning around the table exaggeratedly with big eyes and an equally big grin. “Another round.”

  She spins on a spiked heel, and we all watch her ass as she struts away to place our order. The music pounds and the glow from the black lights blurs my vision. Why do they insist on making everything in these places glow? The smell of old booze and perfume is so pungent I can taste it. I blink rapidly and check the time. This is miserable. Sooner I get out of here, the better.

  I lean over to my brother, who is sitting closest to me. “Why are we here?” I have to practically yell over the throbbing music and don’t find it shocking at all that his eyes stay glued to the brunette who’s currently grinding against a pole on stage.

  His eyes are wide and rimmed with dark circles. It’s not uncommon to pull all-nighters in Vegas, but Drake looks like he hasn’t slept in days. “Delivery. Figured we’d come early and enjoy the scenery.”

  So he’s here dealing drugs for his piece-of-shit dad. “Makin’ the family proud,” I mumble.

  He grins, quick and shaky, and his eyes dart around the room. “Here’s some tequila.” He slides a shot in front of me. “Should help dissolve that stick up your ass.”

  “I’m in training. Can’t stay up getting lit all fuckin’ night.” Irritation flares as Rex’s words from today filter through my mind.

  Give two hundred percent of yourself if you want a chance at winning.

  “UFL turned you into a straight-up pussy, big brother.” He leans forward and tucks a twenty-dollar bill in the cleavage of the dancer, letting hi
s fingers linger a little too long against her breasts before leaning back. “You always used to be down for whatever . . .” He grabs the shot, throwing it back and slamming it down hard. “Now you’re a big ole nerd.” His shoulders bounce as he laughs silently and pulls more money from his pocket.

  “It’s called having a job, Drake. Some would consider that an accomplishment.” He wants to piss me off, get me worked up so he can see a glimmer of the old kid I used to be. The scruffy surf kid who would throw a punch if someone simply looked at my little brother wrong.

  “Accomplishment.” He says the word like he’s testing it in his mouth and doesn’t like the taste. “Abandoning The Brotherhood is your biggest accomplishment.”

  My blood fires and I ball my fists. “You’ve managed to drag every single one of our friends into whatever the fuck it is you’re working with your dad, and you think I’m the bad guy? Look at you? You’re fuckin’ spun out at twenty-one.” Such a fucking waste of potential.

  The waitress returns with our drinks and just in time. I have to keep my cool. I have to.

  “Dude, isn’t that the chick from Saturday night?” Harrison scrubs a hand over his head, squinting.

  What? My head jerks to a small side stage where Angel is swiveling her hips and dropping articles of clothing piece by piece. I breathe through the throbbing in my chest. There was a tiny part of me that thought he was talking about Trix.

  They work together. If Angel’s here, I’m assuming Trix should be around here too.

  “That bitch owes me a private lap dance after the way she and her little blond friend bolted on Saturday.” Drake stands up and waves her over. “We’ve got a paid hour from Saturday night to make up for, boys.”

  At seeing Drake, Angel’s face registers surprise before she nods in recognition and holds up a finger.

  “What about Jess?” Fuck, my shoulders are up to my ears and my muscles so tense they feel like they’re going to snap.

  “Put her on a plane back to Santa Snooze yesterday.” He flicks another look around the room. “Vegas ain’t her thing.”

  I don’t know whether to feel good or bad that he sent Jess home. There’s no way the guy is faithful. At least with her gone, he can’t fuck someone else right under her nose. That poor girl had no clue what she was getting herself into with my brother.

  He fidgets in his seat before tucking more money into a stripper’s G-string.

  Birdman leans in, looking not all that different from Drake with bloodshot eyes. “That guy got beef?” He jerks his head toward a table of dudes who all seem to be minding their own business.

  Jayden and Harrison puff out their chests, drilling holes into a harmless-looking guy with their glares. “That dude?”

  Drake pulls up his tee to reveal a gun shoved in his waistband.

  I punch his shoulder, catching him off guard and sending him back in his chair. “What the fuck is wrong with you? You can’t bring that shit in here!”

  “Dude’s got problems, giving us looks like—”

  “You can’t shoot someone for looking at you, dickhead!” I motion to the table of guys. “You’re all fucked up on whatever and seein’ shit that ain’t there.”

  “Nah, man . . . dude was staring.” Charbroil flexes his fists, looking for a fight.

  Harrison moves to stand. I grab his bicep and sit him back down just as he jerks free from my hold. “That’s it. Come clean right fuckin’ now. What the hell is going on with you guys?”

  Paranoid. Sketchy. Clearly not sleeping.

  “Nothin’, man. Just been partying.” Birdman wipes his nose almost as if subconsciously.

  “Don’t get your panties in a bunch.” Drake tilts his head, his eyes flicking over to the men at the table and back to me. “We’re dropping off some product and then we’ll be out—”

  “What’s left of it.” Harrison dissolves into a fit of laughter.

  Drake aims a glare at him that shuts him right up.

  “Hold on.” My blood runs cold and my heart pounds heavy in my chest. “So you’re dipping into the product you’re here to deliver?”

  “Shoulda’ kept your mouth shut.” Jayden shakes his head at his brother.

  I lean into my brother. “Do you have a death wish? You think whoever you’re dealing to is going to be okay with you using his shit?”

  “Why the hell do you care? It’s not like dude’s gonna show up with a scale!”

  “I care because the last thing I need is to call Mom and tell her your ass got dead over . . . You know what? Forget it. I’m fuckin’ outta here.” I push to stand, but Drake grips my forearm.

  “Run away, college boy.” His eyes are glossed over, wired and wide, his mouth curves into an unfriendly smirk. “Jess was right. You’re a fucking pussy. No wonder she swallowed my dick instead of yours.”

  My head gets light. Vision blurs. Rage spikes through my veins at the mention of Jessica combined with the worry I have for my brother. How could he be so stupid? The people his dad runs with are hardened criminals, mafia, gangs, the worst of the worst. The kind of men who make people disappear, or worse, make them unrecognizable.

  I push up from my seat and move away with staggered steps, hate and remorse battling away in my chest. My feet carry me through the crowd of bodies. Where? I don’t know, just . . . away. I push through people, shoving everyone who blocks my path.

  “Watch it, asshole!”

  I ignore the voices and search for the bathroom, somewhere to splash cold water on my face and calm my shit down. There’s a hallway, dark but lit with neon. Possibly the restrooms or, even better, a back exit I can get the hell out and into some fresh air.

  My legs carry me back, but my head is stuck on the dilemma of how in the hell to save my brother from himself. Why can’t he—Omph!

  A tiny body goes flying and lands hard. “Ouch!”

  That voice. Anger rockets to the surface. I reach down and grab her by her upper arms, lifting her off the ground harder than I intend, mostly because she weighs next to nothing.

  I focus on her big eyes and parted lips. Her hair is pulled tight into a sleek long ponytail, and she tilts her head back to glare up at me.

  “What is it with you?” I roar in her face. “Why the fuck can’t you keep yourself safe?”

  Trix

  “What? You ran into me, jerk!” I try to shrug out of his hold, but he takes two steps forward until my back presses against the wall.

  My ass burns, pain slicing through my left cheek. Why is he looking at me like he wants to kill me . . . or eat me?

  Whatever softer side of Mason I saw at the Community Youth Center is a memory. The dickhead is back.

  He leans in, his eyes on my lips, his angered breath in bursts against them. Silence builds between us, along with something else. Something alive ripples between his chest and mine. His glare, piercing blue fire, lights beneath a wavy mess of blond hair. I’m sucked in, falling helplessly into the draw of his gaze.

  Without warning, he pushes closer and buries his nose into my neck, breathing in deep and running it from my shoulder to my ear. My head tilts, unable to resist the gentle touch: so innocent and yet heavy with promise of something more.

  “Mmm, what is it about you?” The rumble of his deep voice races goose bumps down my arms. “You smell like heaven.”

  No, I don’t want this. Not when he’s mad. His hands glide down my arms to my hips, and his long powerful fingers clench my flesh. My eyes fall shut on a moan.

  I’m like clay, molding to his will, helpless in a way I can’t explain, but the power of his body and the sense that he’s hanging onto the last string of his control are a heady combination. His lips join in the exploration of my neck, not wet, just soft sweeps against my shoulder.

  “Mason . . . wha—what are you doing?” I don’t want him to stop, but this isn’t right. Just seconds ago he looked like he wanted to rip my head off. Even still, I won’t push him away. I’m physically incapable of pushing him away, complet
ely at his mercy.

  “What are you doing to me, Trix?” He drops his forehead against my shoulder, and his breathing is heavy enough to match my own. He moves and pushes me back, holding my hips so that my backside presses into the wall.

  A hiss shoots from my lips.

  “Fuck!” He puts space between us, but remains with a firm hold on me. “Did I hurt you?”

  I turn slightly so that the neon pink light shines on my bottom, which is on fire like a brutal case of road rash.

  Mason squints. “Is it . . . you’re bleeding.”

  Well crap. I am. I shrug and tap lightly against the broken skin. “I broke your phone; you broke my ass.” The stinging pain cools a little of the heat he’d electrified earlier with his touch.

  “Damn.” He squats for a closer look and sucks air through his teeth. “I’m really sorry.”

  “Nah, don’t worry about it. The owner of this place just added this textured sandpaper floor because the girls kept slipping in their heels back here. I guess they never considered what would happen if one of us got slammed into it by a behemoth when we’re wearing nothing but lace cheekies.”

  His eyes flare and study my panties. “Is that what these are?” His finger motions to my hip.

  “Oh, uh, yeah.” This man is unnerving. His size, good looks, hot and cold demeanor . . . I’m fumbling over myself. And I never fumble, especially around men. “Should’ve worn my leather panties. They’re skid-proof.” Stop talking, you sound like an idiot.

  He peers up at me. “I can fix this. Do you have a first aid kit?”

  “Oh, psht.” I wave him off. “No worries, I’ll take care of—”

  “No.” He shakes his head then rubs the back of his neck. “I feel bad. Let me fix it.”

  “Oh, um . . .” I glimpse around, trying to figure out where we can go and doctor my ass while he talks. Rules are restricted to no guys backstage so that leaves . . . “Here.” I open the door to one of the private rooms. “Wait here. I’ll be right back.”