by Penny Wylder
It was a sweet moment. The sad kid smiles, and the older brother ruffles his hair. The family moves on and it's back to just me and Phade.
“One more,” he says, holding up a finger. “That one didn't count.”
“Be scared, Phade, I'm not going to go easy on you this time.”
“Maybe I don't want you to go easy on me.” Winking, he picks up his gun and the bell goes off.
With one quick jerk, he aims the gun at me, splashing me briefly with the water. “Hey!” I yell, but he's got his weapon pointed back at his clown and he's filling the nose up quickly.
It's no use. Before I even get a chance to line up my stream right, his clown's nose bursts and he throws his arms up in the air.
“Woo!” he yells, holding his arms up high above his head, strutting around me like a peacock with its tail feathers spread open.
“I would have had you if you hadn't sprayed me in the face.” Lifting my hands to my face, I wipe the water. My eyes are closed as drips of water come into my eyes from my hair.
Opening my eyes, I find Phade on one knee, holding up a small box. He took his hat and sunglasses off, setting them down on the ground beside him.
“What's this? What are you doing?”
“Sylvia Fontain, will you marry me?”
A small crowd is starting to gather around us as people realize what's going on. Some are watching because it's a proposal, but most are stopping to watch because they realize it's Phade Manson doing the proposing.
Women are eyeing him, swooning.
“Are you serious right now?”
“Yes, I'm serious.” Laughing, he pulls the ring from the box and reaches up to take my hand. “Well, is that a yes?”
“Yes! Say yes!” a woman yells from the back of the crowd.
My eyes fill with tears, and I cover my mouth. “Yes,” I say, nodding excitedly. My heart breaks a little, knowing that this is all an act.
Tears cascade down my cheeks. Tears not meant for this. Tears that should be forced and fake, like an actress in a movie. Only, these tears are real.
It hurts.
It hurts because this is the most perfect proposal any man could ever do, and it's not real. It hurts because I feel myself falling for this man, and we're not a real couple. It hurts because I know at some point this all going to end, and I don't want it to.
Flashes are going off all around us as he stands up and takes me in his arms. Picking me up off my feet, Phade kisses me.
The heat in his kiss is like nothing I've ever experienced before. It's not full of tongue and sloppy. It's not uptight and dulled down for the sake of the public.
This kiss is more. I feel his tongue as it slips into my mouth. It's slow, but the hunger, the desire, the need is in every inch of his lips.
I hold his cheeks in my hands as I kiss him back, absorbing every last drop of his lips on mine. I suck in his breath, letting him fill my lungs, and it soothes me from the inside out.
Every inch of my skin is on fire, covered in goosebumps, and my heart is about to bust out of my chest.
This isn't a kiss that two people faking would have. I can't help but feel something else, something deeper, something more tangible.
And then it hits me, sending my heart into the black pit of my gut.
My binder. . . He has my binder.
Phade lowers me to the ground, pulling his lips off of mine. I wobble on my feet, so he wraps his arms around my waist, and keeps me from falling down.
My lips are buzzing. I touch them lightly with my fingertips, softly caressing where we had just been fused together.
A kiss can't be just a kiss, not if you feel it deep in your bones. I don't care how much of an act that's supposed to be.
I feel that kiss everywhere.
10
Sylvia
“This—” Stabbing a finger at the newspaper, Daniel grins. “This is good, Syl, really, really good.” Picking it up, he passes it across the desk. “Here, take a look.”
Reaching, I take the paper. There's a bright colorful picture of me covering my mouth, with tears in my eyes, and Phade on one knee, holding the ring box.
It really is a stunning image, a beautiful proposal. . . If any of it was actually real.
“That caption is perfect.” He leans back in his chair, stroking the air with his hand and spreading an imaginary rainbow. “Is the wild Phade Manson really trading his brass knuckles for a diamond?” His voice is raspy and thick. “Your performance deserves an award. I couldn't have done it better myself. How did you come up with this? The carnival was an excellent idea.”
“Actually, it was Phade's idea.”
His eyes pop open wide and his jaw jets to the side. “No shit, this was his idea.” Pulling the paper back in, he holds it up high and smiles. “I should frame this, seriously, I couldn't have done this better myself.”
I should feel proud, but I don't.
Instead, I feel sick to my stomach. I don't want him to be proud of me for a lie. A lie that's his, not mine. He's congratulating me for fooling the world, for playing a grand trick to turn his name into gold.
But I don't want recognition for this.
My heart twists as I look at my finger and see the ring. It's supposed to be a symbol for love, but this ring is mocking everything love stands for.
In my heart I'm sad that this ring on my finger is built from a lie. And as the jewel sparkles, bright and pretty on my hand, I feel something deep inside. It's light, but warm, filling me slowly. It moves up through my belly, across my chest and up over my shoulders, running down my arms.
Shit. I have real feelings for Phade.
I don't want it to be true, but it is. That's what I'm feeling, it's building and growing and turning from paper thoughts into actual emotions. Touching the diamond, I fiddle with the ring, rotating it side to side.
“You're quiet, why are you so quiet?” His brow arches as he pulls a cigar from the wooden box on his desk and clips the end off. “What's wrong? You should be excited this is all going so well.”
“I am,” I halfheartedly say. “I just don't want to get ahead of myself is all. We're still in the beginning stages of cleaning up his bad image.”
I lie.
What I'm feeling has nothing to do with any of this, and everything to do with Phade. And then there's what he said about my step-father.
Maybe Phade is right? Maybe all these years Daniel really only has cared about himself. Maybe he's been manipulating me because I don't really fit into the life he wants. Maybe I've been his burden and not his family at all.
It's hard to let myself believe it, but looking at my step-father, I don't see the same man I used to look up to. His mouth is slack, his forehead tight and tense. His eyes are cold, sinking into his head and lacking any real color. His gaze is flat, void of emotion and fixated on a thought he has, and not on me at all.
It's sad to see him in this light, with his latex expression, like a thick mask he can peel off when he needs to change his mood.
Daniel isn't proud of me, he's never been proud of me, he's only ever been proud of himself.
No, that's not true.
I'm not going to let myself believe any of it. I've known Daniel longer than anyone here, if anyone knows the man, I do.
There has to be some truth, Daniel has to feel at least a little appreciation for my role in this. He must love me like a daughter on some level.
“Well, keep up the good work, it's all going smooth at this point. And with Phade on board, this should be a cake walk.” Lighting his cigar, he takes a long deep inhale, letting the smoke billow out from behind his lips. “We have some big things coming up soon. In the next few weeks, Phade has the semi-final fight, and you two are going to be on The Sun Daily to do an interview.”
“The Sun Daily? Are you kidding me?”
The Sun Daily, a local morning news show, where the hosts look like they drank ten pots of coffee and did an eight ball before filming.
&n
bsp; “It'll be good, Sylvia, I promise you that.” He draws in another big pull on his cigar, his eyes move down to the end, watching the red embers flake off as he taps the head over the ashtray. “I've never steered you wrong, have I?”
The way he says it makes me shake my head like I'm eleven years old again. He has this way with words, a tone that seems to flip a switch in my brain and make me agree.
But this time something isn't right. His face is shaded, a dark wave washes over his skin and the emptiness I tried to disregard is now bold and visible. His smile is sinister, his eyes beady and looking right through me.
He's the creator of this entire movie, the puppeteer pulling the strings. If it wasn't for him, this wouldn't be happening. And he knows that. He feeds off the fact that he's the foundation of our story.
“Well, Sylvia? Have I ever wronged you?” Tipping his head, he waits for an answer.
“No, you haven't.” Even as I say it, I don't believe it. There's nothing behind my words. I'm running moments through my head now, trying to pick out those subtle nuances I failed to see back then.
Smoke rolls out from his mouth and across the desk. “Do you trust me, Sylvia?” Daniel cocks his head, peering down his nose at me.
He makes me feel so small, like I'm about to get in trouble. I'm shrinking, my arms coil in, my legs tuck up and I cross my ankles. I don't even realize it's happening until I look down at myself.
I want to be honest with him, tell him I'm starting to doubt the whole nature of this. Only I say nothing, I let him keep going.
“Syl,” he says, resting his cigar in the tray and standing up. He stalks around the desk, his steps smooth. Sitting on the front edge, he cups his hands in his lap as he tilts his head. “I can't do this without you. I know you know that. I'm relying on you, not him, just you.”
“It'll take both of us, not just me.”
Rolling his hand, he nods in agreement. “Of course, but if you're leading, he'll follow. We both know who Phade is. You're a pretty girl, he's going to follow you wherever you go, like a dog in heat. He'll smell you from a mile away, and he'll be there if you call.”
“So basically you're assuming he only thinks—”
“With his dick,” he says matter of fact, cutting me off. “Of course he only thinks with his dick. History speaks for itself. Which is why we're doing this to begin with.”
My step-father stands back up, picking up his cigar and resting it in his lips. He strolls around his office like he doesn't have a care in the world, looking over the pictures on the wall.
They go back over a decade. He has pictures of himself with so many past fighters, some he represented, others were ones he met along the way.
“You remember this?” He points up at a picture on the wall of him standing with a man who goes by the name Fly Back Jones. He was known for his choke hold, and his ability to lock people on their back until they finally tapped out.
Shaking my head no, he looks back over his shoulder at me and smiles. “That's too bad, because you were there. I'm pretty sure you were three, maybe even four. You kept running around the ring the whole time and your mother had to chase you.” He laughs to himself and goes back to looking over his photos. “So many memories.”
I'm scanning the pictures, and that's when I notice something. There isn't one picture of my mother or myself on that wall. I've been to hundreds of fights since I was young. I don't remember all of them, but there are plenty I do.
And not one of his pictures shows his family too. Even his desk is void of any family pics. My step-father's face is everywhere, but the family who's stood by him doesn't seem to exist.
I can't be here anymore, I don't want to be around him right now. I'm irritated that I've been so obtuse and could never see any of this before.
It took Phade planting the seed in my brain for me to finally see the whole picture. Daniel Cross is not the man I thought he was.
Standing up, I fix my skirt and let out an audible breath. “All right, well if there's nothing else, I'm going to get back to work.”
The phone on his desk rings, so he flips his fingers that I'm free to leave as he picks up the receiver. Giving him a fake smile, I close the door quietly behind me.
“He's happy today,” Carla says as she stocks the copy machine with paper.
“Yeah, a little too happy, I think.” Walking to her desk, I lay my arms flat on top and pick up a paperclip. Flipping it in my fingers, I ask, “Hey, have you seen Claudia yet today?”
Carla thinks about it for a second, her brows furrowing into the bridge of her nose. “Yes actually, I saw her a little while ago. I think she's in the PR office.”
Tapping the top of her desk, I smile. “Thanks.”
I'm walking down the hall, when I spot Claudia getting in the elevator. “Claude!” I call out, waving my hand. “Hold the door!”
Her eyes get big as she stares at me with a blank expression. She doesn't reach her hand out to hit the button or move to hold the door open. I know she sees me, but it's like she doesn't hear me.
“Claude, I need to talk—” Throwing my arm out, I try to make a dash for the elevator. The doors are closing and she still isn't moving to hold them for me.
Claudia isn't smiling, she's just staring at me, flat faced, limp arms, and no smile.
Shit. . . She must have seen the paper.
I should have been the one to tell her first. I had the chance and I let it slip away.
Now, one of the only friends I have, finds out about this shit with Phade through the media. I can only imagine what she's thinking. She's probably thinking I lied to her, that I'm a shitty friend, and I don't care about our friendship.
Damn it. This isn't how I imagined any of it going.
In my mind it was all perfect, it was packaged beautifully, and decorated with a bright pink bow. My hold on this situation is slipping through my fingers like wet spaghetti. I can't grasp it, no matter how much I try, nothing is going the way I really want it to.
All I can do at this point is damage control. And I will, after I talk to Claudia and explain everything first.
She deserves to hear the truth from me, not the lies we feed to the paper.
11
Phade
Smack!
Smack! Smack!
Spinning on my heel, I kick the bag and throw a hard jab. It feels good to let loose like this, it always has. Nothing feels better than doing what you love for a living.
“Phade, what's going on?”
Turning to look over my shoulder, I give a head nod. “Hey man,” I say, taking the chance to wipe the sweat off my face.
Frank Delatorro, or as the fighting world calls him, Brick. He's six feet of solid muscle, with a neck as thick as his biceps and thighs the size of tree trunks. His ears look like nothing but scar tissue, complete cauliflower ear, and his nose bends in four different directions from being broken a dozen times.
He moved here from Long Island a couple years back. Daniel found him in a gym one day while at a championship match, not long before he came for me.
Frank's good, but he's not me, no one can be me. Which is why Daniel is going through all this trouble to keep me around. It pays to be the golden boy.
“You ready for the semi-finals coming up?” Dropping his duffle bag onto the ground, he starts to stretch. “I hear there's some stiff competition.”
Shrugging a shoulder, I ball my hands into fists and do a double jab combo with a knee strike. “You sound worried.”
Frank gives me a look, and a toothless grin. “Fuck you man, I never worry.”
“You sure?” I ask, hitting the bag with an elbow and shin kick.
“Fuck you,” he says with a laugh. Frank sits on the bench and takes the tape out of his bag. “What's this I hear about you and some chick tying the knot?” He's wrapping his hand tight as he looks up at me. “Daniel's daughter of all people?”
“What do you want me to say, Frank? You know I love those brunettes.”
Holding out my arms, I give him a smile.
“I'm not gonna lie, man, it was surprising to see. I never thought I'd see you on one knee like that. No one even knew you two were even dating.”
“Maybe that's because it's no one's fucking business.”
Chuckling, he clenches his hands, checking the tape. “Well, better you than me. No more fun for Brass Knuckles. I mean seriously, marriage changes everything, nothing will ever be the same for you.”
“Says who?” Holding the bag, I wave Frank in to get a few hits of his own on it.
“Says every man in the history of men who ever popped the question.” Giving the bag a right and then a left, I dig my feet into the mat as he gives it a full power kick. “Shit, my father used to warn me against it.”
“It won't change nothing.” I exhale hard as he kicks the bag and I tense my muscles to stay in place. “The people that say shit like that just married the wrong person.”
And my engagement isn't real, that helps too.
It's a mutual understanding.
Frank chuckles as he takes the bag and holds it for me. “You think she's going to let you go out every night like you normally do?” Shaking his head, he answers his own question. “No, no she isn't. You'll be lucky to go out once every few months. And then when the kids come along—say goodbye to your freedom all together.”
“Fuck you, I don't need permission to do shit, and I'm never going to answer to anyone.” Landing an upper cut and a few back to back jabs, I grunt as I kick hard. “It's still my life, no ring is going to change me.”
“Oh yeah? Then you can come out tonight with me, grab a few drinks, have a little fun?”
Don't do it. You're supposed to be cleaning up your image.
I want to listen to myself, it's the smart thing to do. “We do have the semi-finals, we should probably train.”
Besides, I'm planning on taking Sylvia out on a date tonight, surprise her with a nice walk in the park, at a public place where more pictures can be taken. Her binder was full of ideas, ways to push our engagement through the media to make it look real.
