by Shen, L. J.
Grams slipped into a red horseshoe-shaped booth, and we followed suit. A middle-aged waitress materialized to take our orders. She had a pink uniform with a black and white checkered collar and bleached hair.
Ronda’s Roost was a twenty-four hour joint, catering mainly to truckers who passed by. There were only a handful of customers nursing filter coffee and cobbler. Grams asked for iced tea and chili, while West went for the Rajun Cajun club with double fries, milkshake, and an extra rare steak I would later learn was carved out of half a cow. I asked for fountain Diet Pepsi and a miracle. The waitress snapped her gum, cackling at my joke.
“Rough night, kiddo?”
“You could say that,” I mumbled, narrowing my eyes at West across the table. He smiled easily, the stubborn glint in his eyes reassuring me he didn’t mind my hostility one bit.
It was like he’d had a personality transplant overnight. Maybe he was having a mental breakdown or something, because he didn’t resemble the guy I’d seen on campus for the past two years.
Surly, quiet, and grave. With an underlying current of darkness. He walked the halls, the Student Union, the library, and Greek row like he was a man waiting for lightning to strike him.
That bully, violent, quiet, simmering guy? The West in front of me wasn’t even related to him.
Grams didn’t act like Grandpa Freddie was there with us, so I guessed I did get my small miracle, after all. She leaned forward, rolling a coin into the jukebox and choosing “At Last” by Etta James. She was clearly enjoying the male attention, telling West about her time working at this diner.
“Let me tell you, ain’t no grass grew under those feet during those days. Still, wouldn’t change it for the world. That’s where I met my husband.”
“He must’ve been special.” West smiled back at her, and I tried to remember seeing him smile at school. We took mixed media together, so I’d seen him plenty. I couldn’t recall one time, which alarmed me.
“Boy …” She leaned forward, patting the back of his hand. “He was smart as a whip, dangerous as the Devil and twice as handsome.”
Watching her happy made me happy, so eventually, I relaxed into the squeaky vinyl seat and let them mingle.
“So, Mr. St. Claire, are you courting my little Gracie-Mae?” she asked after a while, lowering her chin to examine him through her winged reading glasses.
I choked on my fountain soda, spraying it across the table.
West smirked, angling himself on the table across from us so he and Grams were almost nose to nose, his voice dropping to a whisper. “Can I be honest?”
“Honesty is the best policy.”
“I’m not much of a commitment guy, Mrs. Shaw. Grace deserves a hell of a lot better, so that’s one tail I won’t be chasing. Besides, your daughter’s not exactly my number one fan.”
“Daughter?” Grams put her hand on her chest, giggling. “My dear, you’ve got it all wrong. I’m Grace’s grandmother.”
“Why…” He shot me a playful smile. I wanted to murder him. He knew she was my grandmother. “I’ll be damned. You look like Grace’s sister.”
“Baby sister, I assume,” I sulked, sucking on my straw. He laughed good-naturedly.
The man was laying it so thick, I wished he could do my makeup.
Grams and West ate and fell into an easy conversation again.
They talked about the weather in Maine (according to him, it sucked), the food in Maine (same, save for the seafood), his family (West had more finesse than to say they sucked, but by his tight-lipped answers, I figured he wasn’t close with his parentsg). By the time we were done, West promised to take Grams to the diner again, and soon, and she swore she would bake him one of her infamous pies. Since I wasn’t a part of the conversation, I excused myself to go to the restroom to reapply more foundation. When I got back to the table, I saw West had taken care of the bill and was standing up to leave. Grams was caught in a lively conversation with our waitress, telling her about her days at the diner.
I winced. “You shouldn’t have paid. Thank you.”
He shoved his wallet into the back of his jeans, tugging at the chain link attached to it. Both his plates were squeaky clean, and he’d also polished off Grams’ leftovers. He must’ve been starving.
“I ordered you a cab.” He ignored my gratitude, his demeanor changing back to gruff sourpuss. “Lock the front door and put the key somewhere she can’t find it.”
“She’s allowed to walk around the house,” I protested for the sake of protesting. I didn’t like that he’d told me what to do, even if I knew he was right.
He shot me a look. “Hide it where no one would want to visit.”
“Where would that be?” I crossed my arms over my chest, spearing him with a stare.
“How ’bout your bed?”
He grabbed his helmet from his seat, tucking it under his arm. He kissed Grams’ cheek goodbye and dashed off, not sparing me a glance. I watched him through the glass windows. He hoisted a leg over his bike, gunning it. Grams appeared beside me. We watched as the red light of his bike got smaller and smaller, until it melted away into a dot in the darkness.
“Be careful with that one, love. He’s wilder than an acre of snakes.” She coiled her arm around mine, patting my forearm. She was being normal, sweet Grandma Savvy again, and I wished I could have her just a little longer so I could tell her all about my life, my struggles, my relationships.
So I could get her sharp, Southern independent woman’s input.
I thought about the girls who frequented our food truck window. About West’s one-hookup rule. About his reputation and busted knuckles, and cunning, devilish smirks, and green, bottomless eyes that were carefully flat whenever he set them on someone else.
Grams was right.
My heart couldn’t afford opening up to West St. Claire.
I was going to make sure the rest of my body was going to listen to it.
West
“West, my man, what’s shakin’?”
Max struggled to catch my steps as I breezed into the café. He panted like one of those rat-looking dogs who couldn’t run from the kitchen to the dining table. He was a short, stout guy with a constellation of acne framing his jaw and coarse, ginger curls he insisted on trying to tame with hair products.
The combo made him unattractive to anyone with a pair of working eyes, which, sadly for him, was ninety-eight percent of campus population.
The idiot was best known for booking the fights at the Sheridan Plaza—and an eager collector of whatever leftovers East, Reign, and I didn’t want in the ladies department during fight nights. Max got a nice cut from orchestrating my Reservoir Dog warehouse gig. He did the legwork; I did the fist-work.
He brought all his frat friends from Pike, Beta Theta Pi, and Sig Ep to the arena each week and had them shell out money for the bets, tickets, and beer.
Worked for me, since I was the one cashing in big at the end of each night.
“Get to the point, Max. We aren’t shooting the shit here,” I snapped.
I was on my way to the cafeteria, about to meet East. My phone danced in my pocket, as it did so goddamn often. I ignored it. I didn’t need to look to see who it was—Mom—and what she wanted from me—more money.
Max clapped his hands together, practically skipping. He wore vintage Jordan Airs, a designer belt, and enough hair product to sculpt a fucking six-year-old. I got high from the fumes coming from his hair alone.
“Aight. Straight shooter, I’m digging it,” he crowed. I ambled into the cafeteria, him trailing behind me like a fart. “I got a new gig for you. Could be sick. Something exclusive that doesn’t come by every day. Lucrative as all hell, but super last-minute.”
“Are you gonna spit it out?” I scanned the place for East. My best friend made me sandwiches every morning, like a doting little mountain girl with stars in her eyes, and brought them with him. I suspected he worried I’d die of starvation if he didn’t take care of me. Maybe bec
ause he knew me well enough to know there was always going to be a small side of me that didn’t mind dying.
That would have welcomed the post-death nothingness. I certainly didn’t make an active attempt to stay alive, with my current habit.
“Tough crowd. Ever heard of Kade Appleton?” Max asked.
Appleton was a professional MMA fighter and a Sheridan native, who’d moved to Vegas about five years ago. He was known for getting suspended left and right for fighting dirty in the ring. The general consensus was he deserved to get punched in the face for a living. Every Sheridan resident who knew him growing up had a gory story about an animal he’d killed, a shotgun he’d pointed at someone, or a punch that made him send some poor bastard to the ER.
As far as hillbillies went, Kade Appleton was the poster child. I’d be surprised if he owned one pair of shoes.
“Turns out he’s in town, and he is willing to fight you tonight if you’re in. We still have the guy from Penn State lined up, but we can put him on the back burner for a while. Odds are against you if you pick the Appleton fight. I already made a spreadsheet.” Max produced his phone, shoving an excel table in my face. I stopped midstride, whistling low when I saw the numbers.
One of the main issues I’d been facing since I started knocking people unconscious for a living was I smoked everyone I fought. Even when I let them get a jab or two to keep the crowd interested, I was competitive enough to never lose on purpose, and had some integrity left in me. This made for pretty shitty odds, and the money was drying up, since everyone knew I was going to win.
Kade Appleton was a professionally trained fighter, with a few championships under his belt. It made him a golden opportunity to roll in the big bucks.
A banana ricocheted in the air, bumping Max’s chest and dropping at my feet. I looked up from Max’s phone to the direction it came from, noticing East and Reign from across the cafeteria, slouched over a table. They waved for me to come over.
I started in their direction.
“Well?” Max followed. “What says you?”
“Count me in.”
I slid onto the bench in front of East, who handed me a soggy-ass egg sandwich. I hoped his hookups were as wet as his omelets. He needed to lay off the oil.
“In?” East quirked an eyebrow. Reign was on the phone, his back to us. “In what? In love? Insane? Incapable of finishing a sentence?”
“He’s fighting Kade Appleton tonight,” Max volunteered, stars in his eyes.
East shook his head, his brows thundering.
“Fuck no. That asshole fights dirty and everyone knows it. His entire entourage is into shady-ass crap. It’s not worth it, Westie.”
I hated that he called me that. Westie. But I was also aware East was one of the only people on planet Earth I could stand, and more importantly—stood me. We came to Sher U together from our small town in Maine. Parting ways after everything we’d been through seemed wrong.
We lived together. We shared everything: Past. Present. Future.
There was no separating us at this point.
We were always East and West—wonder kids.
At least until I stopped being one.
I ignored East, taking a bite of my sandwich and pointing it in Max’s direction. “Book the fight.”
“Bro.” East’s eyes widened. Reign killed his call, boomeranging his phone on the table and tearing off a piece of grilled cheese with his teeth. “Afternoon, ladies. May I ask what got your corsets so fucking tight?”
“West is taking a fight with Kade Appleton tonight.” East jerked his thumb in my direction, in a check out this dumbass motion.
Reign’s eyebrows jumped to his hairline. “Holy shit. Personally, if I were suicidal, drowning in psychedelic drugs would be my death of choice, but whatever tickles your fancy, man.”
“If you ever change your mind, I’d be happy to lend a hand.” I took another bite of my damp omelet sandwich, trying not to miss my mother’s Italian food. For all her faults, she could cook a mean-ass meal. Aside from the diner incident this week, I hadn’t had a home-cooked meal in years.
“West is not suicidal,” East said, more to himself than to anyone else at the table. He shot me a look. I shook my head. I had no plans to kill myself, but if I died, well, that would not be an unwelcome plot twist.
Reign laughed. “Seriously, though. You’re actually considering getting into the ring with Appleton? Can I have your AirPods? Mine have enough ear wax to fill up a jar of mustard.”
East kicked him under the table then proceeded to smash my shin in with his foot.
“East—I don’t wanna hear it. Reign—I don’t wanna hear you. Max—take a hike. I’ll be there tonight. Spread the word. Make it worth my while.”
“That’s what she said,” Reign jested.
Now both East and I punched his arm.
When I took the food truck job, I’d told Karlie Fridays were a nogo. She knew the score. She was one of the only chicks in Sher U, along with Texas, not to show up for fight nights. I liked that I could keep my food truck gig separated from my breaking noses gig.
Max scurried away. The table fell silent, before Reign cleared his throat.
“Jokes aside, there’s a reason why Appleton is currently suspended from the MAF league. He was arrested last year for assaulting his girlfriend. The mother of his child. The photos of her face after the fact aren’t something you’d appreciate seeing while eating. Just putting it out there.”
“And his manager is notorious for arranging dog fights. He went to prison for it for, like, three years,” East chipped in.
“That’s right. Shaun Picker. Between them, they have a rap sheet longer than War and Peace.” Reign pointed a finger at me with the hand that held his grilled cheese. “Which, for the record, I’ve never read, but I heard that like me, it is thick as fuck and not easy to swallow.”
“I’m not marrying his ass, I’m putting it to bed.” I scowled. “Look, this shit is settled, so you might as well change the subject.” I lost interest in them and glanced around the cafeteria, looking for what, I wasn’t sure, exactly.
I needed the money.
Desperately.
It was the cruelest type of irony.
Growing up, I’d always promised myself I wouldn’t be that asshole who lived to work versus worked to live. Then again, I never was very good at keeping promises.
I grew older, I fucked up, made mistakes, and had to pay for them.
Nowadays, I was chasing paychecks like every sorry jerk I’d pitied as a kid, and I didn’t even earn the money for myself.
Appleton was a fight I couldn’t refuse. I was going to win. Even if I had to kill the bastard to cut a nice paycheck.
My phone buzzed in my pocket for the hundredth time today. I took it out, killed the call, and texted my mother.
West: Sending more money on Monday. Get off my case.
A voice message notification popped on the screen. I deleted it before I was tempted to listen to it. I looked up, between Reign and East. A flash of puzzled worry marred their faces.
“Drop it,” I stressed.
“You get into bed with Appleton, you might be dragging everyone else around you into a mess,” Easton warned. “The man is basically a gang member. He operates like the mafia.”
“If shit gets too hot, you know where the door is.” I met Easton’s stare steadily, my jaw tightening with barely contained anger. “Either way, I’m taking the fight.”
Reign stood up, stretching lazily.
“All right, I’m dipping. East, I’ll see you in practice. West—it was nice knowing ya. I’ll be sure to leave some flowers on your grave and comfort your lady friends, who might need some bed warming at night.” He bowed his head, grabbed his duffel bag, and dashed.
East watched Reign’s back before fixing his gaze back on me.
“Are things that bad at home?”
He knew exactly why I was showing up in the ring every Friday, and it wasn’t for t
he pride or glory. Yes, I was a competitive shit—it ran in my blood. Whenever I saw a challenge, I conquered it, but fighting would never have been my route in life if it weren’t for what happened.
I shoved the rest of my sandwich into my mouth.
“You know my dad. He can’t run a business to save his life. I can’t let them lose the farm. They’ll have nothing left.”
East nodded. “I’m here if you need me.”
Despite it being the fakest cliché I’d ever heard, I knew he actually meant it, and despite knowing he couldn’t help me, it actually made me feel slightly better.
“Where were you last night?” He changed the subject.
“This Grace chick from the food truck had a crisis. She bailed early, so I needed to close shop.”
I wasn’t going to share Texas’ business with East. Not because I had one decent bone in my body, God forbid, but because I was above town gossip. Besides, if I were in her position and someone spilled the beans about my fruitcake grandmother, I’d ream them out and use their remainders as decorations for a Christmas tree.
Texas sure didn’t have it easy.
“Try again. You came back at one-thirty. I was still awake.” East drummed the table, giving me a busted look.
“Grabbed dinner afterwards. Didn’t realize you wanted to spoon.”
“You don’t eat out. You’re too cheap to buy yourself a pair of goddamn socks.”
That was fact as fuck. Buying everyone tacos and slushies a few weeks ago was a one-off. One of the chicks who’d accompanied us was the sister of a guy I’d sent to the ICU after a fight night. He was threatening to sue, and I needed to butter her up to convince him to drop the case. He did.
“Let’s say I did hang out with the Shaw chick.” I yawned provocatively. “What of it? I ate a steak, not her pussy.”
“You never eat pussy,” East noted.
That was also true. Eating a stranger’s privates felt akin to licking a public toilet. I had no idea where their coochies had been, but considering this was college, and not a very good one, my educated guess was: everywhere.
“You never take anyone out either,” East banged on, leaning forward, going in for the kill. “Dinner sounds a lot like going out.”
