by Sylvia Fox
“It just sucks sometimes. We make due, I mean it’s a struggle, but I do all I can on holidays and everything. But I always envisioned big Thanksgivings and Christmases and everything with mom and dad and all our kids. And now Allan is, where, Germany?”
Amy nodded.
“And you’re here, and mom and dad live twenty minutes away from me, but they might as well be on Mars.”
“Trust me,” Amy said, refilling both their wine glasses. “You’re not missing anything not having Mom around. I guess you’re missing being endlessly judged and criticized, if that’s your thing, but truly you’re better off.
“Allan would love having a brother-in-law, or just another guy in the family, even if he was just around as Preston’s dad. especially somebody with a military background.”
“I’ve been thinking about it a lot,” Ayla conceded. “I mean; I don’t even know why I’d want to give Mom or Dad another chance, but there’s part of me that wants it to be the way it’s supposed to be. No matter how much they suck.”
“No, I get it. They’re still our parents, no matter how shitty they’ve been to you. I go through wanting to cut them out of my life for how they’ve treated you, but I know, we’ve talked about it, it’s not how you want me to handle it.”
As they spoke, Amy’s phone buzzed.
“Okay, it’s Char, let me see what she says. Here it is:
‘Hi Amy, okay, so I messaged Gunther’
“Gunther was her prom date,” Amy explained, and then continued.
“Gunther says he didn’t know Winston, he was a couple years older, but that he did know Wendryn, who was a year behind him at Oasis. He didn’t know her well, but he knew people who did, and that he might be able to get a message to her through a friend of a friend.”
“So, not dead end, but not super helpful, either. Maybe we ought to focus on the Mick side of it and forget the Watterson angle?” Amy said, setting her phone back down.
“Whatever works, I don’t know, I’m like climbing out of my skin with anticipation,” Ayla explained. “But, also terrified. If that makes sense.”
“It makes perfect sense, inasmuch as any of this makes sense.”
Noah, Amy’s husband, joined his wife and sister-in-law at the kitchen table, cracking open a beer.
“Any progress?” he asked.
“No,” Amy replied. “I told Noah all about what’s going on, I hope that’s okay. I wanted to get the male perspective.”
“Of course!” Ayla answered. “How are the kiddos?”
“They’re into the movie,” Noah said. “Mesmerized. So, was Charmain any help?”
“Not really,” Amy responded.
“How do you think you’d react if, hypothetically, you were single, no kids, and somebody came up and told you that you were a father?” Ayla asked.
“It’s hard to say, it would depend on who it was and I think I’d want some proof. Amy showed me the picture of the guy, and I don’t know what more proof anybody would need, but these days everybody wants their legal ducks in a row. So even if he’s not into being a dad, you’re still entitled to some support, right?
“But Preston is great, and it’s not out of line to say that you’re attractive, hell, your sister is the most beautiful girl in the world, and the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, so yeah, I can’t imagine that the notion that he had a baby with you would be so shocking or anything to him. Surprising, at first, sure, but given a little time he’d have to see it as a positive, right?”
Amy glared. “I’m so thrilled to know that you think my sister is hot.” Her voice dripped with false indignation. “I guess you need to stay in a hotel tonight, Ayla. Or you do,” she said to her husband.
Noah leaned over and gave Amy a kiss. “We should get a hotel room tonight. Let Ayla watch the kids. Go make another baby.”
“Yeah, the hotel sounds nice, but just for the blissful, uninterrupted sleep. Baby-making is on indefinite hold. At least until the diaper days are behind us for a while.”
Noah shrugged. “Have it your way, baby.” He took his wife’s hand and turned his attention to Ayla. “I wish I could help, but all my Vegas contacts are musicians, and the guys I know wouldn’t have any more immediate access to a big-timer like Winston Watterson, or his staff, than you or anybody else.”
“Back to the drawing board, I guess,” Ayla sighed, finishing her glass of wine.
The next morning, Amy, Noah, Ayla, and all three kids visited the beach, splashing in the Pacific Ocean before Ayla and Preston drove back to Las Vegas in time for Ayla to get some sleep before she had to be a work at 3:30 AM.
12
Mick had arranged a Sunday evening redeye flight from Las Vegas to London. He’d spend Monday night at a friend’s flat in the capital, then hire a car and drive to Sheffield on Tuesday morning and spend a few days talking his mum off the emotional ledge on which she always found herself this time of year.
In order to help himself sleep on the plane, he scheduled a late Sunday afternoon workout with a friend down in Henderson. The friend was a jiu-jitsu black belt named Roberto Luiz, who owned a popular martial arts school near the Las Vegas Strip.
Mick met Roberto at his home, where he’d converted his garage into a makeshift gym. It was Spartan and bare bones, no fans or air conditioning, just a mat on the floor. Fighters lucky enough to swing an invite to Luiz’s home gym called it “The Sweat Factory.”
When Mick arrived, Roberto was practicing how to escape an arm lock with a muscle-bound, heavily-tattooed young fighter Mick recognized instantly; up-and-coming UFC star Burke “the Bruiser” Powell.
“Meu amigo!” Luiz greeted his friend in Portuguese as Mick walked in through the open garage door. They’d known each other since Luiz ran a hand-to-hand combat training seminar for MI6 recruits back when Mick had first joined the intelligence service.
Mick clasped hands and then hugged Roberto before extending a hand to Powell.
“Burke Powell, right? I’m Mick Merryweather. Nice to meet you.”
The Bruiser grunted, shook Mick’s hand, and turned away dismissively. He wiped his face with a towel and called Luiz over.
“Hey, this was supposed to be a private session, just you and me. Who’s the old guy?”
Luiz chuckled. “The ‘old guy’ probably knows a dozen ways to kill you with his bare hands. He’s ex-British Royal Air Force.”
Powell glanced over at Mick, who was stretching to prep for his workout. “He don’t look so tough to me. I don’t like having my training interrupted, and I wanted to go hard today. I don’t want to have to go half-speed for some guy chasing his glory days. I have a big fight coming up next month.”
Roberto cocked his head to the side and laughed. “Okay, BP. Have it your way.” He turned his attention to Mick, sitting on the mat with his feet in front of him, leaning down to touch his toes and pull his face to his knees. “Mick. Burke wants to spar with you, but he’s got a fight coming up, so he doesn’t want to get hurt. Go easy on him, yeah?”
Powell was infuriated, sucking down the remaining half of a bottle of water and tossing the empty into the trash can in the corner.
“Bullshit,” he said, stalking back out onto the mat while shadow boxing. “Don’t try to be a hero. When you need to tap, just do it. No shame in it. Then you can go home and tell your old lady you were on the mat with a future UFC champion. That ought to give her a thrill.”
Mick rose to his feet and leaned back, twisting slowly from side to side. “Sure thing, mate,” he replied.
In jiu-jitsu, the fighters grapple until one of them “submits” the other, forcing the opponent to tap the mat, or his opponent, signaling that they’ve given up. Usually it’s done to avoid being choked unconscious, having a joint painfully damaged, or when a bone is in danger of being broken.
Burke Powell had broken a sweat, was loose and in his athletic prime at twenty-six. If he won his next fight, he seemed likely to get a shot at the UFC heavyweight world
championship belt before the end of the year.
Mick had just gotten out of an air-conditioned car, performed only some light stretching, and his thirty-nine-year-old body bore the wear and tear of a lifetime of rugby, military training, and real-life combat.
He also gave up two inches of height and thirty-five pounds of muscle.
Within thirty seconds, Burke Powell knew he was in trouble.
The two men circled each other under the watchful eye of Roberto Luiz, but as soon as they came together in a clinch, Mick dropped to a knee, shot in to grab Powell’s left leg, and sent him sprawling to the floor. With blinding speed, he swung his body up and around Powell’s defenses, hooking an arm around his throat and both legs around the larger man’s right shoulder.
Powell found himself tapping the mat frantically to stop Mick from dislocating his shoulder.
Luiz brought both men back to their feet, and Powell slapped himself across the face with each hand.
“Lucky,” he muttered under his breath.
Mick showed no emotion, standing ready to begin again.
The second time the two fighters clinched, Mick let himself be taken down with a hip toss, but when he hit the mat he pulled Powell’s arm close to his body, swiveling his hips and locking in a painful arm bar on his standing opponent. From flat on his back. The Bruiser tapped out again.
Powell stormed off the mat and slapped a full water bottle from atop a set of lockers near the trash can.
“Can’t wait to tell my ‘old lady’ how I got to train with a real-life UFC fighter!” Mick mocked his cocky opponent.
Powell glared at him. “Fuck you. What kind of shit is this, Roberto? Who is this guy, some kind of jiu-jitsu world champion ringer or something?”
“He’s just some old guy, remember? Mick, what color belt do you have?”
“Belt? Black. Absolutely. Got it at Brooks Brothers. Came with the last set of suits I bought.”
“You two are hilarious. This is a set-up,” Powell complained. “Whatever. But I started my career in kickboxing. Come down to ’Berto’s gym some time and I’ll wipe the floor with you in the ring.”
“Bad idea, brother,” Roberto interjected. “Mick’s hands are better than his grappling.”
“How about we just train, mate? I need a workout,” Mick said, walking over and extending a hand.
Powell shook it reluctantly, and the three men began what wound up being a grueling two-hour session, all three of them flat on their backs, shirtless and sweating, gasping for air by the end.
When they finally staggered to get towels and water, Powell expressed his new-found respect for Mick. “Dude. I need to work like this again, soon. What’s your schedule like?”
“Sorry, mate, I just drop in on Roberto now and then,” Mick explained. “I don’t train regularly anymore.”
“Training camp starts in two weeks for my next fight in California. In Big Bear. Can you come down for a weekend or something?”
“We’ll see. I’m off for a week back home, in the U.K., leaving tonight. In just a few hours. After that, I’d have to look at my schedule. Get with Roberto, he’ll hit me up, maybe we can do something.”
Mick thanked Roberto for the workout and put on a dry, sleeveless t-shirt. He figured he had enough time to drive home, throw some green stuff in his blender for a smoothie, have a quick shower, and head for the airport.
Just before getting on the freeway, he pulled into a gas station to grab a drink. He waved a red Camry in right before him and returned a courtesy wave from the blonde behind the steering wheel.
13
Ayla had been battling exhaustion since somewhere around Barstow.
She hated the taste of coffee, especially the putrid gas station stuff, but she’d forced herself to keep drinking it as she kept her car pointed toward Las Vegas.
The last mountain range before the Nevada state border was summited by Ayla’s car under protest. It knocked, pinged, and limped to the top, the A/C barely functioning.
Preston did his best not to complain, but it was hot.
“When we get to that Sinclair station around the corner from home, we’ll stop and you can get a slushie, okay?”
Preston agreed, giving an exaggerated nod.
Somehow, Ayla coaxed her car the rest of the way up I-15 and down the 215 until she reached their exit. The gas station was on the left side of the street, and she pulled into the center turn lane looking for a hole in the traffic so she could produce the promised slushie for her son.
Cars backed up at the light going the other direction, but a small gap appeared and a guy in a black Navigator waved her over. She waved back and pulled in.
“Let’s get some of this trash cleaned up,” Ayla urged Preston. “It’s a mess back here, bubba!”
As the two of them shoveled fast food wrappers and empty water bottles into a bag, Ayla glanced up and across the backseat to watch the driver of the black SUV walk into the store. His walk was unhurried, graceful and confident. He was tall and dark. She had to assume handsome, since she could only see the back of his head. His arms bulged and rippled in all the right places, and Ayla’s pulse quickened.
Once she was satisfied that Preston’s pigsty was clean, she pushed the bag down into the trash barrel by the door and walked into the store, stopping to let the cold air conditioning work its magic.
Preston was a bundle of energy after spending the entire afternoon in the backseat, and he burst through the doors and skipped down the candy aisle.
“Walk!” Ayla commanded, and Preston’s pace slowed, albeit almost imperceptibly.
Ayla stretched and waltzed over to where Preston had disappeared down the candy aisle and toward the coolers where the soda and sports drinks were displayed.
She arrived at the intersection of the aisles just in time to see a running Preston collide with someone and bounce backwards.
Her son had turned the corner at full speed, and the poor guy he crashed into was minding his own business, having just pulled two Gatorades from the cooler.
Preston started to fall, Ayla started to shout, and the man her son had bumped into juggled his two bottles and shot a hand out to grab Preston’s forearm and stop his momentum, suspending him inches from crashing to the floor.
“There’s a good lad,” he said, as Ayla rushed up from behind. “You alright, mate?”
Words tripped over themselves coming out of Ayla’s mouth. She wanted to thank the man, apologize, and scold Preston for his carelessness, all at once.
“Preston! Thank you, I’m so sorry, I told him to slow down, he never list—”
Ayla’s voice caught in her throat.
Preston looked up at the man he’d run into like he was seeing a superhero. As Ayla suspected, he was handsome as well as being tall, dark, and muscle-bound.
He was Mick Merryweather.
Mick straightened up to his full 6-foot-3 and loosened his grip on the boys’ arm. Preston looked at his mommy and at the stranger he’d crashed into. Then back at his mother. He expected his mother to scold him, but she wasn’t saying anything. The two grownups stood there with their mouths moving, but no sounds were coming out. Preston was puzzled by their behavior, and he shuffled sideways until he was next to his mom. He reached up and placed his hand in hers.
Preston’s hand felt real enough, but Ayla gave it a squeeze just to make sure; to confirm she wasn’t dreaming. It was him.
She’d certainly dreamt of him enough to know exactly what he looked like, and to recall his voice. His hair was shot through with salt here and there now, but otherwise, he looked just the same – the same as that miraculous night he took her on that garage roof beneath the stars, amid all the neon the Las Vegas Strip had to offer…
Ayla’s pulse raced and she fought back a tremble, for Preston’s sake. This was the day she’d longed for and fantasized about for so long, and especially in the past few days, but the shock of suddenly being face to face with him was almost too much. What would
she say? What would she do? Would he even remember her?
What would he say? What would he do? Would she even remember him?
Mick Merryweather had been minding his own business, grabbing two bottles of Gatorade to replace everything he’d left on the mat at The Sweat Factory, when an exuberant little boy had turned the corner too quickly and collided with him. He’d bounced off and fallen back, and it was only through some sort of reflex that Mick had been able to shift one of the bottles into the crook of his elbow and snatch the boy out of the air before he tumbled to the floor. It seemed the sort of thing his own father would have done, catching him or his brother when one of them fell while trying to leap from the kitchen counter to the sofa in the next room. Mick and Frank had been hellions, more often than not sporting black eyes and split lips. It was only due, on more than one occasion, to their father’s protective instincts that they escaped permanent injury.
If, however, Mick had surprised himself with his heroism— hell, he even sounded just like his father when he spoke to the boy (‘There’s a good lad…’ How many times had Harry Merryweather said that to Frank or Mick?)— he was downright shocked when he saw the boy’s mother.
It was her. There was no mistaking it. Sure, the last time— well, the only time, he’d seen her— she’d been dressed to the nines, with perfect hair and makeup, and now she was in a t-shirt and sweatpants, with her hair piled up on top of her head. But he’d recognize her anywhere.
She’d spent enough time in his dreams, and in his fantasies, that he’d memorized all the curves of her wicked body and contours of her angelic face.
It was her. Now the only problem was whether or not she remembered him. Or if she did, if she’d even care.
She evidently had a son, so that meant she probably had a man… but he might never get another chance. He wasn’t going to make the same mistake again.
