by Hart, Lane
“No, but I can if you need me to. What’s in Cary?”
“Um, well, I painted this for someone over there and I don’t have time to take it to him.”
“Him?” he asks with a raised eyebrow. “Who is this him and do I need to add him to my I'm-watching-your-ass list?”
I laugh before I can stop myself. “No, he’s just a guy I told I’d paint a scene for. It’s no biggie,” I reply with a feigned shrug of indifference.
“Liar,” he calls me out. “So who is he and where in Cary am I going to read this motherfucker the riot act?” He reaches up and grabs the side of his neck to crack it like he's warming up before a fight. Any other guy I'd probably be concerned for, getting the protective brother routine…but I know Linc can handle him just fine. Lord knows my exes were terrified of Mason. His bark is worse than his bite, though. Besides, Linc and I are definitely not seeing each other, which I'm sure Linc will reaffirm if Mason runs his mouth.
“Well, ah, have you ever heard of a MMA fighter named Linc Abrams?” I ask hesitantly.
“Does a bear fuck in the woods?” he asks, giving me a long blink that clearly conveys his sentiment of duh.
“Okay, so I need you to take this to the gym he trains at, Havoc, and just drop it off for him, okay?”
“Havoc? Hold the fucking phone, sis. When did you meet Linc Abrams?” he asks.
“I haven’t,” I lie. “Not really.”
“Uh-huh.”
“So will you take care of it?” I ask, offering him the painting, ready to make a break for it before he asks any more questions.
“Hell yeah. As soon as I send them home I’ll hit the road,” he says, and then purses his lips when he realizes his slip.
“Them?”
“Don’t ask, don’t tell,” he says with a wink, reminding me of our agreement.
I hold up a palm to prevent further TMI. “Definitely. Thanks, Mason. I owe you one.”
“Nah, Mandy and I owe you like a million favors before we’ll ever be even,” he says, taking the painting from me and lowering his eyes, most likely trying to hide the chink in his badass armor. His heart has always been the biggest part of him, but he’s never been opposed to using his fists when standing up for himself or someone he cares about. “How’s Mandy been doing?” he asks softly. “I didn’t see her at my fight Thursday night.”
I shrug. “Same old. I beg her not to use, she makes empty promises.”
“I’m worried about her,” Mason says, clenching his jaw. “More so than usual. James is a bad influence.”
“I agree,” I tell him, deciding to withhold my concern about her recent suicidal ideation. “But I don’t know what else to do.” My voice cracks and my eyes water on the last word.
“Ah, sis. I know,” Mason says, wrapping me up in a hug. “It sucks, but we can’t make her get clean. She’s gotta be ready to take that step on her own or she’ll just keep relapsing. I hate to say it, but maybe it’s time for us to stop bailing her out of her messes.”
“You’re right,” I say stepping back and wiping the dampness from under my eyes. “We’re enablers, aren’t we?”
“Yep,” he agrees. “Everyone deserves a second and sometimes a third chance, but how many more are we gonna give her?”
I nod, hating facing that truth. “It just sucks to see her keep slipping away.”
…
Linc
Sittin’ at my desk at Havoc, I can’t stop twirlin’ the business card over and over on the wooden edge. The one I grabbed from the front desk yesterday for Abby to write her phone number on the back of after she told me she has cancer.
And could very likely be dyin’.
I didn’t sleep a fuckin’ wink last night, and have felt sick to my stomach ever since. She’s so damn young and seems so healthy; the fact that she’s sick just doesn’t make sense. I was so fuckin’ angry at her, even after all this time, and with three game changing words that shit vanished into thin air. Now I don’t know what to do. For years I planned on spendin’ the rest of my life with Abby, and if we were still together, I couldn't imagine that life endin’ so fuckin’ soon because of bullshit cancer. So I guess what I’m tryin’ to figure out is if there’s any part of me that wants to give her another chance…because it might be my last.
I still love her. I think. That’s just not somethin’ that ever stops, despite the evil shit the person might do to you. The love may be buried deep under the pain and anger, but it’s still…there.
Abby and I started datin’ our sophomore year, as soon as I turned sixteen and got my license. She was my first love, and I had hoped she would be my last. I loved her so much it made me fuckin’ dizzy, and I knew without a doubt, she felt the same way. But things changed after we graduated and she was gettin’ ready to head off to college in Greenville at East Carolina University. I asked her to marry me, and she didn't say no, but she didn't say yes, either. It was somethin’ along the lines of, "Aw, Linc, you’re so sweet, but we're way too young! I'm getting ready to start college, to be free for the first time in my life. I don't want to lose you, but please just give me some time to live on my own and think about it, okay?" Her sad, brown puppy dog eyes were so damn sincere and I didn't want to rush her into anything. She was right. We were young, and I could wait until she was ready. So, I trained during the week and commuted back and forth almost every weekend the first semester of her freshman year. Hell, I wanted to move to Greenville with her, but she insisted that she get the full college experience, livin’ in a dorm on campus. I was patient, waitin’ for her to realize what I already knew - that I wanted to spend the rest of my life with her.
I was even more certain of our future together when she came home one weekend in September and told me she was pregnant. While my first reaction was to pull her into my arms with a smile at the unexpected but happy news, Abby broke down, sobbin’ uncontrollably for hours. My heart broke right then and there when she told me I had ruined her life when I’d made her a mother. She actually said ruined, that havin’ my child was fuckin’ devastating. Her tears then turned to anger. She told me it was my fault for being careless and knockin’ her up even though we always used condoms since she could never remember to take her pills the one month she'd tried them. She actually accused me of gettin’ her pregnant on purpose, because we were growin’ apart and I didn’t want to let her go.
Abby’s anger eventually rolled into a solemn depression. She'd never mentioned the "A" word, but I knew she'd thought about it. She'd considered terminatin’ the pregnancy, our baby, and I’m pretty sure that the only reason she didn't was because I promised her everything would be fine. That I would be there for her and do whatever it takes to make sure she could finish school, and anything else she wanted to do, while still becomin’ a mother.
But then on Christmas Eve, Abby got her wish. She woke up in the middle of the night with stomach pains and heavy bleeding. I rushed her to the hospital, and six hours later, Thomas Lincoln Abrams, named after me and her dad, was delivered as a stillbirth at twenty weeks old. Holdin’ his tiny, lifeless body in the center of my palm, just days after I laid my hand over her pregnant belly and felt him kick for the first time, was when I realized that Abby was probably relieved, since she never wanted to be a mother to my son. She didn’t even shed a tear and wouldn’t speak a single word to me when I was hurtin’ so bad, completely fuckin’ devastated.
Our families had a small, private service the next day to bury our son, who was born an angel, in the local cemetery. Lettin’ go of all those hope and dreams I’d had for the three of us durin’ the weeks I thought I was about to become a father and start a family was the hardest thing I've ever had to do. I had no idea I could actually miss or love somethin’ that I never had, but I did.
Abby was supposed to spend the three days followin’ her release from the hospital in bed, but as soon as we left the church, she went back to school in Greenville. At the time I thought that she was upset, maybe blamin’ herself f
or the miscarriage. I was worried about her and she wouldn’t answer my calls. So, bein’ the “sweet” boyfriend I always tried to be, on New Year's Eve I drove to East Carolina to be with her. Hell, I needed her to be there for me since she was the only one who really knew what I was goin’ through. Of course our parents and both of our sisters were upset at the loss of their grandson and nephew, but their pain was nothin’ compared to mine and Abby's. Or so I thought.
Then I walked in her dorm room and caught her with another fuckin’ guy. The doctor told her she wasn't supposed to be havin’ sex so soon after the delivery, especially not with some random asshole! That was it, the final straw. All the pent up emotions erupted from me as I pulled the fucker out of her bed and beat the livin’ shit out of him. I didn't even care to know his name. He represented everythin’ I had lost; my girlfriend, my son, my entire fuckin’ life. I blamed it all on him. He was the reason why Abby didn't want to be with me. He was the reason she didn't want to have my child. And yeah, I was fuckin’ infuriated with her too for cheatin’ on me when I needed her. I was still grievin’ over the son we would never have, and she was in bed fuckin’ around with some other guy. But I would never lay a finger on Abby. Instead, I took out all my rage at her on the unknown asshole until campus security guards pulled me from his limp, bloody body.
I was put in handcuffs, taken away to the police station and charged with felony assault inflicting serious bodily injuries. The guy, Charlie Bowers, I later found out the fucker's name, was in a medically-induced coma for brain swellin’ over the next forty-eight hours, but thankfully woke up with no permanent injuries, just a broken jaw, nose and collarbone. My parents hired an attorney and bonded me out of jail later that week.
When the district attorney heard the whole story she deemed it a Post-Traumatic Stress response to losin’ my son, and agreed to dismiss the charge against me if I would pay for all of the medical bills, not have any contact whatsoever with Abby or Charlie, and stay out of legal trouble for a year. One year later the charge was dismissed, and my attorney petitioned for an expunction of the police and court records. All of it disappeared like it never happened. Otherwise, I wouldn't have been signed to fight for the IFC.
“Zelda to the front. You have a guest.” It's like déjà vu when Jude's voice blares over the gym's speaker system.
Why is Abby back again today? Fuck. I’m not ready to face her again.
I pick up the office phone and push the extension for the front desk, hopin’ Jude is still hangin’ around. It suddenly occurs to me that we really need to find a replacement for Stephanie, our summer receptionist that we lost two weeks ago when she went back to school.
“Yo?” Jude answers right away.
“Tell her, uh, that I’m busy and I’ll, um, call her later.” I speak softly when I give him the order so that she won't be able to hear me if she’s standin’ close.
“Definitely not a her,” he drawls.
“Oh. There's a guy here to see me?” I ask, even though it’s obvious.
“Uh-huh. A big one with some badass ink. And since he’s standing right the fuck in front of me, he knows we’re talking about him, dipshit.”
“Who the hell is it?” I ask in confusion.
“Who the hell are you?” Jude asks him, then to me, he says, “Name's Mason. He said his sister sent him with a, ah, painting.”
“Holy fuck.”
“He said, ‘holy fuck,’” Jude unhelpfully repeats.
“I’ll be right up,” I tell him then hang up the phone and head for the door.
A tall, muscular guy with brown, messy hair and tats all the way down his arm is standin’ in front of the counter, so I know he's got to be the visitor who Jude called me to the front for. He doesn't notice my approach because he's too busy scopin’ out the gym and the guys workin’ out, some grapplin’ on the mats, two in the cage, a row of six heavyweights going through drills on the long bags with one of the boxin’ coaches. His wide-eyed expression looks impressed.
"Hey, ah, so you're here to see me?" I ask when I'm next to him.
He spins around to face me. "Linc Abrams! I’ll be damned," he says with a widenin’ smile. "I thought she was shitting me."
"Um, yeah, how's it going?" I ask, offerin’ him a fist bump, which he hits.
"This place is like MMA heaven," he mutters. "Expect there are no ring girls in bikinis."
"Yeah, it sort of is." I laugh. Fightin’ in this buildin’ for the past seven years, I think of it as home. Even if the name changed from Evolution to Havoc, it's still the same, just new and improved with my and Jude's recent renovations. The guys are like my family since I spend most of my days and nights here.
"Shit, sorry, I'm here because my sister sent me over to give this to you," he says, handin’ me the poster.
Curious and unable to wait another second, I slide the rubber band down and then off to unroll it. It's a beautiful and serene painting; so much better than most of the weird geometrical shit I've seen hangin’ in museums. Despite her denial, she's really talented. The thing I can't figure out as my eyes sweep back and forth over the scene is when the fuck was she at my house? There's no doubt about it, this is the exact view of the lake from my front porch. Except for the random boy. The one that I'm trying not to think about too hard about since he looks so much like the pictures my parents have of me when I was little.
"She's pretty good, right?" The guy I completely forgot was standin’ in front of me says.
"Yeah she is. So, Eve Kelly is your sister?" I look up and ask him, tryin’ to find the resemblance. There may be a little in the chestnut color hair, but he's massive compared to her lean frame.
"Eve, right," he replies with an eye roll.
"Well, tell her I said thanks."
"Ah, sure thing. Totally worth the half hour drive just to meet you and see this place."
Hold on. Did he just say half an hour drive? He's local?
"Does Eve live around here, too?" I ask.
"Uh-huh. We moved down to Durham from Ohio about four years ago."
No. Fuckin’. Way. She lives not only in my state but just half an hour away? Oh this is so not good. She really may need to get that restrainin’ order we joked about because I'm so desperate to see her again that I'm not above stalkin’.
Ever since Friday night when I met the real deal, the videos don't cut it anymore. There's somethin’...off, and whatever it is prevents me from gettin’ myself...off. Watchin’ the pornos I instantly go hard like always, but now I just can't fuckin’ finish. Maybe it's because I know she's an actual person who doesn't like to dance naked for men, so I can't imagine why she'd fuck them, or how shitty she must feel about doin’ it. Especially if she has to get high just to get through the tapin’. The fantasy is ruined because now I just want to see her and get my hands and mouth on the real woman.
Then there’s the whole Abby...issue…up in the air, but I can’t deny that I’d give anything to see Eve. To feel her body pressed against mine, kissin’ her until she comes for me again.
"Will you tell your sister that I'd really like to see her again?"
"Which one, Mandy or Claire?" he asks. "Either way, you know I gotta warn you that I'll kick your ass if you hurt her, right?" I just stare at him with a raised eyebrow in confusion after his threat, one he could maybe even back up because of his sheer size. The only problem is I don't know who the fuck he's talkin’ about. "You don't know?" He laughs and shakes his head when I don’t respond. "Well, I guess to everyone else they look alike. Mandy is Eve Kelly, but Claire is the one who painted the picture."
Now I'm really fuckin’ confused. "I met Eve...Mandy, at a…club," I catch myself just before sayin’ strip club, "last Friday and she told me she paints." I look over the scene I'm still holdin’ and down on the bottom right corner there's a cursive signature that definitely has a capital E and K. "See," I point the letters out to him. He leans over for a closer look, his forehead wrinkled in confusion before he says, "Fuck
man, I don't know. Claire asked me to bring it to you."
"Yeah, thanks for dropping it off," I say, wavin’ the confusion off. Reachin’ over to the counter, I grab a pen and one of the Havoc cards with my name on it, scribbling the cheesy words, "Almost as beautiful as you" on the back and offer it to him. "Here, will you just give this to her?"
"Sure, no problem," he says soundin’ somewhat distracted. Takin’ it without even readin’ it, he slips the card in the front of his jean pocket. "Damn. I would love to throw down in a place like this,” he says as he glances around again.
"Yeah, we've got some great coaches, and some up and comin’ guys."
"And Jude Malone was behind the fucking desk when I came in!"
I smile at his enthusiasm. "What team you fightin’ for now?" I ask.
He chuckles. "Team Mason Reed. All underground, off the grid."
Ah, so in other words he illegally fights guys in warehouses for a few hundred bucks a pop. That's a shitty way to live since there are no rules, no regulations and it's no holds barred. Anything goes. Hell, I'd have my hands full in one of those damn fights.
"Then you should definitely consider joinin’ Havoc. Our fees start at two hundred and go up to five hundred a month for one-on-one with the entire coachin’ staff. If you're good, after you win a few fights you could possibly get signed by the IFC and they'll start coverin’ all of your trainin’ costs."
"I can maybe save up and try it out in a few months," he replies as his face falls. It’s obvious by his tone that it won't ever happen. Trainin’ is expensive for guys without huge wins, and sometimes all a person needs is the right trainin’ to turn into a world champion.
"Look, if you can prove to me you've got some decent skills in the cage, we could probably work somethin’ out. I'm actually half owner of this Havoc, so..."
