The Art of Me (The All of Me Book 1)

by S. J. Blaze

  “With her?”

  “Get out, father!” Coen shouts, his voice rising with each word.

  Greyson throws one last disdained look my way then exits the room with a slammed door.

  Still on his lap, I clear my throat. “I should go. Malice is waiting downstairs and the guys are at the airport.”

  He takes a moment to respond, contemplatively. “When will I see you?” His voice is more somber than usual.

  “I don’t know.” I run my fingers over his brows, trying to relax the tension there. “We have a packed schedule but there are some shows in the area during late July…”

  He gazes into my eyes as his fingers continue to draw abstract paths on my face. He leans forward and kisses my now swollen lips, all tingly and heated.

  Standing up, he gently places me back on my feet. He picks up the ring on his desk and without uttering a word, he places it back on my finger while keeping my eyes frozen in the icy waters. He leans down and kisses the ringed finger, then holds that hand and walks me to the elevators. All the while, we are trapped and secluded in our silent bubble.

  This man is utterly mystifying. I have no idea what is going on. The elevator dings and he guides me in. Pressing the first floor, he digs himself against my front without saying a word. He breathes me in, but doesn’t kiss me. He continues staring now that he’s anchored me into place. I don’t know if I’m seeing anger there, or hurt, or some other unnamed emotion. I wish he would talk. Just say it! Say anything…

  On the ground level, he knits our hands together and leads me out. Again, there are no words. People greet him and he nods, but continues walking in silence. At the front of the building past the glass doors, we find Malice waiting next to a town car. Coen pushes me against the car and then motions to Malice.

  “Puis-je avoir un mot en privé?”

  May I have a word in private?

  Malice looks to me and I shrug in response, unsure of what Coen has in mind. He nods in response to Coen and the pair walk a few feet away and stop. I’m too far away to hear the conversation, but I notice the tension in Coen. Malice nods a few times and then both men walk back towards me. Malice climbs into the car while Coen wraps his hands around my shoulders.

  He kisses me so passionately, so intensely, that I swear this must be our end. This is a goodbye kiss. I’ve never been kissed this way. It feels like the end. My heart suddenly hurts and I’m scared to let him go. What’s happening?

  He pulls back, his lips still resting on mine but with his eyes open. “It’s too late for us,” he says into me. I shake my head. I don’t know what to do. He got in. Somehow, in some way, he got into my heart and I don’t want this to end. I feel the panic growing. My eyes start to burn and my lips start to tremble.

  “Ssshh, love,” he whispers, trying to sooth me with his touch and his delicious tantalizing breath. I need to memorize such details if I’m to survive his departure. He smiles this horribly tragic smile and I snap my eyes closed in response. I changed my mind...I don’t want to remember any of this. Block it out. Don’t feel. Don’t feel his sweet lips. Don’t feel his warm arms. Don’t feel his heart beating in sync with mine. Don’t feel!! Please, don’t feel.

  “Charlie,” he utters softly. “Give me my greys, love.” I shake my head. I don’t want him to see how he’s destroying me. He kisses me on each eyelid and chuckles softly, sadly. Then he pulls back and tucks me into the car. With my eyes open, I focus on the ground keeping them a safe distance. He reaches over and buckles me in. Then he grabs my left hand and kisses the boomerang returning ring there.

  “Soyez bon, mon cœur.”

  Be good, my heart.

  With my head still hanging low, he kisses my temple, then backs away and closes the door. Closes the chapter of us.

  Bringing an ending to the never would be fairytale that I was momentarily swept up in.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  The flight to Vegas, though eight plus hours, goes by quickly. I barely talk to anyone and barely notice anything. My thoughts are still lost in that icy storm that has caught me up in hurricane force winds.

  We shuffle into our rooms at the MGM Grand, where the fight will take place; Malice and I in one, and the trio in the other. As soon as we settle in, I text Tank to let him know we’re here.

  He’s staying at the same hotel a few floors up in the penthouse suite. There wasn’t any room for us there. He has a full staff with him plus his family. I love how supportive they are over everything he does.

  Sadly, with all of the preparations for tomorrow night’s fight, we don’t get a chance to see our guy. He has weigh-ins and a press conference that he gained us access to but it’s not as good as a Tank tickle or a hug sandwich. Those are irreplaceable. By the time Saturday night comes, I’m dying for some Tank time. Hopefully we will get to spend some time together after the fight.

  There are so many people in the arena tonight that we are crammed in like books lining a bookshelf. Some straight, some diagonally, while others smoosh on top of each other and seem to be crammed into every nook and cranny. The volume is nearly painful but the energy level intensifies everything, like every breath is magnified. Every step feels colossal as we find our seats down the narrow walkway. There are people of all walks of life vying for a view of the great Tank. Tonight is his introduction to the world of UFC. Tonight, the world will find out what I have known for almost six years – that Tank Remmington is one of the greatest fighters that have ever lived. Truly, he’s a beast in the cage, a master of the metal. He is speed unrecognizable to the naked eye.

  The guys and I grab our seats and begin the arduous process of waiting. I hate waiting. I find myself yanking on my Tank t-shirt twenty thousand times. My nails are being chewed to shit and that’s only to free up my lips for when my nails have all been desecrated. I even go so far as to start cracking my knuckles, which finally snaps Bullet, who is on my right side, out of his Zen mode.

  “Jesus, did someone slip you crack or something? Calm the fuck down.”

  “Shut it, I’m just nervous for him.” Guys are incredibly self-centered.

  “Baby girl, you’ve seen him fight how many times? He’s unstoppable. He’ll be fine.” He shakes his head and chuckles. “You’re not even this nervous when you walk in there.”

  He’s right, of course. I know Tank will be fine, win or lose…though I’m pushing for the win. I guess it’s just that this place seems so immense compared to our little fights. It feels so legit. So real. It makes my fights look like playground scuffles.

  But it’s really about Tank. He wants this so badly. This is his dream. He has been working for this moment for nearly a decade. And it’s here. And I get to share it with him.

  More people shuffle into the grand space and I find myself drawn to watching the men in suits. There’s a whole slew of them in the front rows accompanied by beautiful women. Blonde, long thin tanned legs, full plush lips, gigantic boobs, and matching butts. They all look related, like they sell the platinum blonde hair and silicone with a group discount rate. My self-confidence running fairly low these days, I start to compare myself. In a room compacting all of this testosterone, it’s sort of unavoidable.

  My legs are nowhere near that length and are thicker with muscle. My dark hair is normally so straight that curling irons run screaming, with no gorgeous waves or curls to create any lasting volume. I’m a freckled, moley mess. No flawless porcelain skin. No creamy milky luminous skin. Nope, I am ethnically ambiguous, which is a much better way than saying, “What are you?” I’ve been told I look Greek, various types of Hispanic, and even Italian. I rarely get the mix that I actually am or even close for that matter.

  One of these women would be a better match for Coen. I can almost picture the platinum duo on a red carpet, walking arm in arm, doing the queen wave. They would be stunning and though possibly fake under the picture perfect guise, it would still be beauty to behold. I guess things are better this way. He would be better without me a
nd my short legs, and my freckled, moley ambiguousness.

  As I’m busy convincing myself of the inevitability of Coen’s absence, Malice, sitting on my left, elbows me. Looking up, I see he is alerting me to the arrival of Tank’s family who sit to the left of him. I guess this means the festivities are about to begin. We are all seated in the reserved section, in the first two rows, which means we have tremendous views of Tank and his takedown.

  Again, my bouncing resumes. This time it seems to generate from my back and I’m vibrating in my seat. If Tank doesn’t hurry this thing along, he might find me in the octagon with him. I have too much energy surfacing with no output.

  After another eternity, Tank’s fight song booms through the loud speakers, which seem to be everywhere. I almost start tearing up when I hear my voice. Tank chose a Loaded Gun’s song as his entrance piece. Fully Loaded pounds through as my softhearted guy marches down the aisle sporting the most callous face he can muster. From my view, I spy his sharpened brown eyes under the silk hoodie. He’s laser focusing right now with pristine precision. His face is a mask of concentration and I dare not shout his name or try to touch the sacred zone. His management crew, along with Tony, follow behind him into the octagon and the announcer greets him and begins his stats. As a newbie in the UFC ring, he gets a few boos. Immediately, I feel myself readying to throw down. Who said that? I want names, faces, and social security numbers. How dare they mess with the great Tank?

  I can tell he isn’t affected. He remains perfectly calm while disrobing and begins bouncing on his toes and loosening his fists at his side. He is sporting new digs, and it looks as though he has several sponsors plastered on his blue shorts. I guess I’ve been out of the loop a bit. I haven’t seen Tank in nearly two months, and even in that short period of time, I can see a huge difference. He looks leaner and has more muscles; a perfect specimen to enter this arena. Like a Spartan readying for war. All he needs is a sword and shield, though that’s against the rules here.

  The next guy is called in with his blaring country music and enters the octagon followed by a round of his stats. He’s been here before, so the crowd goes ape shit at his arrival. He’s definitely the fan favorite and even the suits rise to cheer on their great warrior.

  After everyone leaves the octagon, minus the fighters and referee, I feel the tension in the air rise. It might be the pounding of my heart but it’s as if everyone gathers in silence to await the first blow. To await the announcer’s go ahead to begin the fight. I’m so busy concentrating on not jumping out of my chair that I miss the taps and rules and the fight begins.

  The audience chants and boos collectively and we all wince every time a blow lands. We are one unit divided into halves. You can even feel who belongs where. I tune it all out and try to find the mechanics in it. Tank has been studying his opponent’s moves for months now. He should have these patterns down but as hard blows land against Tank’s chest over and over, I wonder why he isn’t striking and taking advantage of the obvious weakness. Maybe he doesn’t see it. Maybe it’s new or an over compensation for an injury. He’s doing a great job at keeping his arms raised and avoiding facial contact but I’m not sure if these injuries are sustainable.

  Tank’s training is in boxing, wrestling, and Muay Thai, hence these are his strengths, and by extension mine, although my wrestling technique is nowhere near as keen as his. He is missing opportunities to strike and it is killing me as I watch helplessly from the sidelines. Is this what everyone feels like when watching me fight?

  The bell finally rings and Tank has one minute to get it together. His manager and the cutman run in to check him over and give him outside pointers. This is a non-championship contest, so there are only three rounds to impress the judges, and at this rate, Tank is going to lose. His only hope is for submission or knockout. The first round was lost. I can tell that his manager is wrapping up and my nerves force me up and over to the octagon.

  “He’s dropping his arm,” I scream several times in the hopes that Tank will turn my way and see what I’m talking about. After the fifth time, he turns and spies me. I show him my left hand and how it’s dropping. He nods and goes back to paying attention to the professionals. His face is swollen with cuts, and the Vaseline they’ve used to stop the bleeding makes the area look shiny and distorted under the heavy lights. Bullet pulls me back to my seat chastising me the entire way. This isn’t a participatory sport; he keeps trying to convince me.

  The bell dings all too soon and they are back at each other’s throats. With nothing to chew or bite, I literally start pulling my hair. This is excruciating. My fights are always over in the first round.

  They are locked in a front clinch and with inches separating them, there’s no room for any true momentum to build.

  “Use the elbow, use the fucking elbow,” I shout repeatedly while bouncing on the balls of my feet. There’s no way I can sit for this. I may be escorted out if he doesn’t finish this soon. Thank goodness this entire thing will be over in less than twenty minutes. Something must have clicked in Tank’s brain because he finally reacts with a diagonal elbow straight to the chin. Bam! His opponent releases him and takes a few steps back.

  “Strike!” I scream along with the vivacious crowd. He throws a quick jab and then the haymaker follows to the cheek. Tank’s opponent stammers and then drops to his knees his eyes rolling back and he face plants to the mat. He’s down. TKO!

  Unilaterally the crowd jumps to its feet, though I’ve been there for the duration of the round, and the uproar begins. It’s glorious. It takes Tank a few seconds to register what has happened. He barely moves until he sees the referee check on his fallen opponent. His team runs into the octagon and immediately start congratulating him. They throw his shirt on him, registering more corporate sponsors, and they check over his injuries to make sure he is presentable for the final judgment.

  In the background, I can hear Joe Rogen commenting on Tank’s technique and how this newcomer is officially on the must-watch list. I beam. Bullet grabs me and spins me around kissing my head over and over. Everyone congratulates each other.

  Both men are present and when the final judgment is officiated, Tank is declared the winner. I can’t help but join in when he smiles this magnificently. The announcer throws questions at him left and right while Tank attempts to answer and appear coherent. Though his face is swollen and cracked, he flourishes in the moment. He spies me several yards away facing him and blows me a kiss. I blow him twenty kisses in return and scream how much I love him. I think about a thousand other women do the exact same thing, but he will always be my Tank just like I will always be the skinny little teenager that walked into his gym looking for salvation.

  It isn’t every day that you get to watch your hero achieve greatness.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  The tour is exhausting. The physical aspects are draining. Every night we go out there and play like there’s no tomorrow. We meet people after people. Faces after faces. And we watch the world behind a window; a window of our tour bus, a window of a speeding taxi, or even the window of our hotel rooms. In the end, it starts to feel like framed pieces of moving art.

  As a corporate lawyer, I spend most of my time pouring over legal contracts and briefs. Not surprisingly, this is a rather solitary and hushed endeavor, quite the opposite of my time in the thralls of screaming hard rock. However, my usual adjustment period has lapsed and I should be settled in by now. But during this tour, I feel restless.

  After Vegas, we flew to Los Angeles to meet the label executives and talk about our upcoming album release. With our latest single climbing the charts, they want to really push our record. They shelled out a boatload for us to film the video for our single Fully Loaded. I can’t wait to see the finished edit. The director’s vision was dead on and filming it was a blast.

  There’s also talk of a European tour at the end of the year. The guys are game but I’m still dragging my feet on a final decision. I don’t know if t
his is the right move for me.

  The trio need this. They need the fame, the attention, and most definitely the fortune. While I do this because I need them. Despite how uncomfortable things have been with Bullet, I still need him...I need my trio. I know it’s a selfish pipedream; the guys will eventually fall in love and get married and then I’ll be in the background, in the past. I mean, that’s how it’s supposed to be, right?

  It’s the weekend after Independence Day and we’re at a two-day festival in Wisconsin. The weather is absolute shit and fits my mood perfectly. It’s hot with the crazy July heat, but it’s rainy and drippy, so there’s mud everywhere.

  Since we aren’t one of the main headliners, we don’t hit the stage until tomorrow afternoon. That means that while we aren’t performing, which is most of the time, we have the opportunity to walk around and munch on the different vendor’s food goodies and watch the various bands. It’s also a cool time to connect with our fans.

  Our bus finally parks by the other tour buses and we get out to roam, eager to shake the day off. We’ve been trapped in that oversized tin for almost a dozen hours,; even I was antsy for an escape.

  Rule number one on the road and at any festival is to never go anywhere alone. This is drilled into me over and over by all the guys on the bus. As the only girl, they tend to worry about me the most. But in reality, any one of us could have a miserable outcome if we don’t take heed.

  The trio go in one direction looking for easy hookups while Malice and I meander about. All in all, it was a fairly decent mud drenched day. Malice and I caught all sorts of vendors and I purchased several skirts and lots of snacks. We ate hamburgers in lawn chairs and then crawled into bed after watching two of my favorite bands play. We kept to ourselves and nobody noticed us thanks to my incognito appearance of sporting a trucker hat, a flouncy colorful shirt and some denim Daisy Dukes.

  The guys never returned and I can’t say I’m not heartbroken. For all of their talk, they tend to leave me solo an awful lot lately. I think I even heard Malice head back out for a late night beer.