by Anne Leigh
During the first five months of our relationship, she was an ideal girlfriend – cooked me breakfast, folded my laundry, and worshipped my dick. On the sixth month, I remembered it like it was a bad case of diarrhea, she became the witchy, bitchy, girlfriend. She started demanding promise rings and became crazy when I didn’t call her right away. She’d leave a minimum of thirty voice messages and hundreds of text messages when my phone was off – she couldn’t understand the fact that I couldn’t answer my phone while I was trying to win swim meets.
I tried to break it off with her three times before the last straw. I can admit that I’m not the easiest guy to be around. My temper could probably bend metal, and when I’m angry I don’t hide it. I let everyone, the whole world, know it. Dia managed to break past my defenses since the night I met her at a frat party. She stood out from all the women around. She was gorgeous and she had the fire and the intensity that I craved. I liked being around her. She made me forget about the tragedies of my past and made me think that I was just a normal college kid having a good time with his girlfriend. She was the first woman, outside of my family, that I’d really liked.
Until one day, she stomped all over me and broke my trust. She admitted to me, after I came back from the U.S. Open Aquatics Championships in Irvine, that she had made a mistake kissing another guy. It took a week for me before I could talk to her again. And the guy she kissed? He had a hard time eating on the right side of his mouth for two weeks. I forgave her because I cared for her. We make mistakes, we forgive, and move on.
But the second time she did it? There was no way in hell she was going to get back in my bed. She slept with my biggest rival, Kieran Stone. Leif was the one who told me about the rumor after another member of the U.S. Swim Team saw Dia coming out of Stone’s hotel room in the early morning hours. It took Leif, Darnell, and Chuck to hold me down so I wouldn’t pound on Stone’s door and imprint his face with my fists. When Dia met with me a few hours after I’d heard of her betrayal, I wanted her to tell me it was all a lie. But then she had acted like nothing happened and didn’t even breathe a word to me about it. My mother taught me to respect women, and my father instilled in me never to lift a hand to a girl. But I swear, that day, I wanted to smack her, shake her so she’d tell me the truth.
When you betray me, you better put your shoes on, no, forget the shoes, and run out the fucking door, because I’m never going to get past it. I gave her a chance, forgave her once. But the second she slept with him, which she admitted after crying her eyes out and almost losing her voice in begging for my forgiveness, she signed her release, her sayonara papers from me. Because when she slept with him, she broke every single piece of respect I had for her as my girlfriend. And that cannot be retrieved. Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, I’m a stupid bitch. Not gonna happen.
“That was a great fight son.” I followed the source of the commanding voice. I wasn’t his son. I was my father’s son. For now, though, he was my boss.
Facing him, I shook the left hand he extended. “Glad you think so. I do try my best.”
He waved his right arm, his eyes tracking someone inside the room. “The next ones might not be so easy.”
Was he mocking me? Easy? That fight was not easy.
I stared at him, his face was now lined with something I couldn’t quite place. Maybe it was the calculating gray eyes or the coldness in his demeanor. He emanated power and he knew how to use that power. Maxwell Troudeau was a man not to be messed with. Not only because he basically owned Vegas, but because he practically had everyone at his beck-and-call. I happened to see how the senators, celebrities, and grown-ass men and women in this room clamored for his attention, even if they tried not to be obvious about it.
I swirled the white liquid in the small glass I was holding in my left hand and raised it to my lips to chug some down. Jean Marc XO’s still one of the finest vodkas in the world. French wheat and charcoal created this distilled masterpiece. It slid down smooth, easy, and only with a small amount of burn inside my throat. Alcohol was not my friend, but on occasion I indulged in some. Right now, anything that would help reduce the pain that I got from a recent beating helped. Scotch was next on the menu. The good thing was that Dia drove – the only reason why I invited her tonight. I knew I was going to win. Even if I hadn’t known who I was fighting, there was no doubt in my mind that I’d be the victor. Now, the condition that I’d be in and how I’d look after the fight – that was a question I couldn’t answer, so when Dia offered to go with me, I agreed. She wanted to stay at my place too, but there was no way in hell that was going to happen, so she would be dropping me off before going on her merry way.
My eyes involuntarily tracked the location of my designated driver when it inadvertently landed on the figure of a woman whose gold dress did her body justice. Her hair, silky and shiny, a welcome sight in this roomful of blondes, bald men, and toupees. She was immersed in a conversation with a tall guy who seemed enraptured by her presence. They were standing a few feet away from the bar area, but even with the distance between us I could tell that the dude had the hots for her. It was in the way he blocked other people from talking to her, his gaze not leaving hers, and the possessive hold that he had on her right elbow.
“When you win, you can have everything.” I almost forgot that Maxwell was standing beside me. He continued, “Remember what I asked you before you signed?”
I gave him a side nod. “I do.”
“You told me you were going to be the first winner of Next Generations Fight Club. You’ll do your job in the arena and annihilate your opponents.”
“I am.” No question about it.
“Make sure your job stays in the arena. My generosity does not extend to my family.”
Now he had my full attention. I was taller than him, this small fact gave me some satisfaction that he had to look slightly up to meet my eyes.
My brows furrowed, I asked, as I gulped the remaining liquid in my glass. “What are you talking about?” I wasn’t dumb, but if he was making idle threats, he better say it in front of my face.
“My daughter is not a part of your winnings, Mr. Tanner.” His voice was hard, his gaze condescending. “The thing is, when you own the city, you know everything that goes on in it. Even in the shower.”
This guy was completely out of line. My jaw muscles started ticking and my hand gripped on the glass, my other free hand held in a tight fist. No one makes decisions for me. No one.
“Listen here, you f---” His hand clamped on my left elbow, pressing, pushing on a pressure point that made it difficult to finish my sentence.
“Be careful of your next words.” His hold tightened on the pressure point. Fuck. He continued, his words arctic, bitingly cold. “When you signed with my company, you signed it with your blood. My daughter, I repeat, is not a part of this game. She’s only here to serve a purpose. That’s it. Keep that in mind. And next time, lock the door.”
With those words of warning, he released his hold on me and walked away.
I breathed out, my chest shaking with fury, the need to punch his face ruling over my head. His idle threat was now a full-on warning. Stay away from Prissy Princess. As much as I wanted to beat the shit out of him for the unwelcome and condescending threats, I caught sight of Dia’s red hair and green dress; she was talking to some guy at the bar. I was here for a purpose. This wasn’t just about me anymore. I had no problem spilling my blood and walking out of here if it was. This was for them, their memories - Mamma e Papà, Aunt Margie – and Bee.
“Alright ladies, here we go! Turn around!” Karlota, our Zumba instructor, ordered with her hips swaying to the beat of the Latin music playing in the background.
I wiped the sweat off my forehead as I danced to the music, my body feeling the rhythm. Extending my hands in front of me while half-squatting, I felt the burn building up in my abs, legs, and thighs. This is the part of the workout that I loved – the feeling that I’m doing something to wor
k off the loads of carbs I consumed last night. I loved to eat as much as I loved to work out. Call me hypocritical, but I do love taking care of my body – what I put in needs to be put out, in equal amounts.
Moving my arms in small circular motions while keeping them close to my hips, I absorbed the energy in the room. As a child, I’ve always been fascinated with dance. Zumba was the type of workout that incorporated dance in fitness, and I’ve been a regular fanatic since four years ago. I even managed to bribe Brynn into attending some classes with me. Brynn was plain lazy. She loved to bake and work. That’s about it. I enjoyed that she loved to bake my favorite Snickerdoodles, but I have to maintain my body too. While it’s true that I’d been blessed with my mother’s fast metabolism, I also believed in working out to keep my body in good shape. Exercise energized me and calmed me down at the same time.
Karlota switched the music to LMFAO’s hit “I’m Sexy and I Know It.” She called out while her right finger was forming a circle in the air, signaling the switch to salsa.
My right foot went to the side, with my left foot stepping in place, right foot back and in. Then my left foot stepped out, right foot stepping in place, and left foot back and in. These steps I knew by heart.
“If you’re sexy and you know it, clap your hands,” Karlota sang out loud. Her neon green workout outfit was blinding, but somehow it worked on her. She was an over-the-top source of energy that could pump up the entire roomful of fifteen women in a matter of minutes.
Clap, clap, clap.
Hell yeah, I felt sexy, clapping my hands to the beat, one, two, three.
The music switched again, this time to hip hop. I glanced at Frieda, an African-American lady I met two years ago in this class, mimicking her actions of stomping feet and bending knees. The reggaeton part of the Zumba. Staying low to the ground, I felt my leg muscles contract. Gah. Feel it. Feel the burn.
“How low can you go?” Karlota’s voice drowned out the music. “Go lower. Lower.”
If I went any lower, my butt would be touching the floor.
Your hard work’s paying off, Ava.
Just last night, Emmett complimented me on my toned body. Well, he didn’t exactly say it that way. He said it more in the lines of, “Wow, you look amazing, Ava.”
Emmett had been a great date. We had been on three dates already and he’d remained a gentleman. He picked me up at my condo, opened the car door for me, and pulled out my chair at the restaurants so I could sit before him. He’s grown up to be an incredibly nice guy, with a law degree to boot, and physically he was very attractive – the blonde, blue eyed combination was a deal breaker for a lot of women.
Right foot front, left foot stepping in place, right foot back, left foot stepping in place. The rocking motion from the front to the back between my legs and my body was the Cumbia portion of the workout. I saw Karlota reach for her bottled water. I did the same. This hour and a half workout was part of my routine when I’m home in Vegas. I missed it when I’m traveling, so I followed the video workouts online. It’s the only exercise I’ve stuck to. I also did some spinning when I felt like it, but I’m a faithful Zumba student.
I kept dancing, my spirits lifting up with each step I took. Life and responsibilities got in the way most of the time. But here, in this room, I can let loose and be free. I could pretend to be just a normal twenty four old woman who’s just trying to find herself in this world, swaying to the beat of my own rhythm. I cherished these moments because I seldom had them now.
My life was a dream for a lot of people. I didn’t have to worry about anything, financially or materialistically speaking. I wore the latest, most fashionable clothes and shoes. My name’s one of the most searched names in Google, according to People’s Weekly – the information passed on to me by Daria. My words and comments carry weight in the world of fashion, entertainment, and business. But the world sees what the world wants to see. What they don’t see, what they may not understand, is that sometimes the brightest lights can hide the saddest and loneliest souls. I hide behind an armor of pretense because if I didn’t put up a shield, I would crumble down in fear. And that is something that I can’t afford to do. Not when the fate of the person that I loved most in the world relies on my strength, and showing any type of weakness is not and can never be an option.
Lowering the car window, I pulled myself up, with half of my body leaning outside the window, so I could get close to the retinal scanner, letting the low-energy infrared light trace my eyes to grant me access. The second the rust-colored arched security gates opened, my right foot pressed on the gas pedal. The hundreds of 50-foot tall trees lining the long driveway were usually a welcoming sight, just not right now, and passing through them felt like an eternity.
After getting the panicked call from Naomi, my heart hadn’t stopped hammering in my chest as I swore at Vegas traffic. Alternating racing between the streets at a snail’s pace of 40 miles per hour and furiously slamming on the brakes, I had the urge to scream at all the orange-colored construction cones and had run through every red light.
As soon as I got the panicked call from Naomi while I was blow-drying my hair at the gym, my mind was focused on one thing – getting to her. I was still speaking to Naomi on my Bluetooth when the call was dropped. I tried many times to get through her again, but she wasn’t answering. My mind filled with possible scenarios, each one worse than the last.
With the car screeching to a halt as I braked, I jumped out, not caring if it was still running. Pressing my right hand on the security pad, my body almost collided with the massive door as it slowly opened, allowing me entry.
“Naomi! Where are you?” I screamed, the thundering pulse in my chest magnified with each second that she was still out of my sight, out of my grasp. It’s been fifteen minutes since Naomi’s call had been dropped. A lot could happen in fifteen minutes. A lot could happen in a minute. As a nurse, I knew how vital each second, each minute counted. One second could mean a lifetime lived or lost.
I ran to her room first, only to be greeted with an empty suite. Her bed was neatly made, the teal-colored pillows arranged against the light purple colored sheets just the way she liked them, the way she always had. The soft sounds of Sinatra filled the air. The music didn’t stop, even when she was asleep. The bathroom door was open and I didn’t even bother to check it. The light wasn’t on, meaning she wasn’t there.
Running around my parent’s house could be a struggle, especially in times like these. The sheer expanse of the space that I needed to cover with my strides in a matter of minutes felt like forever. The 10,000 plus square feet of the house that my father built three years after I was born now posed a terrifying brick wall to me getting to her.
“Naomi!” I called out again, this time frantically racing outside. I should’ve asked her where they were at from the beginning of the call, but I just couldn’t think straight. Naomi tried to calm me down, but I heard the underlying panic and fear in her voice when she said, “Ava, she’s not waking up…I tried many times already. But she’s not waking up…”
The first thing I saw as I entered her favorite place in the estate was a black scarf caught between the door hinges. The room got colder, the chilly bite matching the cold terror wrapping around my insides. It was quiet, too quiet. The kind of quiet that precedes doom. A silence that was all too familiar to me, one that would forever be engrained in my memory even if it happened years ago.
The hot burn of the tears flowing down my face was the only warmth running through my body right now. But even the tears felt cold. I felt myself preparing for the worst case scenario – something that I’m good at now. I excelled at preparation, but if it had actually happened, I wouldn’t know how to deal with it, would never know how.
I saw Naomi’s tiny figure first. She was leaning, looming over her.
I’m too late. This time, I’m too late.
Naomi’s brown eyes slowly lifted, meeting mine. She’s the only one who understood. This tiny
slip of a lady who was born in a drug-infested, poverty-stricken town, showed immense love and sacrifice for the woman who means the world to me.
I saw Naomi’s mouth move, but I just couldn’t absorb it yet.
Her left hand gestured, asking me to come closer.
I’m just not ready to accept it. Maybe after a lifetime or two, I would. But not just yet.
Naomi left her side as I stood frozen in my spot. All the running, the rush to get her, and now I couldn’t take the final steps to reach her.
Naomi was still speaking, her mouth moving but my thoughts were elsewhere, caught between a wave of denial and regret. Denial because I can’t accept it. Regret because I couldn’t be here. Both because there would never be a time that I’d ever accept it.
