Fight or Fall

by Anne Leigh

  A blatant dismissal. He has to have the final say.

  To the world, I’m now officially dating Emmett.

  Standing up, I spared him one last glance. “His name was Simon, father. She ran off with him because he was probably a better man than you could ever be. Goodbye.”

  Reaching the lobby, my knees almost gave out, I sat on the nearest chair to regain my balance.

  How am I going to explain this to Milo?

  He left the front door unlocked.

  He probably hadn’t heard the news yet. Or he was expecting me.

  I treaded my steps lightly.

  It’s like ripping a band-aid, Ava. The faster you do it, the lesser the pain.

  The loud pounding coming from the gym should have warned me. Warned me not to go in. Maybe I should wait for him to calm down. Let him cool down, thaw for a bit.

  “You just gonna stand there?” His voice sounded so cold, the bite seeping, chilling my already frayed nerves.

  I wasn’t scared of him. Milo would never hurt me physically. That’s one thing I knew for sure.

  I was, however, unsure of how he was going to take the news that I was now dating Emmett while I was his girlfriend.

  What an incredible mess I’ve put myself in.

  Each step I took was coupled with trepidation, uncertainty, heightened by the furious slamming of his fists against the punching bag.

  His back was towards me, the copious amount of sweat pouring down his back almost drenched the dark blue gym shorts he was wearing. He has been at it for a while.

  Right fist. Left fist. Right. Right. Left.

  I followed the muscles in his back, bending, rotating, flexing with every punch, every slam, the raw power he released when his fists connected with the bag.

  Thud!

  Pop! Pop! Thud!

  If there was any question that Milo was mad, angry, the answer was right there. It was in the sounds of his fury, the pack of his punches, the thunder of the kicks he threw now and again.

  I sat on the leverage bench press, digging my nails into the black upholstery, my legs tucked in under the machine. Watching, waiting, silently hoping that he would understand, give me a chance to explain, and maybe, just maybe, stay with me.

  Minutes, half an hour must have passed. Time was of no importance. I would wait for him. No matter how long it took for him to unleash his anger, I would wait. I sat quietly, watching him punish the object in front of him, letting him exorcise the shock and even the pain of finding out what I had done.

  I would have kept waiting. I really would have.

  If not for the red liquid trickling on the floor.

  I stood up and closed the gap between us, standing an arms’ length behind him, I gasped at the sight.

  His knuckles, void of any hand wraps that were supposed to protect his bones and tendons. His hands were completely raw, butchered, skin flapping loosely, looking like they were sliced open, gone through a food processor.

  Uncaring if he was covered in sweat, I wrapped my arms around his shoulders, pleading, “Stop… Please stop…”

  He tried to lift his right shoulder to land another punch in the bag, but I put all the strength I had to stop him, clamping my hand on his shoulders so he couldn’t throw the punch. The only way he’d be able to get out of my hold is if he forcefully removed my hands or if he threw a punch while dislocating my own arms.

  Slowly he lowered his arms, blood dripping from his hands. I removed my hands from his shoulders and stepped in front of him. Taking off the light blue jacket I was wearing, I used the sleeves of my jacket as gauzes for his fists, wrapping them, putting pressure on them to staunch the bleeding. His sneakers had caught some of the blood as evident by the dark wet spots on his favorite running shoes. He tried to pull his hands away, but my tenacity, my determination to prevent any further damage to his body was stronger.

  After completely wrapping his fists in the modified bandages, I lifted my eyes to look at him. His eyes were downcast, his jaw was set in a strong, hard line, the tension emanating from him was nuclear.

  “I’m sorry.” It was the only words that mattered.

  His answer was a clench, a tic on the left side of his jaw.

  He still had not looked at me.

  A space of a moment, a lifetime, a heartbeat, until he found his voice, “You fucked with me, Ava.”

  My throat ran dry, the air inside my lungs squeezed, the warmth in my hands left. “I never meant to hurt you.”

  His eyes, red-rimmed with anger, burned through me. “In order for me to be hurt, I’d actually have to care about you in the first place.”

  My breath staggered at his blatant hit. He’s doing this because he’s in pain, trying to make me feel bad by projecting his emotions.

  My fingers trailed the hardness of his jaw, his neck, his chest, covered in sweat. He pushes himself too hard, as in any sport that he’s been in, but this, right now, was not about any sport… It was about pushing himself to exorcise the hurt he was feeling, the assumptions floating in his mind, the inexcusable actions that he was holding me accountable for.

  For a few moments, we just stood there. Not saying anything. If I left now, he’d assume the worst. Him not pulling away from me, not pushing me outside the door, it was something he was giving me, a leeway, an opportunity to explain.

  I pulled on his arm, trying to get him out of the gym. The lines in his face hadn’t relaxed, his shoulders were bunched up, coiled in anger, but he followed my strides as I led us out to the kitchen.

  Sitting on the black and saddle-brown dining room chair, he hung his head low, stretching his legs apart, completely aware of every single thing I did.

  I took out a small metal basin from underneath the sink, turning the faucet on just enough to slowly fill it, and walked to the bathroom connected to his bedroom. I grabbed the first aid kit and walked back to the kitchen. I soaked two small towels in the cool water, and brought the basin by his feet.

  My dress had ridden up and some of the water had splashed on the cream ruched Estelle Swanson-designer dress, but I didn’t care. Milo was leaning down, his hands falling in between his legs; lowering myself on the floor, I slipped into the space between and slowly unwrapped his hands from my jacket/makeshift gauze, the basin laying on top of my lap.

  Tending to his wounds, I cringed at the opened skin, the blood caking up between his knuckles. I washed the blood off slowly, wiping it away with the fresh gauze packet from the first aid kit. He didn’t flinch or make a sound as I cleaned the wounds.

  Midway through the application of the antibiotic ointment, his voice came out hushed, “Leif told me… I was actually gonna go out to the store when I got his text. At first I thought it was like one of those hoaxes. I mean you’re with me almost every day. But when I saw the pictures of you and him…” He clenched his fists, no doubt soaking the newly applied bandages with blood. I looked up straight into his black-green eyes as he continued, “I don’t expect much, Ava. I know we have to keep this thing between us a secret because of your old man. For some reason, he doesn’t want you involved with me. But he’s okay with preppy Emmett? Is it because of his pedigree, because he’s the son of a senator? Because he’s an Ivy Leaguer? Because he’s rich? His shit comes out the same way mine does.”

  He hung his head low, shaking; his voice was pained yet reticent. “In a few months, I’ll be done with fighting. Your father is not gonna have a noose hanging around my neck and I wanna tell the world you’re my girl. Well maybe not the world. But since your face is everywhere and shit, it might as well be. Do you know what it’s like, Ava?” Without waiting for an answer, he continued as I stayed in place, not daring to make a move, listening to him pour out his thoughts. “Do you know what it feels like? When I saw those pictures of you and Emmett, all I could think of was pounding in his head and beating the shit out of him. You’re my woman. Fucking mine. But no one knows you’re mine except for a few.”

  Lifting his hands, he awkwardly
rubs his palms against my hair, his hands restrained by the gauze bandages I’ve taped over and around his knuckles. “I’ve been betrayed once, twice, made to be a fool by Dia. My own sister has hidden her relationship with my rival from me. Betrayal isn’t my strongest suit, it can wear me down.” He clenched his jaw tighter, lifting his shoulders up, straightening his back. “I don’t care what your father thinks of me. I don’t give a fuck of what he’s going to say. What matters to me is you. Contrary to what I said earlier, I do care, Ava. I care how you are, what you do, who you’re with, and whose bed you sleep in at night. I will never share you. Right here, right now, you better decide. You gonna continue dating future Kennedy in public or you with me?’”

  I stood up on shaky legs, the enormity of what my answer, what our future was going to be – he was laying it all out for me. Making me choose, handing me the final say, go or no-go, aye or naye, oui, aucun.

  With him or without him.

  “If it’s taking you this long to decide,” his voice hard, his eyes hooded, his handsome features twisting in a snarl, “It’s better if you leave now.”

  Tears started pouring from my eyes, the liquid burning as it made its way down to my mouth, my words tangled in a battle of telling him the truth, but wanting to protect him as well. If my father learned of my relationship with Milo, who’s to say that he’s not going to ruin Milo’s chances of winning future fights? My father played dirty. After all, he grew up in the slums of Paris. He may be clothed in the finest wool now, but his past would always follow him, especially if he thought he was losing control. I couldn’t drag Milo into my war with my father and certainly, I couldn’t engage him in a battle when the only guarantee was that my father would have his way.

  “I can’t…” I heaved, the top of my dress completely soaked by the free fall of tears, my heart’s way of mourning the loss. “I just can’t.”

  Standing to his full height, he ripped the bandages that I’d carefully wrapped around his bruised knuckles off and walked closer, his mouth a hair’s breadth away from mine. All too quickly he grabbed my head and plunged my mouth with his.

  His tongue swirled around my lips, his breath hot, heady, the force of his kiss was spell-binding, desperate, angry, forceful.

  Milo…he’s my love.

  But my mom…she’s my life.

  In his kiss, he poured out every emotion, everything he was feeling – desperation, longing, need, anger. I felt the onslaught, the raging walls of his control crumbling. He wrapped an arm around my waist, pulling me in closer, harder to his battered soul. And I let him take over me. Over every single cell in my body. In another time, another world, I’d be free to love him; I wouldn’t be causing him pain, but bringing him the elusive happiness that he so richly deserved.

  In the wide expanse of space around us, the only sound that could be heard was our mouths meeting, our bodies molding to each other, the past and the present colliding. Without saying another word, I had doomed us before our relationship could even get a fair chance and I’d left us torn, ragged, the remains bloodier than the towels I’d cleaned his wounds with.

  I trusted Milo with all my heart, my soul, and I’d protect him until the last breath left my body.

  The minute he removed his lips from mine, a lone word escaped his lips, lips I’ve come to know as my own. “Goodbye.”

  Without sparing me another glance, he turned his body around and walked away.

  Small droplets of blood trailed his steps as he made his way to his bedroom. Slamming his door loudly, I heard a gut-wrenching roar, the sound of a wounded, battered animal, from the room he’d just gone into.

  It’s the exact sound of my heart breaking, shattering into a million pieces, never to be whole again.

  The first few nights I slept without her in my bed I didn’t sleep at all.

  The mind is a beautiful thing, but it can also box in ugly, messy, fucking crazy thoughts.

  What hold did her father have on her?

  Was I not enough?

  Was I too forceful? Too rough?

  She’s a gold digger. She’s with Emmett because of the money. No, that can’t be true. She had way more money than that prick.

  She wanted fame. No, she had that too. Even before we became involved, Ava’s face was recognizable, a brand of its own. She didn’t need that blonde asshat for that.

  Was it all a lie?

  I was her dream and now that she got to fuck me, she just wanted to forget me.

  A week of tossing, turning, and hours spent in the gym, outside the house, flipping tires, jogging, running – I’ve grown ten sets of biceps and tripled my triceps, but the aching, gaping emptiness that her presence filled could not be ignored, replaced.

  I hadn’t been called out to fight. It was ironic because these were the times when I’d wanted to slam someone so badly against the wall, feel overwhelming physical pain so that I could maybe knock myself out at night. My knuckles were now purplish black, and I’d started wearing gloves again after the second time I poured a cocktail of whiskey and bourbon over my hands. I half-emptied the bottles first, pouring them down my throat before making my own brand of disinfectant. That shit burned like a motherfucker. Yet it was still nothing compared to the burn, the hollow, shadowed look in her eyes when she said she couldn’t choose me.

  Times like these, I wished I could get lost in the arms of other women. Maybe guys who got lost in mindless pussies were geniuses. Einstein had nothing on them. You fuck one then another one and another one, without caring, without second thoughts until all of them became unidentifiable from the one before and the one after.

  Leif, Bee, and Jeff had tried to reach me. I ended the calls the second the ringer went off. I didn’t want them to worry or to come to my rescue so I just texted them, “I’m fine; I’m okay; I’ll talk to you later.” Not one of them bought my lame texts but for some reason, they respected my need to be alone. So I did. Spent my time alone. Working out from sun up to sun down. The only thing I felt sorry for were the punching bags and the bench presses at my gym. They’ve never been worked harder than now. In the evenings, I went to the closest liquor store, got my tickets to oblivion – whisky and a six-pack.

  Every night as I chugged down the bottle of Jack, I toasted my pathetic sorrow to women. Women who messed with your head and fucked you up so bad that you don’t even know what was good anymore. Women…a woman…whose eyes glinted in silver mischief, whose lips tasted like tomorrow’s promises come to life, and whose scent enveloped every friggin’ pillow in my bedroom.

  I tore up the sheets and loaded them in the washer so her scent wouldn’t linger, but each time I sat on the couch, each time I went to the bathroom and the kitchen I saw little pieces of her, reminders, mementos that she was once real, not a passing illusion. Her red toothbrush, her blow dryer, her pajama sets, her tiny thongs and bikini panties that only she could wear with justice. By the time I chased down the hard liquor with the last bottle of the six-pack, I was barely lucid and in those few hours, I found myself in a limbo between the living and the dead. I’d wake up in different areas of the house.

  Yesterday was by the foot of the stairs. I think I was trying to go upstairs to occupy one of the guest rooms – a room she hadn’t slept in – until my legs gave up from trying to reach the top. I managed to get on the first step before I slipped and fell on my back. The marbled floor made for a good pillow and bed, but the kinks in my neck proved that my body didn’t appreciate it.

  Whether or not I had a hangover, I punched in gym time, tons of it, because the next time I was called in that cage that her father built, I was going to make him pay. That asshole wanted a good fight? I was going to give him one. I’d KO all the motherfuckers he put on the ring in less than a minute. Why would I want to give him the pleasure of a longer fight, to make drama, to give the viewers, his millionaire buddies, the satisfaction of enjoying the fight? My life now revolved around gym, my buddies Jack and Coors, sometimes Budweiser, one time Heineken
. My muscles and my kidneys were working overtime. Workouts and alcohol don’t mix. Neither does saying goodbye to the woman who jumpstarted some semblance of happiness in my life.

  As the days passed, I found myself relying less on the booze and feeding the anger I felt towards her and her father. She was a big, fat liar. She’d let me in her pussy, but she wouldn’t let me in her life. Her life was reserved for country club owners like Emmett Fucking Powers. And I would just be her dirty little secret. What a waste of time. I shouldn’t have messed with her in the first place. There was a reason I never acted on my attraction for her for many years. Why I even crossed that line was a stupidity I couldn’t take back.