Bad Ink

by Megan Hetherington

  We skirt in through the low-key entrance and we’re shown into a room with no windows and little artificial light. Juan, my right-hand man out of the two bodyguards, checks the chairs and massage bed for stability and the adjacent shower behind a mold-ridden curtain for fuck knows what. I’m not concerned with the lack of backstage facilities—I’m not here for the blue M&M’s or the hot towels.

  Without a thought, I hop onto the massage bed and my trainer fusses with my gloves, repeating the mantra he thinks I should fight by. “Take it slow. Use your mind.”

  After seven years of heeding both, I’m too close to the end to worry now.

  Out in the main hall, the audience is hostile. Jeering and jostling, wanting their home-boy to do good against me. The only ones with anything at stake, stand calm in the front row. Their sharp suits and bulging pockets a reminder of who this fight actually benefits.

  The referee signals the start and we dance around each other for the first round with no major move made. Then, at the beginning of the second, I stop to tuck the tape in my glove. My opponent thinks I’m distracted and I allow him the luxury of a confident grin before dipping below his right hook and shoving him against the cage with an explosive shoulder barge.

  He coughs the air from his lungs.

  Fucker will give me respect next time. If I allow him a next time—I’ve not finished with him yet.

  Ignoring his eyes wide with fear, I stamp on the mat, dust billowing around his head. His hand taps furiously at the ringside and his trainer jumps over the cage wall and to his aid.

  Against a cacophony of jeers from the audience, they furiously exchange words, the trainer looking over at me with greedy eyes. I know what he’s thinking. I know what he thinks he would do to me if he was in the ring. Fool.

  I stand in the center my head hung off the back of my shoulders, soaking up the energy of the crowd with each heave of my chest.

  None of this is adequate retribution for the last few years, nor does it justify my constant seething. I am, who I am. Only the man who stands before you.

  Muscle, brawn and sinew. It’s the whole of me and the least of me.

  My thoughts driven by my physical being and my physical being my only thought.

  So, don’t ask me how I feel. Because I don’t.

  The ringmaster announces me the winner and I acknowledge his proclamation with a roar. The first few times I thought it would exorcize my demons, get it out of my system. But no, it seems whoever has charge of my destiny isn’t done with me yet.

  The cage door opens and I exit into the circular human blockade. Each guy forming it, can handle themselves against anyone in the crowd. Even so, they hold a look which exudes respect for me. I tower above them as they escort me to the changing room.

  Spit rains down on me, which only serves to make me smile. If only they knew what I’ve been through, they would know it’s futile mockery.

  The dressing room door opens and Carlos ushers me in.

  “Great fight, Raul. We’ve earned a shitload tonight off the bets and our plan is coming together. The promoter’s gonna draw up a contract for thirty more fights.”

  I settle on to the chair, holding out my hands for Joe to kneel at my feet and unwrap the bloodied tape from my hands.

  “Before long we’ll hook televised bouts. Vegas. The lot.” Carlos slopes into me, his gold tooth glinting with greed. “We’ll show them who pulls the strings around here.”

  Slowly, I lift my gaze from Carlos. His enthusiasm should be infectious but it’s not. I can’t remember when I last saw the good in any prospective event.

  Here, I fight and I fuck.

  Everything else is optional.

  Next in the line of attendants is the doctor who I immediately swipe away. I don’t need band-aids and iodine, I’m only interested in the masseuse who I’ve spotted slink into the room. She’s the only one who can take away the pain right now. Or mask it at least.

  “I’ve started the ball rolling with a fight on Friday.” Carlos lights a cigar taken from his jacket top pocket.

  Joe tenses beside me. He’s obviously not happy with a last-minute bout—we are supposedly in training for the big one in thirty days. But he doesn’t protest—why would he? He’d only lose his job.

  Juan enters the room. “It’s clear, the crowd have dispersed.”

  “Catch you later, hermano.” With teeth clamped on his cigar, Carlos swipes my tortured hand and in a show of macho equality I grab him back; gripping with a power which over-compensates for the pain. We tug for a few seconds. To show there’s no weakness between us and no fractures in our loyalty.

  He struts out of the room, his flimsy silk jacket flapping at his side while he holds his cell to his ear and barks to his driver to bring his car to the rear exit.

  I wrap my aching fingers around the neck of a sports bottle filled with electrolytes and drain it in one go.

  “Out,” I growl at everyone and no-one, my eyes transfixed on the masseuse.

  She looks nervous and shy, having never experienced me before.

  I shower while she prepares the couch, the hot water scalding but not cleaning my bruised and inked skin. The scars from the needles cannot wash away. Nor should they. They’ve given me a new identity, one which will forever mask who I am. And the longer I stare at them, the more distant that person becomes.

  Isaac is long gone.

  Raul is who I am now.

  When I step out from the shower the masseuse stands in her underwear at the side of the couch. She believes she’s prepared for me. I’ve got a very different opinion on that.

  3

  Cate

  Yesterday resulted in a hangover, a hairstyle I’m unable to replicate myself, and a carryover of work from a missed day in the office. I mean really… on a Monday? Who the hell pulls a stunt like that at the beginning of the week? Especially a litigation assistant who needs a clear mind to function.

  I should have declined Mom’s offer to keep Hope overnight and keep the cork firmly in place on the second bottle of wine. Nate didn’t protest though. He’s flying out to LA today. A traveling day he called it. My jealous mind snaps—high-flying cocksucker.

  “Does anyone want another coffee?” I call out, as I push my chair away from my oak desk, positioned in parallel to the window overlooking the grimy side street.

  “Another one, Caterina?” Elliot taunts.

  I walk over to his workstation set in the corner behind the door, antagonized by his sarcasm and his use of my full name. “Yes, Elliot, and after this I’ll need yet another. You’ve been warned, I’m not in a mood to take any shit today.”

  “Got it, Chica.” He hands over his empty mug with a flourish, almost sloshing the half-drunk contents onto my dry-clean only jacket.

  The intern looks across from the filing room which leads off from my office and smiles sweetly. She proclaims herself too young for coffee, although she has ten times the caffeine intake from those crappy energy drinks she insists on sucking hypocritically through a straw.

  Turning back to Elliot, I add, “Anyway, wasn’t it in your job description that we require you to make the coffee? You are my assistant, after all.”

  “Eh, don’t think so, Chica.” He flicks his pencil at me. “It’s a modern world we live in now. My job is as important as yours and if I don’t get these client invoices out for you today, you’ll be, well and truly, in the proverbial.” He purses his lips and, with a rock of his highly dramatic hips, shuffles his chair from side to side.

  I roll my eyes at him. Why on earth did I take on an assistant with more sass than Nick Miller? He’s only been here six months and already he’s ruling the roost with his over-familiarity and warm ways. Or maybe it’s me. I’m not cut out to manage staff.

  Trudging the mugs passed the closed office doors housing the actual attorneys on this floor of the commercial arm of Silvers & Partners, I eventually reach the kitchen. It’s unlikely I’ll ever fly high enough to occupy my own office. I
scraped through a lower-tier law school and had to find a job before moving on to the next stage of a Master’s degree. Each of the lawyers on this floor has a salubrious client list, healthy expenses, and a spacious office they can snooze away the day in. While litigation assistants like me, have to share an office and get paid a pittance to mop up their crap.

  I squeeze passed the stack of copier paper lining one wall to get through to the coffee machine. There’s no amount of caffeine to help me concentrate on my case load today. Just as there was no amount of wine to dilute my thoughts last night. I even wore Nate out with the demands for continuous attempts to fuck my brains out. Nothing will work and the sooner I come to terms with what’s at the base of this, the better.

  Steadying my breathing against a background of spurts and hisses, I watch the erratic stream of black froth squirt into a mug while trying one last attempt to clear my mind. I need to focus today, I’ve got to get the case notes to my boss, Tessa, for tomorrow’s court hearings and I can’t stay late. I push up my jacket sleeve to check my watch. I’ve got five hours before I have to leave and based on what I’ve done so far this morning, it’s not enough. This case is goddamn complicated, I still don’t get her logic in wanting to take copyright claim disputes from our largest clients when the standard contract stuff is so much easier to advise on. Then there’s the time in front of the judge—I’m spending more days in court than I am in the office right now.

  Anyway, this ruminating is delaying the inevitable. My knees stretch the fabric in my tight skirt, as I stride with purpose back to the office and plonk Elliot’s coffee next to his keyboard.

  “So, you’re not feeling any better about it all today then?” Elliot smirks.

  I flash him a glare and he drops his gaze to his keyboard. An email from him pops up on my screen as I take my seat.

  To mask my expression, I take a careful sip of the coffee. Yes, Elliot, I will try to forget Isaac now but I won’t admit it to you, just yet. You can stew on it for being such a testing dick-wad.

  The rest of the morning flies by on a coffee-coated cloud, where I ignore Elliot’s childish innuendos but still bite at an uptight stare from little Miss Intern.

  “Are you going for your lunch at a normal hour or are you going to further test me by disappearing when it’s inconvenient?”

  A small indistinguishable noise escapes from her mouth, and she grabs her phone and energy drink and scoots out of the door.

  “Was it any different when you were the intern?” Elliot calls across to me.

  I sigh, ignoring his remark.

  “Let up on her, she’s only young.”

  After thinking better of my desire to have another quip at her expense, I snap shut my mouth and nod. “Yes, I know, I’m off kilter with what happened yesterday.” And only ever so slightly jealous of the way she sailed through Stanford and landed this internship, which will see her rise to partner way before I get there.

  “Hmm. Thought you might be. That’s why I told you not to spy on him. You should have let me contact him first.”

  A huff blows from my nostrils before I have a chance to stop it. “Sorry Elliot, I know you’re only trying to help, but you don’t know him. He’s…” I push back my chair from the desk. “Actually, Elliot, I don’t know him either.”

  He screws his nose and narrows his eyes at me. “You’re not making sense, Chica.”

  “I’m tired, confused, and not good for anything. But… I have to get this shit finished for Tessa. And I can’t leave late today—Hope’s teacher’s messaged—she played up in class today.” Flicking my eyes from the stack of manila-bound case files to the neighboring office of our boss, Tessa Montgomery. A venerable lawyer who likes to wipe the floor with her adversaries, and her staff, on a regular basis.

  “Aw, bless her,” he says, with empathy I know is not feigned. He’s not known me or my daughter for very long, but he’s smitten with her. And for that, I love having him around.

  “So, are you going to tell Isaac about Hope?”

  Rolling my lips at the gravity of the question, I answer, “I should, but I’m worried about the consequences. He’s not… it’s not…” I blow out a breath and start again. “I don’t think it’s in her best interests.”

  I’ve pushed her out of a routine by my selfish behavior last night and she’s retaliating about it at school. Goodness knows what a revelation about her father would do to her and I’ve got to put her first.

  I plonk the file I’ve finished with onto the stack at the edge of my desk. It’s one too many, and the lot topples over, sliding the contents of most of the folders out onto the floor.

  In frustration, I throw back my head and release a heavy sigh.

  “Don’t worry. I’ll see to it.” Elliot rises from his chair and scoops up the mess, taking the files over to his desk. “You finish the summary and I’ll box these.”

  After a few seconds of fighting back tears, by biting on my inner cheek, I thank him. It may be his job to help me achieve mine but, even so, he’s a saint sometimes. And I’m feeling emotional about it today.

  With a final surge of concentrated effort, the summary is complete and I leave Elliot boxing the wad of manila-bound files I need to take to court tomorrow. On my way out, I wave at Tessa through her open door, who glances over her reading glasses, at me. I recognize the look on her face and hurry toward the exit before she can call me back to interrogate me on something she’s highlighted in the case notes. I haven’t got time tonight, I’m due at Hope’s school in thirty minutes.

  I forego the elevator in favor of the stairs, my heels clacking on each step as I bravely run down them and rush across the parking lot to my spot.

  My phone rings in my purse and I fumble to retrieve it before it cuts off.

  “Yes, sorry Tessa, I’ve got an appointment with Hope’s teacher tonight and I can’t be late. You know how she gets.”

  After a few seconds where I imagine she is pacing her office, staring out of her window at me, she replies, “Sorry Cate, I didn’t realize. Can you come in early tomorrow to go over everything before court?”

  Sticking the phone under my chin while I ferret in my purse for my car keys, I mask the annoyance in danger of tainting the tone of my answer. “Yes, sure.”

  She has no children and doesn’t even try to empathize with my situation. She’s no idea how hard it is to get a six-year-old and yourself ready in a morning as it is, without adding in convincing a child already reluctant to go to school, to try the breakfast club too. I can already see the wrangling of emotions I’ll be dealing with.

  Why do I have to make it hard on myself? I could have chosen a less demanding career, maybe something with fewer hours, so I could juggle everything more easily and not get so uptight with everyone because of it. But no, that would be too easy. I breathe through the tears threatening to spill out. I don’t understand why I’m so emotional. I’ve had the self-pity knocked out of me so many times, it has no place resurfacing now.

  I bang the steering wheel and turn the keys in the ignition, unnecessarily rev the engine and screech the car onto the street and toward the suburbs where the school Hope attends is situated.

  The moment I see Hope’s angelic face, watching for me from the school reception window, my heart leaps and I’m reminded of why I don’t take the easy route. Because I have no choice. She’s my everything and I want the best from this world for her.

  I swipe my pass, push through the security door, and acknowledge the teacher before crouching next to Hope, brushing her hair behind her ears and making sure she’s okay. It’s better that way. Five minutes at the beginning of any potentially stressful situation saves countless hours of resolving the fallout. None of this is her fault. I’m to blame.

  When she’s settled enough, I enter the teacher’s office, leaving Hope with the assistant.

  Having been in this situation before, I know word for word what the teacher will say before a syllable leaves her lips. She shows her nervou
sness in the needless rearrangement of books and papers stacked on her desk and her chin wobbles before she chooses each deliberate word. I could make it easier for her and finish the sentences, but I don’t. I’m tired. And a fierce momma-bear.

  With an appropriately placed nod and a fake smile, I bide the sermon, not taking in the message but understanding the sentiment. I want to get Hope home and our routine restored.

  It’s important to have the odd night of freedom and I’m eternally grateful for my parents to allow me to do that, but the disruption is always clear. And I’m sorry. I’m sorry to everyone who ends up picking up the pieces. I try. Really, I do.

  I strap Hope in the back of the car and we stop at a drive-through for dinner—don’t judge me, I’m tired.

  A calming bath for her and then after a dozen read throughs of her current favorite story, Peter Pan, I’m done. Literally. Until the weekend reprieve.

  4

  Cate

  Another day, another dollar. I’m sure that’s the saying meant to get me through the week. And what a week it’s been. It started badly with the stalking of Isaac. A late drunken sex-fest on a school night with Nate. Then progressed uphill with a heavy workload and a tetchy six-year-old. So, tonight I’m gonna spend those dollars, because I’ve earned it.

  The intern has gone on her late lunch. Again. And with only an hour left before I can escape, I hum, ‘Let’s Go Crazy’ by Prince. Even singing aloud when I get to the chorus.

  “I think you already have.” Elliot’s dry jibe is accompanied by an eye roll which would fit a black and white silent movie.

  “Why don’t you come out tonight?” I sit on the edge of his desk, squinting at the message he’s typing out on his phone.

  “I’ve got nothing to wear.” He angles the screen away from me.

  “Don’t be a wuss. Who cares what you’re wearing after a dozen shots?”

  With a sigh, he pushes his phone into his man-bag. “Where you going?”

  “Up town. Hit a few bars; maybe a club.” I steal a dollop of his hand lotion, examining the label which proclaims it to be organic and free of everything. “Mmm. Nice.” I remark about the mango fragrance left on my hands.