by Mandi Beck
As I watch the tears slide soundlessly down her beautiful face, I shake my head, huffing out a breath in disbelief. Looking at my girl I let my temper rise to the surface.
“Do you know how many women I’ve fucked? How many I’ve let blow me?” I ask her angrily. “Because I sure as hell don’t! They were just places for me to stick my dick.” Ignoring her hiccupped gasp I go on. “I do know how many I’ve made love to though. I know that it’s her face I see when I close my eyes. The one face I’ve always seen no matter who I was fucking.” I take one last calming breath, my fists clenched to stop from dragging her into me and kissing her into believing me. “Romantic? No, not really. But the truth rarely is, Princess.”
With that, I’m done fighting with her, for her to believe in me, us. For now. I stride out of the room. Out of Indie’s house and away from the only woman that has ever meant shit to me.
Pulling up to my house I’m not surprised to see both of my brothers’ vehicles along with my dad’s truck in my driveway. They love the Princess too and I know they’re worried…I don’t need this shit two days before a big fight. After the charity dinner, we are supposed to fly out to Los Angeles where the fight is being held.
I run my hands roughly through my hair and pull, letting out a deep breath to try and clear my head before I go in there and face them. How in the fuck am I going to tell them that I fucked up so royally I lost my girl? The pain in my chest just thinking those words is almost unbearable. I hurt to my soul right now and have absolutely no clue what to do to make it stop. To top it all off, I can’t back out of this banquet tonight and there’s no way she won’t be there…it’s for her mom.
How in the fuck am I going to sit at a table with her and pretend like she didn’t just rip my heart out and hand it to me? I slam my palm against my steering wheel in frustration and throw the door open, slamming it hard enough to shatter the window. Turning away from the damage, I stalk to the front door, grab a potted plant at the bottom step and throw it to the ground, smashing the clay pot against the pavement, then viciously kicking at the debris. Hands on my knees, I try to get control of my temper but it’s pointless. I want to wreck shit and do irreparable damage to everything in my path, to destroy everything around me so that it matches the chaos inside me. Whipping my keys into the front yard in disgust, I start up the steps. As soon as my booted foot hits the first stamped concrete step of my porch, my dad is waiting for me, hands in his pockets.
Breathing deeply, I look at him but avoid making eye contact. “Pop, I’m not going tonight. I—” I pause, huffing loudly, and continue, “I’m just not going. Make a bigger donation in my name or something.”
Finally meeting his eyes, I expect disappointment, but find compassion and understanding, which make me feel even more like shit.
Opening the door wider, he nods.
“Let’s take this inside where it’s not so goddamn cold, Deacon.”
I shuffle past him and head right for the stairs, ignoring my brothers and Trent. Once in my private suite of rooms, I go right to the liquor cabinet in my office and pour myself a Scotch, but just as I’m about to throw it back, my pop booms in his don’t-fuck-with-me tone, “Deacon, you better put that glass down right this fucking minute. I will not have you throwing everything away, all of your training, because you screwed up and got your heart broken. You have already compromised this fight by injuring your hand.”
Eyes downcast, I look into the amber liquid, knowing that he’s right. In complete despair and abandon, I sling the still full snifter at the fireplace and watch it shatter, sending shards of glass and expensive alcohol flying in every direction. I’m on a roll tonight with the breaking of glass.
“You feel better now, Deac?”
Staring out the window, I try to reel in the anger and hurt that is consuming me right now, and shake my head no. My throat feels raw, like I’ve swallowed all of the fucking glass that I’ve managed to smash in my anger.
“You know there’s no way that you can miss this banquet tonight. It’s important to us, to the Princess, and to Guy. You give the organization ten percent of your earnings, son. It’s not an option.”
He’s right, and I knew it even when I told him that I’m bailing on it that I simply can’t. Guy and my dad set up this foundation years ago to honor Isabella, Frankie’s mother. She was an advocate for people suffering from Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder when she was alive, and my pop and Guy took it a step further in her death by starting a charity in her name. This dinner is held every year to raise funds for the organization and just having me on the guest list helps to sell plates.
Looking at him over my shoulder, I finally find my voice.
“I know, Pop. I’m just all fucked up in the head right now, ya know?”
Turning my gaze back to the window, I can see his reflection in the pane.
“Deacon, I know that right now you are in a bad place, but I need you to focus. You don’t have the luxury of calling in sick or just skating by with your head in the clouds somewhere.”
Coming further into the room, he sits on the arm of one of two chairs flanking the fireplace, careful not to step in any of the broken glass.
“You have to clear your mind, Deacon, of all of it. All the hurt and pain, the anger. You have to let it go until this fight is over. You can’t go at Holloway half-cocked and full of fury. Either you’ll kill him or get hurt because you’re not thinking straight.” Exhaling loudly he continues, “Neither is an option, son. I need for you to understand that.”
Turning, I grip the back of the worn leather desk chair. “How do I do that? I just want to get fucking lit and pass out so that I don’t feel this way anymore. Tell me how to forget it all when I can still smell her on my skin, Pop, because right now I don’t want to remember any of it.”
Looking me in the eye, he says solemnly, “If she’s worth it, Deacon, you can’t forget. A woman like Frankie won’t let go, you just have to learn how to cope with the loss or fight to keep her.” Shrugging apologetically, he says, “Unfortunately you aren’t just any man and your responsibilities are bigger than your problems. We have to figure out how to get you past this for the next few days until you have the time to dedicate the energy needed to fight or move on.”
Dragging my eyes away from him, I look at the picture just past his shoulder, at how happy Frankie and I look in it. The canvas print that hangs above the fireplace had been a gift from her. It’s of us on base when I came home from my third and last deployment. I remember it like it was yesterday.
I’d been looking around the gymnasium for my people when someone jumped on my back nearly knocking me down. She was hanging on me like a little spider monkey, her legs wrapped around my waist, arms around my shoulders, me smiling back at her, and Frankie smiling down at me. I was holding on to her legs and she had an American flag in her hand, the only point of color in the black and white picture. It’d been this day that I decided not to reenlist. I couldn't leave her anymore, I hated not seeing her every day, and I missed my friend. The other part of me.
How did everything get so fucked? I bring my eyes up to meet my dad’s.
“Aren’t you gonna ask me what I did, Pop?”
Pursing his lips, he shakes his head and shrugs his shoulders. “Nope. You fucked up, that much I know. I’m certain that you didn’t hurt Frankie intentionally, and I see that whatever you did is hurting you too, so I think that’s punishment enough.” Standing he puts his hands on his narrow hips. “Whatever you did doesn’t much matter now, Deacon, because you can’t turn back time and undo the wrong. All that matters now is what you’re going to do about it, son.” He heads for the door, stopping at the threshold. “Go get your monkey suit on. Carter hung it in your bathroom. Be downstairs in fifteen minutes or we’ll be late. You can drive with me since it’s too cold to ride in your truck without a window.”
I turn to my bedroom to get ready, sighing in defeat and wishing the whole time that I could just stay home and dri
nk myself numb.
Coasting to a stop in front of the Field Museum where the charity event is held every year, Trent waits in line for the valet behind rows of limos and flashy cars. Impatient to just get this night over, I lean in between the front seats where he and my dad are sitting. “I’m just going to get out here and go inside.”
As I’m reaching for the door handle, my pop stops me. “You can wait a few minutes and we can go together, Deacon. Don’t be so eager to get inside, okay?” he says with a knowing look.
I want to get in there to see Frankie and he knows it. What he’s telling me, as subtly as he can, is that there’s no way in hell he’s letting me loose by myself tonight. For the first time in my life, my pop is going to be my wingman. I’m not sure how I feel about that.
We finally make it inside and are making our way to our designated table, not stopping for small talk along the way, which I’m grateful for. Nodding at Mav and Sonny who are already seated, I glance around looking for Guy and the Princess.
“They’re not here yet, Deacon,” Mav says quietly as I sit in my seat making sure that I sit next to an empty chair, hoping that’s where Frankie ends up. I feel crazed right now fighting the need to see her and hoping that she doesn’t show up at all. I know Pop is right and I have to control my desire to put everything I have into fixing things with Frankie, but I can’t do that yet. It’s too much, too soon. But I also don’t want her to think that I’m finished fighting for her, for us.
All thought stops when I hear Guy’s booming laugh. Scanning the room, I see them speaking with Nina, the woman that heads the foundation. Standing beside him is my girl. She looks gorgeous in her floor length gown, deep red with beading that glints in the lights and candles around the room. Indie is with her in a vintage dress that hits her mid-calf and puts her colorful skin on display.
“Deacon? You okay?” my pop asks in a low voice from his seat on my right.
I take my eyes off of her long enough to reassure him that I’m not going to lose my shit just yet.
“I’m all right, Pop.”
Reaching for the glass of ice water in front of me wishing it was something much stronger, I bring my eyes up from the table to watch them as they make their way toward us. Indie’s looking at me like she wants to junk punch me. To be honest, I’m not entirely sure that she won’t.
As they reach the table, my brothers, father, and I stand, shaking hands and greeting Guy. The whole time I have my eyes on Frankie, who still hasn’t looked in my direction as she kisses my dad on the cheek, smiling sadly at him.
“You look beautiful,” I tell her in a husky voice.
As breathtaking as she looks, I can see that she’s been crying and that she isn’t happy about being here, the little frown lines bracketing her lush, cherry lips a dead giveaway. Nodding her thanks, she takes her seat, which, much to my dismay, is not next to mine. I turn my attention to Indie now that I’ve been dismissed. I don’t hide my pain from her—I’m too tired to even try tonight.
“You look beautiful too, Jones. Thanks for coming with her.”
“I would never miss this, just like you wouldn’t,” she says, squeezing my tuxedo clad arm, letting me know that she sees how hard being here is for me. Thank fuck, because I can’t fight her too right now.
I dip my chin in acknowledgment, sit in my chair next to Guy, and try to seem interested in the conversation, even though I’m drawn to the woman across the table, her every movement and breath affecting me. When the band starts playing a surprisingly good version of Adele’s “One and Only,” I’m about to say fuck it and beg her to dance with me. If I can just put my hands on her, I can convince her to forgive me. Coax her into talking to me at the very least. As I push my chair back to stand, Guy says jovially, “Ah, here he is. I thought that you would not make it, friend,” in way of greeting.
Turning my head slightly when I hear the unmistakable Spanish accent reply, I lock eyes with Cristiano as he rounds the table to shake hands with Guy, nodding in greeting to my dad and brothers on his way over to the empty place next to Frankie.
Her eyes fly to mine, our gazes colliding. She shakes her head in denial when I glare at her accusingly. The hurt written all over me. He leans down before sitting and places a kiss on her cheek, making eye contact with me as he does, much the way I used to do to Drew to taunt him and remind him who Frankie really belongs to.
The tension at the table is palpable and obvious to everyone but Guy who goes on to thank Cristiano for coming and apologizing for not inviting him sooner.
“Thank you for inviting me, Guy. I know how important this night and this foundation are to you and the Princessa. I—”
“Don’t call her that. Ever,” I bite out harshly before I can even think to stop myself, the spoon in my hand being bent to shit like it’s nothing more than plastic.
Placing a hand on my arm in a seemingly innocent gesture, my Pop presses his fingers firmly and says in a warning tone low enough for only me to hear, “Deacon, that’s enough. Lock it up,” before sitting back and smiling, trying to ease the startled expressions on the faces of everyone at the table.
I can feel my brothers watching me, ready to spring into action if need be. They know I am barely hanging on to my temper right now, and with Frankie sitting there statue still, delicate hands clenched into fists beside her water glass, I’m glad that I can always count on them to have my back.
Cristiano smiles at me in that smarmy fucking way that he has as he places his arm on the back of Frankie’s chair, letting his fingers brush against her bare shoulder, causing her to tense. She may be upset with me, but my girl knows me and how volatile I can get. Especially when it comes to her.
“As I was saying, I know what this means to Francesca, and what is important to the Princessa is important to me,” he says, all the while never breaking eye contact with me or stilling his hand on her skin.
Looking down at the mangled silverware in my hand, I try to regain some control, but I’ve got nothing, and in a tone so lethal it makes even me a little nervous, I quietly seethe, “I’ll tell you one more time, do not call her that.”
Slowly bringing my eyes level with his, I see that he’s not feeling as brave as he was a minute ago and that just fuels me further. Ignoring my dad’s hand on my thigh applying pressure and Guy’s curious gaze, I sit a bit straighter and in the same deadly calm voice, “If you don’t get your hands off of her, I’m going to personally make sure that you never dance again. I will break every bone in your motherfucking body if you lay one more finger on her, and that’s a promise, amigo,” I say, mimicking his words from earlier.
Cocking my brow, I turn my attention to his now still hand and work on regulating my breathing as I watch his hand and then his arm fall away. Satisfied that I’ve made my point, I look toward a visibly upset and embarrassed Frankie, but she won’t meet my gaze—not that it matters because she will not find any apologies in my eyes. I glance at Indie who is the only one at the table enjoying my little display, if the smile on her face is any indication. Hold tight, Jones, I’m just getting started.
Turning my attention to Guy who is clearly confused and understandably a little angry at my outburst, “I’m in love with your daughter and whether we’re together or not, I’ll be damned if I’m going to let that asshole or anyone else for that matter touch her. I apologize for not telling you sooner, so that this scene here could have been avoided, but that’s all I’ll apologize for.”
Gasping audibly, Frankie stands, throwing her napkin down on the table, and nailing me with a withering, watery glare, storms away from the table. Indie, hot on her heels, looks back at us over her shoulder and mouths, “I’ve got her.” I’m not sure if she is reassuring me that she will take care of Frankie or warning me away.
Brushing off my dad’s vice-like grip on my thigh, I too get up.
“Now, if you’ll all excuse me, I’m going home to pack before I start flipping fucking tables or breaking jaws.” I make sure
to stare down Rico Suave as I deliver my parting speech.
Turning to my brothers, I point a finger in Flashdance’s direction.
“Take care of my girl and watch him,” and then stalk away without another word, not looking back at the mess I’ve just left in my wake.
FIGHT NIGHT:
DEACON “THE HITMAN” LOVE
VS.
MICHAEL “THE TANK” HOLLOWAY
The sweat is pouring off of me. The ticking sound of the speed bag competing with The White Stripes blasting from every speaker in the hot-as-fuck gym that Carter rented out for us. We’ve been here two days, in this sauna, since our L.A. branch is under reconstruction. Slamming my fist into the leather one more time, I turn and head for the ring, motioning for one of the guys that Sonny got to spar with me to suit up. I slip in between the ropes and grab my gloves from the corner. I’m in the process of pulling them on when my dad and Sonny walk in from the offices.
“Deacon, what the fuck are you doing, bro?” Sonny yells at me from across the gym.
Ignoring him, I tilt my head from side to side, popping my neck, bouncing on my toes, trying to ease some of the tension that has held me prisoner since I walked out of Indie’s place two days ago.
After her birthday party when we didn’t speak, I was a fucking wreck—drunk all the time if I wasn’t fighting and fucking whatever came my way. Now though, I can feel the swell of rage pulling me under. I was hurt the last time, disappointed, and I allowed myself to drown in a bottle. Now, I’m all that and more. I know what it means to really be with her, to have Frankie, mind, body, and soul. I don’t have the luxury of self-soothing with a bottle of vodka and some stranger this time. My pop won’t let me go to that place no matter how badly I want to.
