I had no fucking idea who she was. I needed to remind myself of that instead of getting distracted by what she looked like. Except it wasn’t just her looks. There was something else there, something about the way she carried herself. With purpose. Despite the bruises.
Whoever she was, it was none of my business. And whatever she had with that shithead, that was none of my business either. I just couldn't stop thinking about the bruises I'd seen, what that asshole might be doing to her. And why the fuck she was with him. Standing in between them, I wanted nothing more than to pick her up and fucking walk out of there with her. But something in her eyes stopped me. She had this panicked look, fearful, but it wasn't directed toward Aston. It was directed toward me. I didn't know why she was terrified at the thought that I'd get involved.
But I was going to find out.
I couldn’t stop thinking about the way she had looked at me when I took the picture from her. Or what I’d felt, arousal coursing through me, when her hand touched mine as she handed me the picture. And how shitty I felt even feeling that for someone other than April.
Even so, I took out the paper she'd written her number on; set it on the kitchen counter; and stole glances at it the rest of the day.
Days later, I couldn't get thoughts of her out of my head, yet I also couldn't bring myself to call her. The idea of a man like Aston, an asshole like him, treating her like that – hell, being with her like he was – made my blood boil. And the fact that I was so angered by who she was with made me concerned. What the fuck was wrong with me, that I gave a shit who this girl was with or what she was doing.
I needed to do something with all of the pent up anger, all of the rage and frustration I felt.
So I did what I’d been thinking about, what I’d been telling myself would just be unhealthy for me. Fuck it, I thought. Fuck healthy. Nothing I did was healthy now anyway. Not since April died.
I did the only thing I knew to do with all the rage. I called the club, and asked them to set me up with another fight.
The next week, I was starting to feel like I was spiraling downward, my anger was starting to consume me. Now that MacKenzie had gone back to Puerto Rico, I had no buffer against those feelings, that reminder from a child that there could still be good in the world.
The club was going to give me another fight, more than happy to have me beat someone's ass into the ground again. They were giving me a wide berth, not even broaching the subject of whether or not I would come out of retirement. But the fight wouldn't happen for a week, and I was feeling more and more pent-up inside.
And then MacKenzie called.
"How are you doing, daddy?" she asked. "Are you okay?" I felt unbearably guilty that she was asking how I was doing, when she's the one who had been depressed.
It was inexcusable.
"I miss you, baby," I told her. I should be there, I thought. I should move back with her, relocate to Puerto Rico permanently. It's what a good father would do. A good father wouldn't let his kid go back there, someplace so far away, without him, even if it was with April's family. Even if it was temporary. I should go back to Puerto Rico, and take care of MacKenzie. I should man up.
Except that there was that nagging thought in the back of my mind that if I went to Puerto Rico, I would only make things worse.
That's what the doctors had basically said, hadn't they? She needed to go back there, where she had a "supportive network of family," as they called it. She didn't need me around, not until she got better. She was seeing her old shrink, who was giving her positive progress reports.
She was doing great there without me. Amazingly, in fact.
"Daddy, I had so much fun today," she said, her enthusiasm bubbling up from within her, the way it used to when we lived there. I hadn't heard her like that, not in a long time.
"Tell me all the things you did," I said. "I want to hear about it."
"It was amazing, daddy," she said. "We rode horses this morning, out on the beach. Jenny is going to give me riding lessons. Did Grandma tell you that? It's going to be great."
As she talked, my thoughts drifted back a couple of months, to before all this had happened, before MacKenzie had talked about killing herself. She had begged me for a horse, and I'd told her no. She'd been obsessed with them, ever since we'd been out in Colorado. The therapist's explanation was because it was associated with her mom, probably the last thing she remembered. The whole time we were out in Puerto Rico, her grandmother had encouraged her fascination, said it would help her grieve.
Then I had moved her to Las Vegas and taken all of that away from her.
~
“Come on, daddy,” MacKenzie pleaded, batting her big blue eyes dramatically as she gripped my arm.
“No,” I said. “We just can't. Vegas isn't the kind of place where you can have a horse, Mac."