I nod and stand back as she pulls out of her parking spot and leaves the lot. Yeah, she’s a good girl. She doesn’t belong here in Vegas. I thought for sure that the city would corrupt her, but after two years she’s still the same. She goes to school, studies hard, works harder, and always keeps that smile on her face.
There’s a voice deep down that whispers I should date her, ask her out and see where things go. She’s pretty in a way that screams purity. White. Clean. Something that needs to be protected, not dirtied.
And I’m nothing if not dirty.
After her car is long gone, I turn to head back when I get the feeling someone’s watching me. It’s been happening a lot these last few months. One minute nothing, and then it’s as if the air pressure changes. A weight, thick and dense settles in around me.
I crank my neck to the left and right, but keep walking, knowing that eventually the feeling goes away. It seems stupid to care about being looked at. I’ve been in the public eye for years, but this is different somehow.
“Fuck, I’m losing my damn mind.” I’d tell my shrink at our next meeting, but the last thing I want added to my list of syndromes and afflictions is motherfucking paranoia. “At this rate they’ll throw my ass in a straightjacket.”
Since I started seeing my therapist at seventeen, he’s been trying to figure out where my compulsions stem from. I’ve heard phrases like repressed memories, abandonment issues, and post-traumatic stress disorder ever since I was hospitalized as a kid.
That’s my earliest vivid memory: waking up in a hospital bed. It’s funny. I don’t remember wanting to die. I don’t even remember why I did it other than the satisfaction of marking my skin and watching my blood pool. The visions I have of that day only come in flashes and specific colors: bright red blood against my pale skin. Surprisingly, the thoughts don’t evoke much feeling.
But then there are the others, two very specific flashes: fire-orange hair and light gray eyes. And with those visions comes the warmth, the peace.
There are sounds that accompany the soft orange waves and the misty gray eyes—humming—soothing, rhythmic melodies that calm my inner turmoil.
Those two things are the memories I hold on to. They’re the ones that keep me sane at night when the insomnia won’t let up.
That sounds so fucking insane. The best explanation my therapist can come up with is some shit about coping mechanisms and self-soothing. But what is there to cope with, to soothe, if I don’t remember?
Not at all in the mood to take this ride down no-memory lane, I grab my cell from my pocket just as I hit my front door. Scrolling through my contacts, I find the one I’m looking for and hit send. I kick off my shoes and carry them to my closet.
“Rex,” Blake answers the phone sounding as if he just rolled out of bed. “What’s up?”
“You training today?” I know he is. The guy is a fucking machine when it comes to his fights, and this one coming up is a career changer for him. It’s also instrumental in earning back what reputation he lost a few months ago.
“Does a monkey shit in the woods?”
“You mean bear.”
“Bear who?”
“It’s ‘Does a bear shit in the woods?’”
“You seriously fucking calling me on a Sunday to talk about this shit?”
“No, dick, I’m calling to find out what time I should be at the training center so I can show you what a * you are.”
“I’m leaving in thirty.”
“See you there.”
I hang up, smiling and suddenly excited to get in a good sparring session before my show tonight. What I started with that guy at the bonfire, I can finish with Blake.
*
I pull into the parking lot and see that Jonah, Caleb, and Blake’s trucks are the only ones there. Using a passcode and key card to get inside, I move through the darkened lobby and into the main training center. It’s empty, but I can hear music coming from behind the door of the weight room.
Caleb spots me as I head toward the locker room. “What are you doing here? Thought you weren’t training today.”
I tug at my lip ring. “Slept like shit last night. Thought this would help.”
“Glad you’re here. Blake needs a good ass-kicking. Drop your shit in the locker room and I’ll meet you in there.”
“Sounds good. Let me grab a quick shower.”
He drops his eyebrows and shakes his head. The guys stopped fucking with me years ago about how often I shower. I can’t help it, but I feel like I’m covered in shit all the time.
“Right. I’ll meet you over there.” He claps me on the shoulder.
I wince at the painful yet gratifying shock of pain.
He frowns. “You injured?”
“Nah, just took a dive off my bike last night. No big deal.”
“No big deal.” He pins me with a glare. “Right. Just like the time your finger was bending ninety degrees the wrong way. Are we talking that kind of no big deal?”
“I’m fine. Really.”
He gives up with a shrug. “Whatever, dude. I’ll meet you in the weight room.”
A quick scalding shower later, I’m moving through the training center toward the weight room. I shove through the double doors, Slipnot’s “Dead Memories” blaring through the speakers.