“’Bout time.” Blake drops his leg-press weights hard for emphasis.
“You ready for some real competition?” I grin as the guys chuckle at my ribbing. “I’m here. Let’s spar.”
“Rex, dude. Easy with that shoulder.” Caleb pipes up like a tattle-tailing little brother. The guy is my best bro, but sometimes he feels more like a nagging chick.
Jonah drops his weights back onto the rack. “What’s up with your shoulder?”
I glare at Caleb but answer Jonah. “Nothing.”
Blake laughs and steps to me, his arms crossed over his chest. “Nothing? You sure?”
“I endo’ed my dirt bike last night. Probably just a strain.”
“Yeah?” He shoves my shoulder.
Ow! Fuck. I swallow my answering growl and instead step up closer to him. “See. I’m fine. But if you’re scared, maybe you should see if Killer can spar with you. He’s a little more your speed.”
Blake’s eyes get tight, and I feel the slow grin pull at my lips.
“Fuck you. Octagon in five.” Blake stomps from the room.
Jonah and Caleb stare at me.
I throw my good arm out to my side. “What? He started it.”
“Don’t fuck around, T-Rex.” Jonah grabs his towel and wipes his face. “If you’re hurt, you shouldn’t be training.”
“I said I’m fine.”
“You’re not acting like you’re fine,” Caleb says.
“He’s right. You’re babying that arm—”
“Who the fuck died and made you guys my parents?” With my words comes a new pain, a different kind of pain, the numbing kind that makes me desperate to feel.
Caleb holds up his hands. “Chill out, bro.”
“I’m not your bro, your bitch, or your kid!” A rage rolls around in my gut, and I know if I don’t harness this feeling I’ll flip out.
It happens sometimes and I can’t figure out why, triggered by a remark or a feeling. Last night it was when that guy called me a cocksucker. It’s happened with the mention of family and, now, being treated as if I don’t have say in what my body feels or doesn’t feel. I rub my eyes and welcome the headache.
“You okay?” Jonah’s in my face.
“Fine.” I groan and try to breathe deep. “I’m a little on edge, Got in a fight at a party last night, didn’t sleep well.” Feel like I’m being watched and can’t remember anything from my childhood—normal shit.
“Fight at a party, huh?” Jonah smiles. “You kick his ass?”
“Not like I wanted to.”
“No blood and broken bones, huh?”
“There was blood. Just not enough.”
“Shame.” He moves past me. “Better get your ass to the octagon before Blake starts crying.”
He’s right. I’ll throw all this extra emotional shit into fighting.
“You ready, asshat?” Blake says, yelling from the octagon, pulling me from my own mental hell.
I smile. “Yep.”
*
Mac
“Piece of shit.” I kick the front tire of my ’98 Honda motorcycle. “Ouch! Dammit.” I spin away and limp to the backdoor of The Blackout, knowing that to top off my crappy start to the night I’m going to get an earful from my manager about being late for my shift.
I took the long way to work, opting to take a few laps around a new housing development that’s vacant and still under construction. And I felt better too, until I got close to work and realized my tire was flat. Walking my motorcycle that last mile did nothing but piss me off more than I already was.
But I continue to tell myself that I didn’t see what I saw. Rex didn’t walk a woman from his apartment carrying her overnight bag. He didn’t put it in her car and hug her goodbye. And he didn’t watch her drive away with a longing in his eyes that made my heart cramp and stomach turn.
I jog by his house almost every day, and I’ve never seen him with a girl like that. Not once.
Throwing open the door, I smile at the satisfying crack of the metal handle as it hits the brick wall. After grabbing my apron, I stash my messenger bag into a locker.
“You’re late,” Mario, my manager, says from down the hall.
I face him and shrug. “Flat tire.”
“Sure. You’re on the floor tonight with Alexis. Get your side work done. It should be busy tonight. Ataxia goes on at eight.” He turns and walks down the corridor toward the bar.
“Great.” It’s not that I mind cocktail serving, but there’s something about being on the floor all night while Rex is on stage that makes me feel exposed. At least when I’m behind the bar there’s three feet of waist-high solid wood to play barrier.
The Blackout is a typical local music venue. It’s dark, with black walls and a concrete floor. The room is shaped like a rectangle with a stage on one side, tables throughout, and a long bar running along the wall. It’s nothing fancy or complicated, but the acoustics make it one of the most popular venues for local music here in Vegas.