The Song of David

The results of my biopsy had come back fairly quickly. I was only in the hospital for two days after my craniotomy. Not very long, considering they drilled into my head and took a big chunk of tissue off my brain. They were able to remove ninety-five percent of the tumor, which was great news. They also got the biopsy results back much sooner than they anticipated. They thought it would take six days post-op to get results. I got lucky. It only took them four. Lucky, lucky me.

When I went in for the craniotomy, I made a deal with myself. If the results came back negative, no cancer, I would call Moses and I would call Millie, and I would tell them about the little scare I’d had. I’d tell them I hadn’t wanted to worry them, and hey, no big deal. I was fine. I would let Millie get mad at me and huff, and then I would kiss it all away, and I would make her marry me. Why wait? What had I said? When you love something you give it your name. I’d done that with my bar, I was going to do it with my girl. Hell, if Henry wanted my name, I’d adopt him too. I didn’t see why it couldn’t be done. We’d all be Taggerts. That’s the deal I’d made with myself.

And if the news wasn’t positive? If I had a terminal diagnosis? If the news wasn’t positive, I wouldn’t be calling anyone.

And that’s what I did. I called a cab to come and get me after the craniotomy. The nurse had insisted on calling someone, and I’d insisted right back that I could take care of myself. I felt fine. My head ached, which made sense. But other than that, I felt fine. I kept saying that because it was true. My body felt fine. It was my heart that hurt. My heart felt like shit. But I felt fine. I went home and slept for two days, waking up to drink water, go to the bathroom, and go back to sleep. Then I got the word that the results were in, and I drove myself to the hospital to find out I had anywhere from six months to a year to live.

I drove myself back home again.

I still didn’t call Moses, and I didn’t call Millie. I didn’t call Axel or bother Mikey. Instead, I let everyone believe I had gone to Dallas to see my family, and I called my lawyer. Then I started putting things in motion. During that time, I ignored my phone calls. I didn’t read my texts. I couldn’t. I couldn’t and remain strong. But I was in the middle of making Millie a tape when the phone started ringing, interrupting my flow, and I’d grabbed at it to silence it, only to see Cliff Cordova’s name lighting up the display. I’d answered it on instinct.

He had a fight for me. Saturday night in Vegas—six days away—against Terry Shaw. Fifty thousand dollars if I won, ten thousand just for showing up. I told him I’d only do it for fifty thousand, regardless if I won or not, but I promised him I would win. He agreed and told me if I won, Tag Team would get another twenty-thousand dollars, and he told me to be in Vegas in forty-eight hours.

It would mess up my plan. My team would find out. They would be hurt that I’d fought alone. Word would wind itself to Millie. She would be hurt too. Moses would find me in the afterlife and kick my ass. But what a hell of a way to go out.

I thought I would be strong. I thought I would take one for the team. I thought I was going to go out in a blaze of glory. Fight and die. Strong. But they found me first. And when I’d seen Millie, standing there in the crowd, Henry at her side, Moses holding her hand and looking at me like he wanted to strangle me, my resolve shook and my legs got weak.

And it had pissed me off.

I wasn’t going to dissolve in a puddle for Terry Shaw to wipe up in one round. I was not going to have all my sacrifice and all my plans shot to hell because my girl was in the audience and my best friend was pissed. I was not going to let the dull throb in my head that hadn’t gone away since I’d woken up with twenty staples in my skull make me sloppy and slow. I was not going to let cancer win. Not this round, at least.

I fought harder than I’ve ever fought before. Everything hurt, my energy was spotty, my two weeks out of the gym more of a factor than the surgery. I’d jogged three miles the day Cordova called. I ran five the next. The day before the fight I’d hit a Vegas Gold’s gym and worked up a good sweat punching and kicking the hell out a bag, smelling the last of the anesthesia on my skin, feeling pretty damn strong, reminding myself I had nothing to lose. I wasn’t even nervous. It was bizarre.