My phone rings over and over again, every fifteen minutes. There’s no point checking it—I know it’s my mother. If she had any clue how much worse she makes my anxiety, would she stop? I shake my head. No, she wouldn’t. It’s about her, not me. It’s never about me. Even a bullet to my head wasn’t about me. My mother managed to turn that around into a cause, into a career, using her daughter the “survivor” to garner attention and sympathy.
After taking my meds, I climb into bed, pulling the covers up over my head. This is one of those times I wish I could have a drink. Of course, alcohol mixes with my seizure medication so it’s out of the question, but I would give anything for the numbness it brings.
The minutes tick by and in the early hours of the morning, I finally fall asleep.
The car squeals to a stop, tires smoking on the hot pavement.
“Britton, run!”
The girl’s voice is distorted, as if in slow motion. A hand grabs mine and my body is tugged, floating up a staircase.
“In here!”
The arms of another girl wrap around me and I close my eyes. Without vision, sound becomes magnified. Sobs. Tears. Screaming. Blood. It’s too much, so I open my eyes.
And find myself facing down the barrel of a gun.
I shoot up in bed, clutching my head and gasping for breath. My heart is beating so fast it hurts. Air becomes a precious commodity, so I concentrate on sucking it in, blowing out as slowly as I can. Dizziness swamps my head, black spots dancing across my vision. I gulp down breath after breath until the panic recedes. I raise a violently trembling hand to my face and wipe away tears.
The dream comes back to me, slamming into my chest like a freight train.
Oh god. My memory. It’s coming back. It’s going to destroy what’s left of me.
* * *
It took four hours for me to get out of a fetal position and get up, and that’s only because my bladder gave me no choice. I check my phone—seven missed calls. Six from my mom, one from Max.
Odd. I haven’t spoken to Max since he was fired. In fact, he really freaked me out the last time he was in my apartment. He was… off.
I check the time and sigh in relief. Three in the afternoon. The ceremony is over. Now I can move on with my life.
I snort. Yeah, some life. Horrific dreams, panic attacks, and a man who won’t give you the time of day.
Shit, I’m late taking my meds. Quickly, I down the bitter pills that keep my brain from short-circuiting and eat a few crackers to settle my stomach. I pick up my phone and delete my mother’s messages. My finger hovers over the delete button for Max’s voice mail, but for some reason, I push play instead. His voice is hurried and parts of the message are muffled so I can’t tell what it is he wants.
“Britt, it’s… ummmm, well…. it’s Max. I…. Killer. Anyway…. so maybe…. I can’t help……”
I stare at the phone, puzzled. No way do I have the energy to decipher Max’s bizarre voice mail right now, and I am not calling him back to find out either.
My mind wanders to last night, that moment before Keller stepped into the cage. Something was there between us, I know it. I have no idea why he won’t admit that we work, that we need each other, that we both have demons to fight and fight them better together.
Screw it.
I pull my laptop out of my work bag and fire it up, impatiently tapping on the table as I wait. Once it’s on, I click through folders until I find the one with Keller’s most recent pre-fight physical. It’s my job to collect all medical paperwork and submit it to the AFL. On the top, below the name Keller Bishop, is exactly what I was looking for. I jot it down, shove my feet into my shoes, and too impatient to wait for a cab, I grab my keys.
Fifteen minutes later, I pull into the underground garage of one of the newest high-rise buildings in Midtown. All modern design and sleek glass, this luxury condo complex is far from what I expected for a man like Keller Bishop. I blink back my surprise and push the button for the elevator. Seventeen stories later, I’m standing outside of a large gray door.
Taking a deep breath, I lift my hand and knock.
11
Killer
Knocking. Someone is knocking on my door. No one ever knocks on my door so I ignore it. It gets louder.
Persistent motherfucker.
I haul my sorry carcass to my feet and dump my empty beer bottle in the sink as I walk by. Instead of joining Dad at his celebration of the worst fucking day of my life, I stayed home and drank. Actually, that’s not true. I started drinking last night after the fight and just kept going when I woke up. Because I stuck to beer, I’m pleasantly buzzed, not shitfaced like I would be with hard liquor.
The knocking starts again right as I yank the door open. My eyes widen when I see who’s standing on my threshold.
Maybe I should have drowned myself in hard liquor.
“Britt?”
My head spins as the small woman who turned my world upside down pushes past me into my home. She stops a few feet in and her pert nose wrinkles, her jaw jutting out defiantly.
“Are you drunk?”
What the—?
I slam the door closed and spin to face my accuser. “What difference does it make if I am? But for your information, no, I’m not drunk. I’ve been drinking, it’s not the same thing.”