J. Salsbury - Fighting to Forget

A cure. I want that. “How is it possible to work through shit I can’t fucking remember?”

“Subconsciously, you do remember. Your dreams are the mind’s way of processing it.”

“No! I can’t . . . deal with that. It’s too much.” My chest is rising and falling faster, and I roll my lip ring a few times to keep my fingers off the rubber band on my wrist.

“I understand. You’re going to get there, but only when you’re ready. These things don’t happen over days or weeks. It takes years, lifetimes of talking this stuff out, and we may never get to the why of it all. But our goal is to help you deal with the now. In order to do that, you must accept the possibility that you were sexually molested.”

I cringe and avoid his eyes, more than done with this conversation.

He exhales heavily. “How about things at home? Have you had anyone over? Friends? Women?”

I lean forward, elbows to my knees, head in my hands. It’s questions like these that make me realize how far from normal I am, how fucked my head is, but more importantly, how little progress I’ve made.

“Not yet, but I did, um . . . There’s a girl who I’d like to have over. Maybe.” The thought of having Mac inside my home pulls me in opposite directions. Having her in my place might be nice. Right? I take a deep breath and try to slow my heart rate.

“A girl?” His voice is high, perked up with interest. “Tell me about her.”

With another deep breath, feeling a little calmer now that we’re on a different subject, I sit back. “She works at one of the clubs I play at. We’ve been talking and I don’t know, it’s like she’s known me for years or something. I can’t explain it.”

“That’s comforting to be around someone who’s at ease with you. You’re an intimidating guy, so I’m sure that doesn’t happen often.”

Is that all it is? I don’t freak her out, so I like her? Wait, I like her? “I guess.”

“Maybe you should ask her to come over. Not to stay long, but just stop by for a drink before you go out?”

“I don’t know.” Asking her over and out on a date? Two things I’ve been avoiding for, well, forever.

“Rex, I know you’re uncomfortable, but you’re capable of a lot more than you think.” He exhales heavily and grabs his pad and pen off his desk. “You ready for your fight?”

“Yeah. I’m down eight pounds; the rest should be easy.”

“That’s great. I’ve no doubt you’ll win. This Reece guy probably shit himself when he found out he’d be fighting T-Rex.”

I chuckle and a warm feeling expands in my chest. Not having parents, Darren’s words are the closest thing I’ve got to parental pride. It’s not much, but I’ll take it.

We talk a little longer about my fight, and before I know it, we’re both laughing and arguing over UFL stats and predictions. I appreciate the lighter conversation and the fact that he doesn’t redirect us back to the heavy stuff.

“I’m proud of you, son.” He walks me out and claps me on the shoulder. “I know it feels as though you’ve got a long way to go, but I assure you, you’ve come a long way since your first visit.”

“Thanks, Darren.” I give him a chin lift. “See ya next week.”

I’m walking across the parking lot to my car when I hear him call my name.

“Consider what I said.” There’s a smile in his voice.

He’s talking about going out with Mac. I’m reminded of our kiss last night and the desire to work harder to overcome all my shit if it means being able to spend more time around her. And even though having Mac inside my house makes me dizzy, it might be a first step to getting better.

I’m a fighter. I’ve never backed down from anything in my life. Why should this be any different?

Simple. It shouldn’t.

~*~

Mac

It’s seven p.m. when I finally venture out of my room. After I got home from work last night, I couldn’t stop replaying my night. Stuck in the storage room only to have Rex come and save me. If I didn’t know better, I’d have thought he was struck with the same déjà vu as I was: the way his fingers froze on mine and his face paled when I repeated the very words he said to me fourteen years ago.

As if our moment of connection wasn’t enough, when I finally got the courage to apologize for last week, he flirted with me. He touched my injured cheek and playfully asked me to kiss him again.

I grin and bite my lip, remembering the arousing scrape of his piercing against my mouth. The desire to run the tip of my tongue along it and taste him was overwhelming. The only thing I could do to keep from jumping him was walk away. I’d hoped he’d chase after me, turn me around, and throw me up against the wall in a passionate kiss. He didn’t.

Rex. Always keeping me guessing.

Halfway to the kitchen I hear classic rock coming from the backyard. Leave it to Trix to have a fucking party on a Monday. I shake my head and move through the living room to the sliding glass door.

“Holy crap.”

Hatch and four of his biker buddies are draped over our patio furniture, each one with a girl on his lap. The table is littered with beer bottles, empty liquor bottles, and a variety of different smoking paraphernalia, both legal and illegal.

Trix and her stripper friends hang on the bikers, the manifestation of drunk and desperate.

“Awesome.” I slide open the back door and immediately get their attention.

Hatchet’s eyes narrow. “Snow White. You come out here to get your revenge?” The tick of his lips tells me he’s kidding, but he’s obviously too drunk to pull off the inappropriate joke.

“Maybe. Depends on how well you mind your manners.” I set my eyes on Trix. “How long have you guys been drinking?”

She throws her hands to the side, accidentally whopping Hatch in the head. She cradles her hand to her stomach. “Ow, Hatch. Your head is rock hard.”

“You should know, babe. You’re sitting on my lap.” He rubs his head in a delayed reaction to her accidental hit. “You getting me back for poppin’ Snow White?”

Her gaze is slow and lazy as it moves between him and me. “Oh yeah.” She smacks him upside the head. “There. Now I am.”

I curl my lips between my teeth to keep from laughing. The truth is I’m not mad at Hatch. He didn’t hit me on purpose. That was my fault. Thinking back, Rex didn’t even lift his fists when he saw that he was going to get punched. He was going to take it. How can I be pissed when taking that punch meant Rex didn’t have to? Besides, Rex delivered the punishing payback well enough that Hatch is still sporting two black eyes.

“Pull up a beer and a chair.” One of Hatch’s motorcycle buddies pulls an empty chair to his side, his eyes moving from my neck to my hips and back.

Gross. “No.” I look back to Trix. “You guys going out?”

“Yeah, there’s a party we’re going to later. You want to come with?” Her eyes are glazed over, and I hope it’s only from the alcohol and not whatever else these fuckfaces are using.

“I’d rather get a pap smear from Freddie Krueger.” I step back into the house, and the sound of their snorted laughter and curses goes silent when I shut the door behind me. I head to the kitchen in search of anything that could be considered dinner.

My mind wanders back to Rex, and I picture him at his place doing the same thing, making himself dinner alone in his apartment. I crack open a can of Spaghetti O’s, dump it into a bowl, and pop it into the microwave. I’m antsy with the need to see him, if not him, then at least his car or his apartment. Just to set eyes on something of his soothes my anxiety and placates the obsessive beast within.

The beeping grabs my attention. The bowl burns my fingers as I race to the table to sit. I’m on my second bite of O’s when I hear the sliding glass door open.

“Great,” I mumble into my bowl and hope that it’s not the drunk long-haired biker who stripped me with his eyes. Ick.

“You get the job done?” One of the bikers says in a whisper that would probably be a lot softer if he weren’t shitfaced.

“Yeah, man. I did it. Where’s my fucking money?” The other male voice is angry and making no attempt to be quiet.

“He needs proof before you get paid. You know that’s how it’s done.”

A deep chuckle that sounds more sinister than humorous filters through the room. “Proof’s in the obituary.”

Obituary. He killed someone? With this crew, I’m not surprised.

“Shh, shut up. If Hatchet hears us talking MC business here, he’ll have our cuts.”

“I don’t give a fuck about Hatch. I want my motherfucking money.”

The sliding glass door opens again. “What the fuck are you dipsticks doing?”

“I’m going to take a piss.” The sound of boots on carpet disappears into the hallway.

“I want my fucking money, Hatch.”

“Shut your damn mouth.” Hatch’s growled words are followed by the gurgling sound of a grown man being choked. “You don’t bring that shit up in mixed company, Tread. You fucking hear me?”

Gasping. “That bitch . . . and her man . . . are dead. I want to get paid—”

I hear the loud crack of fist meeting flesh and then the thump of a body hitting the floor. My stomach turns.

“Shit, Hatch. You broke my damn nose.” The nasally voice is followed by the sound of stomping boots trailing off in opposite directions. There’s a murderer with a broken nose in my house. The thought doesn’t evoke the warm and fuzzies.

Hatch staggers into the kitchen, clearly missing the fact that I’m sitting less than six feet away. He pulls open the fridge door, grabs a bottle, and pops the cap. Turning, he leans against the fridge and tilts his head back for a long pull off his beer. He downs half and then his eyes go wide on me. “Snow White”—he glares—“how long you been sitting there?”

I suck down a spoonful of noodles. “Not long.”

He takes a step closer to the table. I don’t have to look up from my food to know he’s staring at me. I can feel it.

He clears his throat. “It would be wise if you pretend you didn’t hear that.”

Sitting back, I study him for a moment. Shaggy brown hair, black tee, and that damn leather vest with his MC’s logo embroidered on the breast. He radiates bad-ass biker. I shrug. “Don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Good girl.” He leans a hip against the counter. “I trust you’ll keep that sexy mouth shut?”

Man, this guy gets on my nerves. In my house, threatening me? I drop my spoon into my bowl and lean back, eyes on his. “And if I don’t?”

He smiles as if I’ve just challenged him to a dare. “I’ll shut it for you.”

“Hmm . . .” I purse my lips and cross my arms at my chest. “You threatening me?”

He continues to stare and stands in a way that would be considered stoic if not for his lurching in a booze-induced dance. “Don’t forget what I know about you, Mac Ellenshire.”

Dammit. He’ll always have that as leverage. I’d never talk anyway, but the extra threat to expose my secret is enough to make me swear in blood to keep my mouth shut. “Whatever. I won’t talk.” I continue to eat, hoping he leaves me to my canned dinner.

“Smart girl.” He grunts and turns to head back outside.

That guy and his band of pussy bikers don’t scare me. I know fear and pain, and neither Hatch nor his gang has that power over me. There’s only one person who does, and I’m thinking it’s time I pay him a visit.

Mac

I’m straddling my motorcycle, head tilted back, staring. Wow. This place is huge. The garage alone is twice the size of my house, and with the tropical landscaping, it’s like a desert oasis. I’d expect a professional UFL fighter to have bank, but I didn’t think they’d spend it on a house the size of a resort.

Did I read the address wrong? I fish my phone from my messenger bag and check the text from Layla.

“I’ll be damned.” The number and street name match. “Spare no expense Slade.”

There was no way I was going to say no when Layla invited me over to the Slade’s for some girl time. I guess the guys get together to watch baseball and the girls just sit around and do what girls do.

What do girls do?

I was secluded most of my life, not having any interaction outside of doctors and therapists. We had social hours where I’d visit with others, but the people I was locked up with weren’t much for conversation, at least not the kind you could understand.