Wicked Restless

She never asked to come, which is good because I don’t want to have to argue with her. I can’t have her near him. I gave Trent orders to keep her home, too. He laughed at me at first, but quit when he took in my face—an understanding of how serious this is settling onto him.

I almost told Trent the truth—just so he would be able to stay calm, to do whatever he needed to do to keep her calm. But I stopped myself, still not one-hundred-percent committed to my midnight-hatched plan. I almost backed out at the bank when I withdrew every cent I had. I’m still not convinced I’ll be able to follow through with it now as I step through the back door of Harley’s gym—the street lined with expensive cars and the main warehouse filled with gambling men ready to spend their money on two twenty-something punk shits beating each other senseless for no title or ring.

I guess for some there’s glory. For most of the guys I’ve fought, the prize has always been knowing they’re ready for what’s next, a gift of confidence as they head into the ring with someone real—someone who mattered. But today—there’s not glory. There’s grudge and hate and vengeance between two sick men. I’m well enough to admit I’m sick, to admit I like the feel of pain more than I should. I know the way I cope with what really hurts in my life is unhealthy. But now that I know how Emma feels, what it’s like to have her completely fill the space inside my chest and heart, I’m not hungry for something to take me away anymore.

When life is good, I don’t need the distraction of the rush. I’ve just never had good before, I guess.

Harley is still in his back office when I walk through the heavy metal door. It slams shut behind me, and Bill steps out from the office to see who’s entering.

“Just me,” I say, holding up a hand. He nods, then reaches his hand out to shake mine. His eyes glance around my body and his brow furrows when he realizes I don’t have my usual training bag with me. All I have is a small envelope—nothing more. I nod and pat him on the back as I pass by, slipping into Harley’s office.

“You’re early. What, can’t wait for that fix and need Bill to knock you in the head a few times now?” He snickers as he talks, amused at how predictable I am. Normally, he’d be right. But not today.

I plunk the heavy envelope on his desk then shove my hands in my pockets, staring at it, staring at him staring at it. He pokes it with a pen, turning it slightly, then tapping it.

“What’s this?” he says, peering up at me, his hat turned backward so I can see the angry suspicion in his eyes.

“It’s every cent I have to my name. Something like twenty-seven hundred. And I know I’ll probably owe you more, and I’ll get it to you, because I didn’t want this to be a problem for you, to cost you anything,” I say, my eyes meeting his. There’s nothing Harley can do to me. I quit being afraid of people the day I stepped out of Lake Crest Academy.

He leans back in his chair, pulling the envelope in his hands and slicing it open on one end to look in at the small stack of money. He tosses it back on his desk, and folds his arms again, studying.

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

“I’m out, Harley,” I say. I hear Bill chuckle softly behind me, and I glance at him, shaking my head. “No, I’m serious. I mean it. I’m out. I’m sorry, but I’m not fighting this guy today. I’m done fighting.”

The air grows thick with quiet, the sound of chatter in the main gym faint in the background and the repeated thump of a speed bag working down the hall blurring into the rest of nothingness that fills Harley’s hot office. He pulls his hat from his head, running his hand through his hair.

He leans forward, his palms flat on his desk on either side of the envelope, and he begins to shake his head, laughing to himself. I hold my breath, though, because I know better.

In a swift movement, he hurls the envelope at me. Money flies loose in all directions. He shoots his chair back against the wall, rounding his desk, slamming me into his door with enough force it closes behind me. His arm thrusts against my chest, knocking the wind from me. He slides it up my body until his forearm rests against my windpipe.

He. Can’t. Hurt me.

“What the fuck do you mean, you’re done? You are done when I say you’re done, you crazy head-case motherfucker! I have a room full of high-dollar customers out there—with money they want to spend…with me…and that pathetic chunk of change you waltzed in here with is not even close to covering it—do you understand?”

I don’t react. I simply hold his gaze, my mouth in a hard line and my breath working hard to pass through my nose and find a way into my limbs.