Fighting to Forget

Twenty

Rex

“I don’t know, Rex. Are you sure it’s a good idea to fight tonight?” Darren studies me, looking for something he doesn’t seem to find.

After Mac left, or after I kicked her out, I called Darren, leaving message after message. Finally at five a.m. he called me back. I’ve been sitting on his living room couch for two hours, going over all the memories that are still flooding in. He’s listened, comforted, and sat silently with me.

For years, we’ve dissected my dreams, lack of memory, and compulsions. This is the kind of breakthrough he always hoped for. Too bad the triumph in psychology feels like being eaten alive from the inside out.

I’m drained, but I can’t sleep. I’m not hungry. I feel nothing. Numb all over and distant. Like an out of body experience I’m watching from someone else’s perspective.

“I have to fight. Can’t let down the UFL.” My words sound robotic. “They’re all I’ve got.”

He nods. “You’ve had an unimaginable few days, making breakthroughs only to . . .” He shakes his head then rubs his eyes. “Fuck, I’m sorry.” Clearing the emotion from his throat, he sniffs and meets my eyes. “You’ve got me too.”

Yeah, and as much as I know those words are heartfelt, they’re white noise in my ears. I can’t pull up a reaction to them.

“I better go.” I push up from the couch and move to the door like a vapor, there in one aspect, completely gone in another, a body with no life.

He tells me to call if I need anything and that I should meet him at the office tomorrow. I don’t know why. He’s heard all that I know. The past is back; my memories are released from the mental vault I’d had them stored.

Now what?

Can healing ever be found for a boy who was abandoned by his mother and given as a sex toy to adult men only to end up in a group home with not a single person to call family?

Not even close to being ready to answer that question, I move through the day as I should. Back at my condo, I clean up the broken glass and straighten my room. Order is dependable. Cleanliness on the outside covers the dirt that infiltrates my insides.

A hot shower later and I’m staring at a full cup of protein shake. I have to put something in my stomach, or I’ll get destroyed in the fight. My camp needs this win. They depend on me. I pinch my eyes closed and open my throat, throwing back a healthy gulp. My stomach revolts against the intrusion and I gag. I force myself to finish it and pray that it stays down.

On the drive to the training center, my muscles begin to unwind. The guys I fight with don’t know about my past. They won’t look at me with pity or empathy as Mac and Darren do. The weight in my chest lifts enough for me to take a full breath.

To them, I’m just Rex the man, not Rex the boy.

Pushing through the lobby doors, the sweat and plastic covered foam smell of the training center inundates my senses, and its familiarity works as a salve to my nerves. My breath comes easier with every step that brings me closer to the locker room.

“There’s our welterweight.” Cameron’s standing with a couple fighters from Reece’s camp, clipboard in hand. “You’re late. Let’s get you weighed in.” He turns toward the locker room and motions for me to follow.

This is good. The normalcy of fighting is exactly what I need.

“You have no idea how much I’m looking forward to you kicking that cocky shit’s ass,” Cam says over his shoulder. “Punk’s been up my ass all morning.”

The soft pull of a smile tugs my lips. “I got him.”

He pushes through the door and swings his gaze to mine. “I know you—what the fuck happened to you?”

Tension surges back into my muscles. “Too amped to sleep, that’s all.”

“Yeah?” He glares at my neck and my arms. “Looks like you went one-on-one with a mountain lion. The fuck happened to your arms?”

“Yard work. Got scratched up.” I’m the master of lying about where all my scratches come from. I’ve been doing it for years.

His eyes form tight slits. “Yard work.” The way he says it, as if he’s letting me know my lie is believable but he sure as shit isn’t falling for it, settles in my gut.

“I’ve got a fight to win. Mind if we cut the bullshit and get to it?”

“Sure, man.” He’s still fucking standing here, looking at me as if determination will get me to spill.

I cross my arms at my chest and wait. Seconds pass before he gives up on his mission and moves deeper into the locker room. I follow behind him, and for the first time since I found that fucking bear in Mac’s room, a sliver of contentment breaks through my deadened state.

Life lies within the chain link of the octagon: the sweat, blood . . . the pain. It’s the only thing that reminds me I’m alive.

When most of the time I wish I were dead.

~*~

Mac

I can’t help but feel like I’m right back where I started, sitting in a bar full of belligerent drunks, one hand wrapped around a cold beer and the other clutching the bag that holds what’s left of my possessions.

Even though smoking in bars is illegal in the state of Colorado, the room swirls with the stench of burning tobacco and God knows what else. Clearly the rules don’t apply to those whose motto is “Live wild or die.” The clanking of glasses and ruckus of deep manly laughter mix to make this dive exactly what I expected. Everything, from the women who’re walking around half naked and one hundred percent tanked, to the air in the room, screams one thing.

Wild Outlaw MC property.

This is stupid. I shouldn’t have come here. Speeding away from Vegas, I chose highways at random and drove all the way through Utah until I saw the sign: Denver 465 miles. I remembered Hatch talking about a bar between Denver and Leadville that had a motel attached. I decided that’s where I’d go. At least, until I could figure out what the hell I’m going to do.

I blink to focus on the line of bottles against the wall behind the bar, various brands of tequila and bourbon, not a single bottle of vodka. The bartender looks just like the rest of the guys in this hole: too much hair, too much gut, and too much leather to hold it all together.

“Leather and together. That rhymed.” I muffle a giggle and bring my room-temperature beer bottle to my lips. Tilting back the last of the lukewarm liquid, I try to count how many I’ve had. I’m almost positive this is number five, but the way my head is swimming I’ve probably had more.

Not that it matters. Nothing matters.

My heart beats its fluttered objection.

“Nope. Not listening to you ever again.” Stupid heart and its stupid plans.

“Yo, Ann Wilson.” The bartender’s voice sounds as if he’s been smoking since birth. “’Nother beer?”

I face the grungy biker. “Sure, why the hell not?” I’ve got nowhere to go and no one looking for me. I nudge my empty bottle toward him. “What did you call me?”

He coughs or laughs, most likely a combination of both. “Don’t tell me you don’t know who Ann Wilson is.”

I scrunch up my face in thought. “No clue.”

Propping his forearms on the bar, he leans in. “How old’re you, kid?”

“It’s rude to ask a woman how old she is.” And telling a guy who looks as if he’s seen his fair share of death and mutilation anything about me is fucking freaking me out.

“I’m assuming you’re old enough to drink. If not, I don’t really give a shit as long as you don’t get in any trouble.”

I don’t say anything to confirm or deny. I’m old enough to drink, but just barely, not that he needs to know that.

“Ann Wilson’s the lead singer of one of the greatest bands of the late 1970s.”

“Huh.” My head spins. I squint one eye. “Which one?”

“Which one? You’ve got to be kidding me. Your parents did you a huge disservice by not sharing this shit with you.”

Ha. My parents did a lot worse than a simple fucking disservice. “My parents are dead.” Most likely murdered, but whatevs.

“Tough break, kid.”

I shrug. “Not really. They were assholes.”

His lips tick beneath his thick beard and ’stash. He goes back to standing and tucks the corner of his bar towel into his belt. “Yo, Trek, name the greatest chick rock group of 1978!”

“Heart!” The voice of what I’m assuming to be Trek calls back from the other end of the bar.

His eyes swing back toward mine. “Heart. Ann Wilson. You’ve got her hair.”

Okaaay. “Um . . . cool.” I guess.

A couple of guys dressed in matching leather cuts drop down in stools close to mine. “What is this shit?” One of them flashes a few fingers to the bartender, his eyes on the flat-screen TV hung high behind the bar. “Fight’s been on for over an hour. I got some serious dime riding on the main event.”

Bartender guy gets busy pouring him a generous amount of bourbon. “Gimme a sec.” He drops the drink in front of the guy, a fresh beer for me, and messes with the remote.

I nod a thank you and take a long pull from the bottle. I try to keep my thoughts focused on the future and not dwell on the last forty-eight hours, but the memories lure me in. His body, so strong wrapped around mine, holding me close while I caught my breath. Hands capable of knockout punches, or creating beautiful music, stroking up and down my sensitive skin. Hearts pounding against each other as if being separated by bone, muscle, and skin couldn’t keep them from becoming one. Stop it! He’s gone and memories won’t bring him back.

It’s over.

I’ll never feel that again.

I toss back a good half of my beer, tasteless against my tongue, but it’s doing the job.

The room erupts in cheering. My eyes dart to the TV. It takes a second for me to realize what they’re getting worked up over, until . . .

“Oh shit.” I blink to make sure I’m not hallucinating.

Rex’s fight.

~*~

Rex

“Don’t let him go!”

“Keep ’em down, T-Rex!”

“Lion killer! Get ’em in a lion killer!”

The hollered instructions of my team would usually push me, but tonight they’re just words. The smell of blood and sweat, the rush of adrenaline from the fight, the pain of every hit—the things that would get me fired up before now have zero effect.

I squeeze my legs together, locking Reece in a heel hook. “Tap.”

Reece thrashes in my hold. “Fuck . . . you.” He kicks at my thigh with his free leg.

“You got ’em, T!”

His garbled curses filter though the shouted encouragement from my corner.

I’m weak. Tired. My muscles shake and scream with fatigue. But I won’t lose.

The ref yells. End of a round.

I release him, jump up, and head to my corner. The crowd roars, but it’s static in my ears. My head throbs. I drop onto the stool, trying to hide my exhaustion. As fucked as my head is, I won’t let my team down. I’d rather die out there than lose this fight.

“Look at me.” My cutman is crouched in front of me, wiping down my face. “Small cut.” He presses an eye iron to my cheek while swabbing a cut above my eye.

For the first time ever, I don’t feel the pain. I’m detached, empty, immune to its seduction.

“He’s getting some good shots in.” Owen’s at my side, yelling close to my ear to be heard over the crowd.

I try to focus on his words.

“His left leg is weak.

Jonah’s there, squatting in front of me, listening to Owen. He nods, his lips move, but I’m deaf to his words.

My cutman tilts my head back. I squint against the bright lights above the octagon. My vision goes spotty. I pull from his hold on my chin and blink. My head spins. The faces around me go blurry, twisting and stretching. I rub my eyes. How hard did I get hit?

I look into the eyes of my cutman. He’s talking, asking if I’m okay. His expression morphs into visions, faces of men, different ages and ethnicities. I slam my eyes shut as the pictures flash behind my eyes. My teeth crash together, and I force back the images. God, there were so many of them. I shake my head.

I need to stay in the fight.

“Rex, man. Talk to us.” Jonah’s hand is on my shoulder. “You good?”

“Yeah, I’m good. I’m good.” My voice is robotic, but they respond and seem convinced.

I try like hell to focus on Owen’s voice. Concentrate.

“. . . that side-angle kick. Take him down for a submission.”

Right. I can do that. I nod. Submission.

That’s all those sick-fucks wanted from me. My submission. I was a child, a desperate kid with no one to protect him. They knew that and used it to get what they wanted. I clench my hands; my pulse pounds in my ears.

“. . . you’re death walkin’ out there.” Jonah’s voice is at my ear. “We see it; his camp sure as shit sees it.”

Someone needs to pay, take the beating for the years I was raped, molested, manipulated. I mentally bind all the faces in my head and wrap them up with threads of fear, hopelessness, and shame. I ball up my anger and cram in the feelings of betrayal over Mac’s confession: the men, her family . . . her. Demons that do the devil’s work. All of them.

I stare at Reece across the octagon, projecting what’s in my head, coiling in my chest, eating away at my insides. I put all of it on him.

He’ll pay. Tonight. This fight. I’ll deliver him the beating as the punishment for my past.

The sound of the bell, and the ref motions for us to meet in the middle.

Owen’s hand firmly grips my shoulder. “Make it happen. You got this.”

The cutman swipes Vaseline over my eyebrow and jumps out of the way. The arena erupts, igniting the air that surrounds me with the electricity of their enthusiasm.

But my eyes are locked on my opponent. All of the reasons why I started fighting become insignificant. Everything I’ve been through comes to one moment, this moment.

This is my chance to unleash what I’ve been holding back, release the feelings I locked up as a kid and kept hidden so well that I couldn’t even fucking remember.

It’s time to unload the burden, and what better place to do it than in the octagon?

“Fight!”

~*~

Mac

He’s circling the octagon, his hands raised and a small cut above his eye. My breath hitches, and I cover my mouth as a whimper falls from my lips.

He’s never looked so beautiful. I hadn’t realized how much I missed just seeing him until this moment. His opponent throws a punch. Rex avoids it and follows up with a kick, which sends the guy to the ground. I’m mesmerized, watching this deadly dance between two men that I pray doesn’t end in him getting hurt.

And I’ve hurt him worse than any physical pain ever could.

I shake off the guilt and watch in awe as Rex takes down his opponent in a tangle of arms and legs. People cheer and yell. He punches and tightens his hold. It looks like he’s winning. I drive my fingers into my hair. How long until it’s over? The ref slices his hand through the air. The bar explodes in applause. Rex jumps to his feet and shoves both fists into the air. I exhale and my shoulders relax.

He won.

Pride and loss swirl in my chest, and I fight to take a full breath.

I should be there, sitting behind Rex and his camp, between Layla and Raven, enveloped in Rex’s family, accepted as one of them, there for the sole purpose of support. But instead I’m here, kicked out, forced to move on from everything I’ve ever cared about. My life, my future, ripped from my hands.

Jonah, Caleb, and some good-looking surfer guy smother Rex. They hug him and pound his back with congratulations. An announcer says something into a microphone and then shoves it in Rex’s face.

“Turn it up.” I want so badly to hear his voice, even if only for a second. The bar is too loud. I can’t hear him. “Hey, turn it up!” No one pays attention. I stand from my stool and lean over the bar. Dammit. His mouth moves and his chest thumps with heavy breathing. He’s not smiling, but he looks fine.

I drop back onto my stool. Better than fine, he looks happy.

It’s not as if I expected him to be destroyed after I left. After all, he demanded I get out of his life. But seeing him so strong, as if our time together meant nothing, sends agony slicing through my chest.

Tears burn the backs of my eyes. How can he be so unaffected? I drop my head into my hands and rub my temples. I can’t do this. I need to get out of here.

I fish a few dollars from my bag and drop them on the bar. A hand clamps down on my shoulder.

“Snow White.”

My back goes stiff, but at the same time warmth blooms in my chest at the familiar voice.

“What the fuck’re you doing here?”

I turn into the enormous frame, all wide shoulders and crossed arms, of Hatch standing just over my shoulder. “I was just leaving.”

He studies me, eyes tight while he rakes his teeth across the flavor saver below his bottom lip. “What happened to you?”

“Nothin’.” My head feels like it weighs a ton, and I fight the urge to rest it against the bar.

“Don’t look like nothin’.” He rounds my back and pulls the stool next to me up close so that he’s practically straddling mine. Pushing my hair over my shoulder, he studies me. “You runnin’ again?”

How did he know? I roll my eyes. “Hatch—”

“No, you show up here all the way from Vegas, you tell me what the fuck.”

I groan and give into the weight of my head, resting it on my forearm against the bar. My eyes close as fatigue and booze kick in tandem. “Had to leave. Didn’t know where to go.”

His hot breath is at my ear and the overpowering smell of liquor and smoke. “Can’t get this drunk in a place like this, Snow.”

I huff out a breath. If I could just sleep for a few minutes. “Been riding for ten hours.” I yawn so hard it makes my eyes water. “My ass is numb. Need sleep.”

“I get that, but you can’t do that shit in a place like this.”

Whatever. I mean what’s the worst that can happen? I get killed and left on the side of the road? At least then I can end the suffering and finally get some rest. Ahh, rest. I take a deep breath, gently pulled into sleep—

“That’s it.” Firm hands grip my shoulders. “You’re coming with me.”

I shove him off, trying to focus on him with one open eye. “Five minutes, Hatch.” It closes and I go back to resting my head.

“Ha, take a look around. Check out the way you’re being sized up. You’ll be begging me to get you out of here.”

“Hatch, man, you cool?” The bartender’s voice is laced with concern.

I tilt my head back to see him scowling at Hatch.

“Yeah, Zip. Mac here’s roommates with my chick in Vegas. I’m taking her to the compound before these idiots catch the scent of her pass out.”

Zip’s eyes move across the room. I follow the path of his glare. A few bikers off to the side of the bar are watching me, whispering. My skin crawls and my hand darts out to Hatch’s cut.

“Now she gets it.” Hatch chuckles. He holds out his hand. “Bike keys.”

I fish them from my pocket. Hatch snags them and tosses them to Zip. “Honda out front. Mind pulling it into the back for the night?”

Zip nods. “Sure thing. Get Annie the fuck out of here.”

A burst of energy sends me to my feet. A wave of liquor-haze makes me dizzy and I stumble.

Hatch holds me upright. “Easy there. Let’s get you on the back of my bike.”

I flash Zip a small smile, and he pops up his chin in acknowledgment. Hatch moves me through the crowded bar. The room tilts and he holds me closer, keeping me steady. We emerge from the bar and into the cold mountain air. I breathe in a deep, sobering breath.

He lets me go and moves to his Harley. “Hop on.”

“Why are you doing this?” I sway on my feet. “You don’t even like me and I’m pretty sure I hate you.” Although at this point I’m in no position to rule out anyone as a friend.

“You took a punch. Didn’t even cry.” He looks around; then his eyes are back on mine. “I don’t like you, but I respect you.” There’s a flash of something behind his eyes, but it’s gone to quickly for my drunken thoughts to process. “Now get your tiny ass on the bike before I send you home with a dude who doesn’t.”

Better to be cared for by someone I can’t stand than to be rejected and tossed aside by the love of my life.

I take a few dragging steps toward him, throw on my backpack, and saddle up behind him. “Should I grab my helmet?”

He fires up the bike; the ominous growl of the engine vibrates around me. “No helmet law in Colorado.”

Sadness slumps my shoulders. I wrap my arms around Hatch’s middle and lean my cheek against his cold leather-coated back. “Perfect. Take us home.”