Fighting to Forget

Two

Rex

It’s ten a.m. by the time I wake up enough to get my shit together. After the late night and the drama in the desert, I couldn’t sleep. That biker dick calling me a cocksucker was bad enough, but not getting the satisfaction of beating him unconscious itches like a rash.

Restless and eager for a fight, I finally had to succumb and take the pills my shrink gave me to calm my ass down enough to sleep. I went down hard and slept through my alarm.

I’m groggy as hell, moving through my condo like a zombie. Fuck, I hate those pills. The few times I’ve taken them I wake up with a hangover so intense I swear I’ll never touch another one again. But here I am.

As I’m forcing down my morning protein shake, the doorbell rings. I don’t get visitors often because I refuse to have people over. Other than a door-to-door salesman, there’s only one other person it could be.

“Hold up.” I head to the door and swing it open.

It’s my neighbor, Emma.

“Hey there.” She’s smiling and shifts a large duffel bag from her shoulder to the ground.

I reach up to the door frame, stretching out my sore shoulder. “You’re heading out this early?”

“Early?” She giggles and tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. “It’s ten in the morning.” Her big green eyes travel from my face to my neck and down. “Um . . . thanks, ah, again for helping me out.”

She stares at the ink on my chest and tilts her head to read the writing tattooed on my ribcage. I fight the urge to shift uncomfortably at her blatant ogling.

“Em . . .”

Her eyes move up toward my face but snag on one silver barbell through my right nipple then glide across to the one in my left.

“Emma.”

Her eyes are wide and dart to mine. “Oh, yeah, yes. I’m leaving now.” Pink colors her cheeks.

“Let me grab a shirt and I’ll walk you down.”

“No need. I got it.” She reaches in her pocket and pulls out her keys. “Here ya go. Twice a day would be great, but if you can only get over there once, that should be okay too.”

I tuck the keys into the pocket of my track pants. “Shitty’s food in the same place?”

Her jaw drops open with a big smile. “Oh my gosh, don’t call her that. And yeah, Miss Kitty’s food is under the sink.” Reaching down, she hefts the duffle onto her shoulder. She pulls long strands of her chestnut hair out from under the strap with a wince.

“Let me get that.” I don’t give her a chance to argue and take the bag, cringing slightly as pain twists behind my collarbone. I set the bag down. “Give me a sec.”

I leave the door open, knowing that Emma won’t come in. She knows how things work with me and respects my boundaries.

The first day she moved in she came by to introduce herself. I knew by her jeans, flannel shirt, and hiking boots that she wasn’t from around here. That and transplants are always friendlier than natives.

And that’s Emma. Friendly, beautiful, and naïve to a fault. Small town girl in the City of Sin. When she goes home to visit her family, I take care of her cat, Miss Kitty.

Leaving her at the door, I go to my closet to grab a T-shirt and a pair of shoes. I pull the shirt over my head, but carry the shoes to the door, popping them on while standing on the doormat, then grab her duffel with my uninjured arm.

“Thanks again, Rex. I owe you.”

“Yeah?” I close the door behind me. “Bring back some of those cookies your mom makes.”

She giggles and the sound of it makes me smile. I’ve never met a more open, bubbly, and all around happy person in all my life. She’s light, comfortable to hang out with, a good girl.

She puts on her sunglasses as we make our way through the courtyard and into the bright late morning sun. “You playing a show tonight?”

“Yep. Usual Sunday night gig.”

Emma has never been to one of my shows. She asks about them and I’ve invited her, but she stays separate from that part of my life, the band and the fighting. I like that. With her, I get to just be me, not T-Rex or the lead singer of Ataxia. Just Rex. Simple.

Once at her Jeep Cherokee, she opens the back and I put in the bag, stepping aside for her to drop the hatch. “Drive safely. I’ll take good care of Miss Shitty.”

“Stop calling her that.” She smacks my chest.

I laugh and feign injury. “What? That’s her name.”

“Miss Kitty. Not Shitty.”

“That’s what I said.” I chuckle.

She shakes her head then looks up at me and uses her hand to shield her face from the overhead sun. “I should be back Tuesday, but if not, I’ll give you a call.”

I hook her around the back of her neck and pull her in for a hug. Her arms go around my waist in a quick, chaste embrace.

“Break a leg tonight.” She hoists her tiny frame into the driver’s seat and fires up the engine.

I nod and stand back as she pulls out of her parking spot and leaves the lot. Yeah, she’s a good girl. She doesn’t belong here in Vegas. I thought for sure that the city would corrupt her, but after two years she’s still the same. She goes to school, studies hard, works harder, and always keeps that smile on her face.

There’s a voice deep down that whispers I should date her, ask her out and see where things go. She’s pretty in a way that screams purity. White. Clean. Something that needs to be protected, not dirtied.

And I’m nothing if not dirty.

After her car is long gone, I turn to head back when I get the feeling someone’s watching me. It’s been happening a lot these last few months. One minute nothing, and then it’s as if the air pressure changes. A weight, thick and dense settles in around me.

I crank my neck to the left and right, but keep walking, knowing that eventually the feeling goes away. It seems stupid to care about being looked at. I’ve been in the public eye for years, but this is different somehow.

“Fuck, I’m losing my damn mind.” I’d tell my shrink at our next meeting, but the last thing I want added to my list of syndromes and afflictions is motherfucking paranoia. “At this rate they’ll throw my ass in a straightjacket.”

Since I started seeing my therapist at seventeen, he’s been trying to figure out where my compulsions stem from. I’ve heard phrases like repressed memories, abandonment issues, and post-traumatic stress disorder ever since I was hospitalized as a kid.

That’s my earliest vivid memory: waking up in a hospital bed. It’s funny. I don’t remember wanting to die. I don’t even remember why I did it other than the satisfaction of marking my skin and watching my blood pool. The visions I have of that day only come in flashes and specific colors: bright red blood against my pale skin. Surprisingly, the thoughts don’t evoke much feeling.

But then there are the others, two very specific flashes: fire-orange hair and light gray eyes. And with those visions comes the warmth, the peace.

There are sounds that accompany the soft orange waves and the misty gray eyes—humming—soothing, rhythmic melodies that calm my inner turmoil.

Those two things are the memories I hold on to. They’re the ones that keep me sane at night when the insomnia won’t let up.

That sounds so fucking insane. The best explanation my therapist can come up with is some shit about coping mechanisms and self-soothing. But what is there to cope with, to soothe, if I don’t remember?

Not at all in the mood to take this ride down no-memory lane, I grab my cell from my pocket just as I hit my front door. Scrolling through my contacts, I find the one I’m looking for and hit send. I kick off my shoes and carry them to my closet.

“Rex,” Blake answers the phone sounding as if he just rolled out of bed. “What’s up?”

“You training today?” I know he is. The guy is a fucking machine when it comes to his fights, and this one coming up is a career changer for him. It’s also instrumental in earning back what reputation he lost a few months ago.

“Does a monkey shit in the woods?”

“You mean bear.”

“Bear who?”

“It’s ‘Does a bear shit in the woods?’”

“You seriously fucking calling me on a Sunday to talk about this shit?”

“No, dick, I’m calling to find out what time I should be at the training center so I can show you what a pussy you are.”

“I’m leaving in thirty.”

“See you there.”

I hang up, smiling and suddenly excited to get in a good sparring session before my show tonight. What I started with that guy at the bonfire, I can finish with Blake.

~*~

I pull into the parking lot and see that Jonah, Caleb, and Blake’s trucks are the only ones there. Using a passcode and key card to get inside, I move through the darkened lobby and into the main training center. It’s empty, but I can hear music coming from behind the door of the weight room.

Caleb spots me as I head toward the locker room. “What are you doing here? Thought you weren’t training today.”

I tug at my lip ring. “Slept like shit last night. Thought this would help.”

“Glad you’re here. Blake needs a good ass-kicking. Drop your shit in the locker room and I’ll meet you in there.”

“Sounds good. Let me grab a quick shower.”

He drops his eyebrows and shakes his head. The guys stopped fucking with me years ago about how often I shower. I can’t help it, but I feel like I’m covered in shit all the time.

“Right. I’ll meet you over there.” He claps me on the shoulder.

I wince at the painful yet gratifying shock of pain.

He frowns. “You injured?”

“Nah, just took a dive off my bike last night. No big deal.”

“No big deal.” He pins me with a glare. “Right. Just like the time your finger was bending ninety degrees the wrong way. Are we talking that kind of no big deal?”

“I’m fine. Really.”

He gives up with a shrug. “Whatever, dude. I’ll meet you in the weight room.”

A quick scalding shower later, I’m moving through the training center toward the weight room. I shove through the double doors, Slipnot’s “Dead Memories” blaring through the speakers.

“’Bout time.” Blake drops his leg-press weights hard for emphasis.

“You ready for some real competition?” I grin as the guys chuckle at my ribbing. “I’m here. Let’s spar.”

“Rex, dude. Easy with that shoulder.” Caleb pipes up like a tattle-tailing little brother. The guy is my best bro, but sometimes he feels more like a nagging chick.

Jonah drops his weights back onto the rack. “What’s up with your shoulder?”

I glare at Caleb but answer Jonah. “Nothing.”

Blake laughs and steps to me, his arms crossed over his chest. “Nothing? You sure?”

“I endo’ed my dirt bike last night. Probably just a strain.”

“Yeah?” He shoves my shoulder.

Ow! Fuck. I swallow my answering growl and instead step up closer to him. “See. I’m fine. But if you’re scared, maybe you should see if Killer can spar with you. He’s a little more your speed.”

Blake’s eyes get tight, and I feel the slow grin pull at my lips.

“Fuck you. Octagon in five.” Blake stomps from the room.

Jonah and Caleb stare at me.

I throw my good arm out to my side. “What? He started it.”

“Don’t fuck around, T-Rex.” Jonah grabs his towel and wipes his face. “If you’re hurt, you shouldn’t be training.”

“I said I’m fine.”

“You’re not acting like you’re fine,” Caleb says.

“He’s right. You’re babying that arm—”

“Who the fuck died and made you guys my parents?” With my words comes a new pain, a different kind of pain, the numbing kind that makes me desperate to feel.

Caleb holds up his hands. “Chill out, bro.”

“I’m not your bro, your bitch, or your kid!” A rage rolls around in my gut, and I know if I don’t harness this feeling I’ll flip out.

It happens sometimes and I can’t figure out why, triggered by a remark or a feeling. Last night it was when that guy called me a cocksucker. It’s happened with the mention of family and, now, being treated as if I don’t have say in what my body feels or doesn’t feel. I rub my eyes and welcome the headache.

“You okay?” Jonah’s in my face.

“Fine.” I groan and try to breathe deep. “I’m a little on edge, Got in a fight at a party last night, didn’t sleep well.” Feel like I’m being watched and can’t remember anything from my childhood—normal shit.

“Fight at a party, huh?” Jonah smiles. “You kick his ass?”

“Not like I wanted to.”

“No blood and broken bones, huh?”

“There was blood. Just not enough.”

“Shame.” He moves past me. “Better get your ass to the octagon before Blake starts crying.”

He’s right. I’ll throw all this extra emotional shit into fighting.

“You ready, asshat?” Blake says, yelling from the octagon, pulling me from my own mental hell.

I smile. “Yep.”

~*~

Mac

“Piece of shit.” I kick the front tire of my ’98 Honda motorcycle. “Ouch! Dammit.” I spin away and limp to the backdoor of The Blackout, knowing that to top off my crappy start to the night I’m going to get an earful from my manager about being late for my shift.

I took the long way to work, opting to take a few laps around a new housing development that’s vacant and still under construction. And I felt better too, until I got close to work and realized my tire was flat. Walking my motorcycle that last mile did nothing but piss me off more than I already was.

But I continue to tell myself that I didn’t see what I saw. Rex didn’t walk a woman from his apartment carrying her overnight bag. He didn’t put it in her car and hug her goodbye. And he didn’t watch her drive away with a longing in his eyes that made my heart cramp and stomach turn.

I jog by his house almost every day, and I’ve never seen him with a girl like that. Not once.

Throwing open the door, I smile at the satisfying crack of the metal handle as it hits the brick wall. After grabbing my apron, I stash my messenger bag into a locker.

“You’re late,” Mario, my manager, says from down the hall.

I face him and shrug. “Flat tire.”

“Sure. You’re on the floor tonight with Alexis. Get your side work done. It should be busy tonight. Ataxia goes on at eight.” He turns and walks down the corridor toward the bar.

“Great.” It’s not that I mind cocktail serving, but there’s something about being on the floor all night while Rex is on stage that makes me feel exposed. At least when I’m behind the bar there’s three feet of waist-high solid wood to play barrier.

The Blackout is a typical local music venue. It’s dark, with black walls and a concrete floor. The room is shaped like a rectangle with a stage on one side, tables throughout, and a long bar running along the wall. It’s nothing fancy or complicated, but the acoustics make it one of the most popular venues for local music here in Vegas.

When I hit the server’s station, Alexis is already there picking at her hot pink nails. “Hey, Mac. I hope it’s okay, but I’ve got dibs on the back section tonight.” She points to her lower belly. “Red devil. I need an easy night.”

Fuck. That puts me in the front of the house, closest to the stage. “Sure thing, but don’t think you can use your period as an excuse to slack off all night. I’m not picking up extra tables.”

Her eyes narrow. “What’s up your ass?”

I exhale hard and shake my head. “I had to walk my bike for almost a mile. Made me crabby as hell.”

“Well, shit. This should be a fun shift. Between the two of us, we could probably clear this place out with our bitch-a-tude.”

I laugh and wrap a short black server’s apron around my waist. A sharp whistle from the bar turns my head.

Lucas, the bartender, points to a tray of battery-operated candles sitting on the bar. “Set up your section, Mac. I think we’re going to get slammed early.”

Groaning, I remind myself that I need the money and move my sour ass. I dress every table with a candle, stock my station with plenty of cocktail napkins, and make sure I’ve got fifty dollars in small bills for change.

Two hours later, the place is packed. I’ve been so busy with my tables I don’t notice whether or not the band has gotten in. That’s the other thing I hate about being a cocktail server—waiting on the band.

Every time I get close to Rex my tongue swells and I stumble over myself like a drunken teenager. He never looks directly at me, not that I blame him. And even though I look nothing like the girl from his past, there’s a part of me that dies every time he treats me like a stranger.

I place the last of five pints on my tray and negotiate the crowded room to a table up front. Movement from the stage catches my eye. I peek over and see Ataxia is there setting up.

My eyes find Rex out of habit, and no matter how hard I try to look away, I can’t. He’s dressed in charcoal gray Dickies and black Chucks. His faded As-I-Lay-Dying tee looks a half size too small, hugging his heavily tattooed biceps and stretching across his chest and shoulders. If he were to lift his arms, even a little, I’d get a glimpse of his rippled abdomen. He’s wearing a black baseball hat cocked just off center enough to showcase the two small silver barbells in his eyebrow.

I’m staring. I know I should turn away before I get caught, but tucked into the safety of the crowd, I think I’m safe. He’s setting up the mic, concentrating, and rolls his full bottom lip between his teeth. With a step back, he checks out the height of the stand, pulling at his lip ring.

He’s so different from the boy I knew, but no less handsome. Even behind all the metal in his face, I can see those same blue eyes. But there’s a hardness to them now, a steel that matches his expression, as if life has lost its luster and he’s adjusted to the disappointment.

“Yo, sweet tits, you gonna deliver us those beers or am I going to have to come and get ’em from you.” One of the guys at my table thinks he’s a comedian and laughs at his own crappy joke.

I drag my eyes away from Rex and deliver the beers. Get with it, Mac. Tonight could be the night I finally break through and have the courage to introduce myself. Yeah right. I say that every Sunday night Ataxia plays and haven’t gotten any further than offering him a drink.

To think I’ve been waiting most of my life to see him again, planned my speech to perfection over years and years of solitude, but don’t have the courage to follow through. Pathetic.

“You may as well grab me another one of these.” The jerk gulps down half the beer I just gave him and burps.

How long have I been standing here?

“Sure thing.” I turn and head to check on another table.

“Don’t know what I like better. Watching her go or watching her come.” The table of douche morons laughs, and I could’ve sworn I heard the palm slap of a high-five.

Usually I’d have some smart-ass remark that would shut that asshole up, but I’m in no mood to fight. I can’t get the visual of Rex and that girl out of my head: his huge frame towering over hers, long powerful arms swallowing her whole.

I shouldn’t care. His happiness is the most important thing. It’s the only thing I’ve ever cared about since I reappeared in his life. But why does it feel as though I’ve lost something?

Groupies hang on him all the time, but he’s never given them more than his polite attention. I’ve never seen him leave with a girl, and I’d know. I watch.

“Mac!” A familiar voice pulls my attention.

I search the direction and see Layla, a girl I met back in February, who is now living with Rex’s friend and fellow UFL fighter, Blake Daniels.

She’s wearing her usual kick-ass jeans with a heavy metal concert tee and biker boots.

“Hey.” My eyes swing to Blake, who seems to be giving a few guys at the bar dirty looks. “Blake.”

He grumbles his hello and Layla rolls her eyes. “Don’t mind him. Those guys made the mistake of looking at me. Guess they forgot that when I’m around they need to avert their eyes to the floor.” The sarcasm in her voice is thick.

“Damn right, those fuckers need to keep their eyes to the floor.” He slowly removes his glare from the poor guys who I’m sure are halfway to running the hell out of here to avoid Blake’s wrath. “You won’t wear my ring or take my name. Until that baby bump starts showing, Mouse, dudes need to know you’re taken.”

“Baby bump? Layla, are you pregnant?” My cheeks ache as I smile in response to her face-splitting grin.

She covers her mouth and nods.

“Oh my gosh, that’s amazing!” I wrap my arms around her in a hug. “Congratulations.”

“Thanks, we just found out a couple weeks ago, so it’s not public news yet.”

“Wow, ‘The Snake’ is going to be a dad.” I shake my head and grin.

“Damn right.” Blake slips his arm around her shoulders.

“I better get back to work, but we should hang out soon.”

“I’d love that.” She pulls a pen out from her purse and scribbles something on a napkin. “Here’s my number. Let’s grab coffee or a drink—”

“No drinks, Mouse. Coffee’s out too.” Blake’s eyes move around the bar as if he’s searching for his next victim. Protective much? Jeez.

“Right, well, dinner and water it is.” She twirls a lock of long hair around her finger.

I shove the napkin in my pocket. “Dinner would be fun. I’ll—”

A chord from an electric guitar blares through the speakers. I swing around to face the stage.

Rex’s deep laugh comes through the mic to my ears in a sensual caress. His laugh is something I’ve only heard since I started working here. I’ll never forget the first time.

To this day I don’t know what he was laughing at, but it was the most incredible thing I’d ever heard. I was bartending, and he was standing at the end of the bar with some friends. I stared at him. His head was thrown back, and he had that beautiful smile. I was completely memorized at how carefree he could be.

Jealousy rolls through me when I think of all the people who’ve been in the company of an untroubled Rex. That’s a side of him I’m only starting to know and only from a distance.

“Thanks for coming out tonight.” He’s still chuckling through his words, looking at the guitar player who’s also grinning.

Their good humor is contagious and I smile too.

“We’re going to change things up a bit and start with a new song we’ve been working on. So um . . .”—he plays the beginning of a song I’ve never heard, and the drums and bass join in—“don’t throw shit if I fuck it up.”

The song is fast and loud, getting the crowd riled up. I mouth to Layla and Blake that we can talk later and move to sit in the shadows at the side of the bar.

Rex presses his lips against the mic and starts singing the new song. The sound is dark, haunting, and soul penetrating. He sings about being confined and helpless. The lyrics go on to talk about being kept from the world and unable to get free. The basement. My stomach cramps violently. But it’s the chorus that has me gripping my neck and forcing myself to keep breathing.

There’s so much to say, every time we’re together.

But the fear and the pain seem to go on forever.

Every night that you come, whispered words spoken

You calm my soul, and in the moment, I’m not broken.

Is he singing about me?