Fighting to Forget, Page 2

  Firm hands grip my biceps from behind. “I dare you to call me that again.” I let myself be pulled away. “Go on! Say it. Call me a cocksucker!”

  His friends help him to his feet and he brushes himself off, smiling. “That all you got, momma’s boy?”

  “Piece of shit!” I throw my body forward only to get blocked by Talon.

  “Rex, man, chill the fuck out.” Lane pulls me back.

  My muscles burn for a fight, but they’re right. This drunken loser isn’t worth it, and judging by the blood dripping from his lip to his leather vest, I’d say I proved my point. I stop struggling and shrug them off.

  They let me go but stand barrier between me and the bloodied biker.

  My blood is still cranked from the adrenaline and the ache of my fall. A slow smile pulls at my lips, and I can feel the wild in my eyes as I glance at Talon. “That was fun.”

  He stares at me with a look I’m familiar with. It’s in the pinched brows, squinted eyes, and the slight lift of his lip.

  He thinks I’m insane.

  He’s right.

  ~*~

  Mac

  “Fucking fantastic.” My mumbled words are lost in the tepid desert air. It’s early May, and already the weather is warming with the promise of punishing summer temps.

  I spit a few windblown strands of hair from my mouth and turn my motorcycle into my driveway. I hit the garage door opener and glare at the Harley beast parked just a few feet away.

  Hatchet’s here.

  After the night I’ve had, I’m in no mood to deal with his shit. I groan and pull my motorcycle into the garage.

  It’s late–or early. Working the closing shift in a Vegas nightclub is a bitch. Besides having my ass grabbed, a drunk chick slosh her drink on my shirt, and getting stiffed by a group of frat boy assholes, now I’ve got to deal with this biker piece of crap. My only hope is that they’re asleep.

  I shove into the house from the garage, and I’m met with complete darkness. Caught off guard, I stumble and my chest gets tight.

  “Dammit.” I hate the dark. I flip on the closest switch, which illuminates a single bulb by the pantry.

  Trix knows to leave a light on when I have to work late. Now I know they’re asleep—or to be more accurate, passed out.

  For a second, I almost envy my roommate and her biker hookup. They’re probably so deep in the land of the intoxicated that nothing short of being stabbed could wake them up. I allow myself the fantasy of driving a knife into Hatch’s leg after one of his wise-ass taunts and smile. A girl can dream.

  My grin fades and I blow out a long breath. Dream, what a joke. More like nightmare. I lie in bed half the night, fighting sleep for fear the dreams will come: memories of the life I lived before I got free, locked up and alone with revenge as my only company.

  I shake the thoughts from my mind and stay focused on the present, my immediate needs, and now I’m hungry.

  I work my way through the cabinets and fridge, looking for something to eat. A quick shake of the Cocoa Puffs box. Empty. Fruit Roll-Ups? Gone. I reach for a strawberry Pop-Tart and grab a Capri Sun from the fridge. Score!

  The nauseous smell of Midori wafts from my sticky shirt and up my nose. How do girls drink that crap? It’s like cough syrup and Jolly Rancher mixed. I need a hot shower, pronto.

  Leaving the light on, I make my way to my bedroom while ripping open the Pop-Tart package with my teeth.

  “Mornin’, Big Mac.” My roommate’s voice, scratchy with sleep, comes from the living room. “You’re just getting home?” She’s lounging on the couch, her long blond hair in a tangled mess and Hatch’s wide muscular body passed out between her legs, his face in her belly.

  I cover my eyes, wishing that I’d turned the kitchen light off. I can’t un-see that shit. “Hatch, you mind getting your naked ass off my couch?”

  He mumbles something and grunts. With the sound of movement and the desire to avoid seeing his business, I give them my back.

  “You should come back to work at Zeus’s.” Trix moans as if she’s stretching in naked contentment on my damn couch. “Better hours.”

  “Thanks, but I’ll pass. Bartending in fishnets and a G-string isn’t my thing. And those Brazilian waxes are a bitch.” All right, I still get those, but not for the reason I used to. Natural red hair isn’t an easy thing to hide.

  When I first moved to Vegas, working at Zeus’s was where I wanted to be. I thought it’d be hard to get hired with no ID. I was wrong.

  My name is Mac Ellenshire. I’m new in town and got my purse stolen. I need money to get a new ID. Will you hire me? Push out my boobs, wink, and wiggle my ass. Hired.

  I worked there long enough to meet Trix, who helped me with a place to live, and Hatchet, who got me a fake ID and social security number. My plans were all panning out until the only reason I worked there in the first place ended up with a bullet in his head. Eh, details.

  I sink my teeth into the sweet crumbly pastry and motion toward my roommate. “There a reason you two decided to soil the couch?”

  “Sorry, roomie. Party out in the middle of nowhere last night. By the time we finally got home, I was sick of traveling.”

  She’s got to be kidding me. “Ten more steps to your bedroom, Trix.”

  “Yeah,” she says through a long drawn-out yawn. “That seemed really far away at three a.m.”

  “I’m starving.” Hatch shuffles his bare feet to me, zipping up his jeans. Even in the limited light, his scruffy longish brown hair, huge shoulders, and tan skin make him look one hundred percent biker even without his leather cut.

  He glares at my hands. “What is it with you and kid food?”

  Truth is where I grew up we never got kid food. I’m making up for lost time. But the worst thing a person can do in front of a guy like Hatch is expose a weakness. He already knows I use a fake name, and it’s through his connections that I got a new social and ID. That alone is too much.

  I hold up my head and keep my expression blank. “What is it with you and your obvious disdain for bathing?”

  Clearly not used anyone talking back to him, especially a female, he steps up close, trying to intimidate with me with his size or his stink. But he knows nothing about me and the life I lived. His worst sins are nothing compared to the things I’ve seen.

  A slow grin pulls at my lips.

  “What’re you laughing at, bitch?”

  “Watch the name calling, Easy Rider.”

  “Ugh.” Trix stumbles to us, wrapped in a throw blanket. “Can you two go one fuckin’ night without fighting?”

  He turns to her. “Hey, Snow White here was just saying she’s gonna make me some damn breakfast.”

  “Go make your own damn breakfast, preferably in your own damn house.”

  Trix turns on the light in the foyer, and I cringe at what I see on Hatchet’s face. His eye is discolored and puffy, his lip split, and his cheek an eerie mix of purple and blue.

  ’Bout time that guy talked shit to the wrong person. “What happened to your face?”

  “Fucking pussy got lippie.” He shrugs and crosses his arms at his chest. “Had to put him in his place.”

  I shove another bite of Pop-Tart in my mouth, smiling. “You put him in his place?” I motion to his eye and cheek. “’Cause uh . . . from where I’m standing, it looks like you got your ass handed to you.” A snort of laughter rips from my throat.

  Trix stands, facing him, her hand on her cocked hip. “He didn’t get lippie. You picked a fight with him.”

  He glares at her. “Bullshit. He started it.”

  “You’re an idiot.” Trix shakes her head. “You know that guy fights for a living, right? You’re lucky he left you breathing.” She moves into the kitchen and Hatch follows.

  A fighter? Vegas is full of professional fighters—both boxers and UFL—but there are only a few I know that would hang out with the kind of crowd that invites bikers to their parties. And one of those guys I have a vested interest in.


  I pop my head into the kitchen. “Who fights for a living?”

  Trix awkwardly pulls a box of cold pizza from the fridge while trying to keep her body covered with the blanket. “UFL guy. He’s huge, rides a dirt bike . . .”

  My heart speeds and my head gets light.

  “Covered in tattoos.” She snaps her fingers. “Oh, his band plays at your bar.”

  “Rex?”

  They both turn toward me at the same time.

  “You know the fruit-tart?” Hatch crosses the room with a look in his eye that I see frequently when I look in the mirror. He wants vengeance.

  I square off with him. “Fruit-tart? He beat your ass.”

  “You know where I can find him?”

  “If I did, I’d never tell you. Wouldn’t want to be an accessory to your murder.”

  He smiles, or at least it looks as if it’s supposed to be a smile, but the way his upper lip curls back from his teeth looks more like a snarl. “Don’t worry, Snow White. I won’t hurt your boy. I’ll leave him breathing.”

  “He’s not my boy.” He’s my brother! “And don’t call me that.”

  We stare off for a few seconds before Trix tugs on his arm. “Come on, Grumpy. Time for you to get home. I’m sure Sneezy and Doc are worried sick about you.”

  He yanks his arm out of her hold. “I’ll find him. We’ve got some unfinished business. Had a few too many beers last night, so he got the jump.” Trix drags him down the hallway toward her room. He points at me over her head. “That shit won’t happen again.”

  I almost want to laugh at how ridiculous he sounds. Rex is six feet of pure muscle. He’d render Hatch unconscious before he even realized what happened. He’d have to be an idiot to go after Rex.

  Knowing all that, my stomach still churns with anxiety. I hate the idea that someone is out for him. If they only knew what he’s been through . . .?

  From what I can tell he’s managed to keep his past a secret. I don’t blame him. But Rex doesn’t know everything, not the most important thing. If I can just get close enough to him to form a friendship, then I can fill him in on the part of his past he doesn’t know. The one thing that could change everything.

  It’d give him someone to blame for what he’s been through—everything he endured at the hands of monsters—what his tiny body was put through and the unimaginable horrors he lived. I break out in a sweat. The walls start to close in and my skin feels too tight.

  Locked away. Helpless.

  I race to my room and lock the door behind me. Claustrophobia knocks against my nerves. My eyes scan the windows. Open. Always open.

  I take a deep breath of the fresh air and remind myself he’s free. I’m free. I drop to all fours near my bed and swipe my hand beneath it, reaching for the box.

  The rusted metal scrapes against my palms. I climb up on my bed, cross-legged, and flip back the lid.

  Inside are scraps of yellowed paper covered in the frantic handwriting of a boy—a boy who endured things that horror stories are made from—evidence of an existence far worse than anything hell could threaten.

  I had the power to stop it.

  But I didn’t.

  My eyes move over each word for what feels like the thousandth time. I memorize his handwriting, relive his story, and reignite my purpose.

  I can give him what he never had.

  Answers.

  I stare unseeing as flashes of my nightmares play out behind my eyes: the blood, so much blood; the bright blue of his eyes imploring mine; the grunted words that I’ll never forget.

  The box. Our secret.

  My hands, tiny and insignificant, shook for hours after they loaded him into the ambulance and sped off. The sirens blared in my head long after they took him away. I still see it all, hear it in my nightmares.

  Bile crawls up my throat and my body revolts against the images. I slam closed the box and shove it under my bed. The shadows creep in, reminding me that I’m walking the edge of my sanity.

  I snag my iPod off my bedside table and pop on my ear buds. With tremors wracking my fingers, I scroll through a list of songs and hit play. It’s a bootleg recording, crackly and distorted, but it doesn’t matter. The music soothes and his voice chases away the dark.

  Maybe after a few hours of sleep, I’ll go see him. He never knows I’m there, but it’s enough to set my eyes on him, remind myself that he’s alive.

  Seeing him never fails to do the job, clear away the cobwebs from the life I’m forced to live, and remind me of the one I promised to redeem.

  Two

  Black like my soul and my memories

  A void beyond consciousness

  Red like the way that they treated me

  Now a man left to clean up the mess

  --Ataxia

  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.