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I grab a pint glass, clean the inside, and then pour him his beer. After setting it down in front of him, I pour him a shot of tequila because he looks like he needs something stronger.
“Thanks,” he says before downing the shot. “You should see the other guy.”
I chuckle. “In this case, I hope he’s a lot worse.”
He tries to crack a smile. “He is. I won.”
“Oh, yeah, what’s her name?” I ask, against my better judgement.
“Ben Franklin, about ten of them.”
It takes me a moment for his words to sink in and when they finally do I come to the conclusion the guy in front of me got the shit beat out of him for a thousand dollars. “You’re joking, right? You let someone punch you in the face for a grand?”
He nods and sips his pint gingerly. “Every Saturday night.”
“Where?”
He shrugs. “The location changes. Ya know, because underground fighting is illegal.”
“Sounds crazy. Aren’t you afraid you’re going to get hurt?”
Another shrug. “I’ll stop once I’m out of debt.”
Out of debt. Those words have a nice ring to them. I leave him be, and go back to the frat boy who wants to open a tab. He hands me his card and tells me no one is allowed to put anything on his tab, and then orders a gin and tonic. I almost laugh because he definitely looks like a wine spritzer sort of guy.
The street fighter waves me down and asks for another. I’m not sure if he means to do this or not, but he flashes the Benjamins he told me about. He throws a hundred down and tells me to keep the change. I don’t know how long I stare at it nestled between my fingertips. It has me completely mesmerized. I know there is a lot of things I could do for extra money, but I’m intrigued by this.
“Can you tell me more about this gig?”
He does. He fills me in on everything and sends a text to a five-digit number. He shows me his phone.
Trial fight, 3 a.m. Five for win. 1k for a knockout. You escort.
“You in?” he asks.
Without no hesitation, I nod. “Hell yeah, I’m in.”
nine
Thea
When we were younger, my mom would always have these sayings she’d use in a bid to encourage us to be good kids. Whether it was telling Jude that sitting too close to the television will ruin his eyesight or telling me if I swallowed gum it would stay in my stomach for seven years; she’d always come up with these tales. As kids, we believed her. Why wouldn’t we? When you’re six and eight-years old, you believe anything your parents tell you. Some of these were age-old sayings passed down through generations and didn’t really make sense. Some of them, I’m sure she made up. One in particular sticks in my mind now. On very cold snowy days, I used to love coming home from school and having super hot baths. The steam billowed so much, there was condensation running down the window and I couldn’t see my reflection in the mirror. She always used to tell me you can’t put the Sahara Desert in the Arctic Ocean as one will outlive the other. I guess it was her way of saying having a boiling-hot bath straight after coming inside on a freezing-cold day wasn’t good for me because I’d either remain cold, or my body would overheat. I never really understood it and I’m certain it’s one analogy she definitely made up. As far as I was concerned, as long as the bath warmed me up, everything was fine. Still, I’d always promise that next time, I’d make sure the water was cooler.
I think of the saying now and can’t help but apply it to Kyler. He’s a perfect example of the Sahara and the Arctic. Hot one minute, being social, having fun, actually talking to people at parties; and cold the next, closed off, scowling, one-word answers and sloping off suddenly. I find myself wondering what would happen if he were to mix the two, which side of him would outlive the other. Of course, the other analogy would be to say he was the master of giving people whiplash, but Kyler is far more complex. There are layers to him he’s holding on to closely, not wanting anyone to peel them back and see. There’s a vulnerability to him which I’m certain I caught a glimpse of the other night. But most of all he has an easily triggered fight or flight instinct. If he doesn’t like the way a situation is progressing, he shuts it down. It’s the only conclusion I have for him leaving the street hockey game so suddenly yesterday. We were all having a good time, getting along, and enjoying ourselves. But, as soon as the suggestion was made to carry on the party with a barbeque, he was out of there like his feet were on fire. Maybe I’m overthinking it and he’s just unsociable. Either way, I need to stop thinking about it and him. I’m not a psych student and there is no way I’m going to be able to figure him out. Kyler Rose is clearly taking up way too much of my time and it needs to stop.
Looking at my phone, I see it’s just about to turn five-thirty a.m. It’s still dark outside but I need to clear my head and an early morning run will do just the trick. I quickly change into some leggings, a sports bra with a cami over the top, and put my sneakers on before slowly walking down the stairs. I’m pretty sure I can run a few blocks and be back before the others are awake. We have plans to do a big grocery shop today before going to the movie theater to catch the latest release.
I grab my water bottle and fill it up, quickly eat a granola bar, and head toward the front door, only to stop in my tracks when I see a figure, dressed all in black with their hood up, supporting themselves against the door jamb. Kyler.
“Shit, what the hell, Kyler? Did you just get back?” I ask him and it’s only as I get closer, I realize wherever he’s been, he’s clearly had a rough night. There’s a fresh cut above his eyebrow and his eye is starting to bruise. He also has a cut on his lip, his nose looks like it’s been punched a few times, and his arm is wrapped gingerly around his torso.
“What the hell happened?” I ask again, but he shakes his head.
“I’m fine, Thea,” he says, avoiding my question. His voice is raspy either from misuse or because he’s holding back due to being in a lot of pain.
“You don’t look fine. You look as if you’re about to pass out. Let’s get you sitting down,” I tell him as I reach for his arm. He moves back slightly so he’s out of my reach, but quickly realizes without the support of the door, he’ll likely fall over. I try again and this time he lets me grab a hold of him. We walk slowly over to the dining room table in the corner of the kitchen, and I help him sit down on one of the chairs.
“Here, have this,” I say as I hold out my water bottle to him. He raises his eyebrow dubiously, no doubt wondering if it’s one of the weird protein shakes I’ve been known to keep in one of the cupboards.
