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“You going to be okay? I seriously need to go.”
“Yeah, of course. Be gone, you. I have to hit the gym, anyway.”
“Okay. Talk soon?”
“Oh, I can count on your nagging being a regular thing, yes. Bye, for now, my little teddy bear.”
“Chey!”
I punch the quit button. The line goes dead. For real this time.
With my workout clothes donned and my duffle bag over my shoulder, I grab my keys and hit the road. No matter how mixed up my mind is, my body needs its daily workout routine. Something in my life has to be predictable. Something.
I pull out into the street and check my rearview mirror. “You hear that, Lady of Doom? Let’s hit the ring and try out some new badass moves. My life won’t change itself.”
CHAPTER 6
Ronan
“I’m done.”
“The hell you are.”
I glare into Marty’s big leprechaun eyes, as best I can through the cigar smoke.
Outside the gym office, none of the wrestlers are aware of our argument. Thank God. It’s bad enough to have a lousy manager. To air that kind of dirty laundry in this community, it’s a damn death knell. Ronan makes sure the door is tightly shut.
I plunk down on the office sofa. I have a wellspring of fight in the ring, but office politics leave me quickly tapped out.
“No, Marty. This time I mean it. I’m grinding my gears under contract with you. You know what I want, and you refuse to give it to me.”
Marty stomps behind the desk and uses a step stool to reach the chair. With a lightweight plop, the little leprechaun goes for a spin. His stubby legs can’t stop the revolutions. All I hear is swearing as the little man goes round and round until inertia dies and he grabs onto the desk. I’m pissed enough that I don’t laugh.
“Are you even going to oil that chair?”
Marty looks up. “What? And deprive my office visitors of the audible result of my thinking prowess?”
I stare and let out an inaudible sigh. One which does not display my thinking prowess.
“Creative bloody control, aye. So you’ve said, over and over again. What makes you think you know of such matters, Ronan? Look who got you here? Sure, it was your big clod-hopper paws that put on the show. But who cemented your brand? Made it into the multi-million-dollar prize it is now? And you want to kick it all, and me, to the curb for some fancy idea of becoming all soft and squishy in a Good Guy image? That thought makes me want to vomit.”
Marty coughs up a storm, but I know it’s his endless cigar smoking and not my so-called lousy idea.
I lean back and put my thick green arms over my head. “Yes, you and your psychological bullying had me believing that BS for years. I’m just the muscles in the ring. The sexy photo in a wrestling calendar. The brains are yours.”
I lean forward, shifting my forearms to rest on my knees. “Here’s the thing. I’m no longer wet behind the ears in this industry. I know what works and what doesn’t.”
“Oh, you do, now, do you?” Marty grabs his stogie and taps the ashes into an already overflowing tray. “You and what Public Relations army?”
My eyes widen. Those are fighting words.
“Right, so yeah, I needed an army when I was first in this biz. But I don’t anymore. I have a fan base, the biggest in the league. You think me swapping sides will diminish that?”
Marty leans forward over his desk, but it’s hard to look tough when you’re only three feet tall. I’ll assume the tough-guy ruse works and react accordingly, merely to placate the little guy.
“Pal, I think you swapping to Good from Evil will wipe out your base like some kind of fleeing spectator tsunami. Your fans come to see you for what evil takedowns you’ll use on your unsuspecting opponents. They boo you ‘cause they love to hate the hater. You swan in one night with faerie wings and stardust, and those fans will exit the joint before you can say, what did I do wrong? And then all we’ll hear in the wrestling mags is Lawless who?”
Emotionally deflated once more, I lean back. I want the guy to asphyxiate on his own cigar smoke, but I weigh the effort of forcing that cigar down his throat versus throwing a couple of curses at Marty and walking out the door.
