“Saint…” I should say more. I just can’t. I’m too shocked. He would have needed to fight at least four times to earn this much money in a weekend. That’s a recipe for disaster, and it will get him killed.
When I say that to him, he scoffs. “I have to do something. I trusted the law. It failed.”
Although he doesn’t mention Sloane in his comment, I have a feeling this centers around their relationship as well as Maddox’s numerous failed appeals. “So you thought spitting in its face would make things better?” When he attempts to answer me, I talk faster. My question was rhetorical because I knew his response would be filled with lies. It’s what most men do when they can’t express themselves without admitting their feelings. “I get it, okay? I understand. What I’m doing isn’t lawful either, but it is expected of me. I am a Petretti. I am meant to be evil. You are not, Saint. No one in your family is.”
“Yet we’re all rotting in hell.” I’m glad to see his hotheadedness hasn’t changed when he storms out of my room like he has a rocket strapped to his back. “And that’s why I’m going to continue fighting, so you either give the money to your uncle on my behalf, or I’ll visit him every Monday after fight nights. The decision is yours.”
I curse him to hell before flopping onto my bed with a groan. It doesn’t matter whether it is a Walsh family member doing it or my tirade of an uncle, manipulation hurts in every form. I thought Saint knew that. His parents raised him right. I just hope Maddox will remember their teachings when he learns about all the secrets I’m keeping from him, and don’t get me started on Sloane, or I’ll never get any sleep.
14
Demi
Three weeks later, I breathe out a heavy sigh while padding into the bathroom to fetch a glass of water. Tonight is Saint’s fourth fight this week. I’m exhausted for him. Black rims are circling my eyes, and my footing is sluggish and slow. I’d give anything for an early night, but since I can’t fight for Saint, I attend every match to emotionally support him instead.
After placing two oxycodone tablets onto my tongue, I swallow them with a mouthful of water. While waiting for them to perk me up as once only Maddox could, I stare at my reflection. The disheveled appearance peering back at me announces my prescription is the only thing keeping my eyelids open the past few weeks. They remind me that the sun always rises no matter how stormy the day. I’ve just got to keep moving, one foot in front of the other.
With that in mind, I snatch up my coat, then jog to the front door of my family home. With the hour late and Caidyn’s visits sporadic since Saint started popping over more often, I race out of my empty house and into the driveway without incident.
Saint greets me with a smile when I slip into the driver’s seat of his flashy car, but no number of pearly white teeth can hide the disdain crossing his face. He isn’t happy Max always rides shotgun, but since he doesn’t want to lose an arm, he keeps his grumbles to himself
When I latch my belt into place, Max gives my cheek a big sloppy kiss. I thank him for his love by scratching under his chin before locking my eyes with Saint’s in the rearview mirror. They’re a lot harsher than they were this time last year, but I know a good man is still hiding in him somewhere. It’s just an extra grumpy version now.
“How far out is this comp?” I ask while reversing out of the driveway. Just like my search for new recruits, Saint broadened his horizons the past couple of weeks as well. It was the only suggestion I had to keep him off my uncle’s radar, although I don’t see it lasting long.
I now travel as inland as Gainesville and as south as Miami to seek new fighters. I want to say my guilt has lessened since I’m no longer recruiting in my hometown anymore, but that would be a lie. It remains heavy on my chest morning, noon, and night.
Saint waits for me to crunch through the gears before replying, “It’s a four-hour round trip.”
“Four hours?” I clarify loudly.
When Saint jerks up his chin, I pull into the curb at the front of my home.
“Did you forget something?” He rolls his eyes when I nod my head. “Then get a wiggle on. We’re already pressed for time.”
After nodding for the second time, I jog up the cracked concrete driveway before galloping across the stained carpets in the living room. When I enter the bathroom located across from my room, I stand frozen for a couple of seconds, stumped. I’m certain I left my painkillers on the vanity sink. My toothbrush is where I left it along with the product I use to style my now bob haircut, but my medication is nowhere to be seen.
I call myself an idiot under my breath when my re-entrance to my room has me stumbling onto the canister on my bed. “I could have sworn you were in the bathroom,” I tell it, confused enough to talk to an object as if it can respond.
Once I have the unresponsive canister in my hand, I retrace the steps I took.
Saint eyes me with suspicion when I slide back into his car. “You went back to get your prescription?”
Even unsure as to why his voice is laced with suspicion, I jerk up my chin. “I’ll be due for another dose before we get back.”
“So…” Asking personal questions seems to be one of Saint’s favorite pastimes of late.
Although I don’t appreciate the interrogation in his tone, I reply, “If I don’t take them regularly, my injury will flare back up.”
“That isn’t the way painkillers work, especially when it comes to an ankle injury.”
I click my belt into place with more aggression than needed before recommencing our trip. “Who says? I don’t recall seeing sports therapy on your list of studies when you were at school.”
I steal his chance to reply by cranking up the volume on his radio. I’ve had enough arguments the past couple of months to last me a lifetime. I’m not interested in another one, especially if it’s with someone who doesn’t have a clue how I operate.
The oxycodone isn’t for my ankle.
It’s for my heart.
