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Which would be a fucking tragedy, because that’s not why I called him. That’s not why I usually call him.
I call him when I wanna get fucked up.
When I wanna get beaten within an inch of my life and be punished for all my sins. Something that I can’t really do when school’s on — can’t go to soccer practice looking like roadkill — so summers are my only respite.
So I really need him to shut the fuck up and make me pay.
“Yeah,” I goad. “Because pretending to hate a chick because she’s the little sister of your high school rival —high school, man; it was ages ago — while secretly pining over her for three years is such a smooth move. When’s the wedding again?”
That should do it.
That should make him regret telling me. Like I’m regretting telling him.
No, actually I’m regretting our whole friendship right now.
Ledger and I, we’ve known each other since high school. We both played soccer for our schools and frequently played each other. But while we were merely passing acquaintances while we lived in Bardstown, now we’re friends since we both live in New York and run into each other a lot.
In fact, he was the one to tell me about Yo Mama.
It’s run by one of his brothers’ friends, Ark Reinhardt, and Ledger’s been going here for years now. The guy has anger management issues. Probably from his childhood: a deadbeat father and a sick mother. And when he found out aboutmyissues — how I broke everything two years, two months and fourteen days ago — he told me where to go to deal with them.
But while I took a job here as well, he hasn’t.
He already has a great job, being a pro-soccer player for New York City FC. Although, the guy’s been suspended for a few games. For beating up one of his teammates on the field.
Stupid hothead fucker.
At my jab, he says, “Same day as yours, motherfucker.”
I puff out a breath. “Just hit me, okay? Just fucking… do it.”
Finally, it gets through to him that I need it.
That I really fucking need it tonight.
And he opens and closes his fist. “Fine. But just so you know, if you don’t deal with your fucking issues, you’re gonna get yourself killed and end up six feet under one day.”
I roll my shoulders, bracing myself. “Noted. And just so you know, if you don’t deal with your issues, you’re gonna kill someone and end up behind bars one day.”
He spits at my feet, wipes his mouth. “Let’s see who gets there first.”
And with that, he throws the next punch and then the next and the next, taking out his aggression on me as if he’s chasing a demon. And I accept it all as if I’m chased by one.
I’m not sure how long we go on for but finally, he does manage to put me down. I hit the ground with a massive thud and a painful but relieved breath escapes me as every part of my body throbs and pulses with its own heartbeat.
Ledger helps me up and to the locker room, where I clean up my cuts. When you’ve played soccer all your life, you learn how to take care of a few scrapes and bruises. Although from the looks of it, I might also have to bandage my ribs and stitch up some of the cuts along with cleaning them; Ledger did his job well.
Since this is a gym where fuckheads like us go who either love to give pain or be on the receiving end of it, it comes equipped with bunkbeds where you can spend the night if you’re too fucked up to go anywhere else.
I have done that before, but I think tonight I can manage to go back to my motel. Limping, I make my way outside and find my bike in the parking lot. I climb on it but instead of starting it and driving away, I fish out my phone from my back pocket and dial the number.
I wanted to wait until the morning, but fuck it.
I don’t care if it’s three o’clock in the morning and he must be sleeping. I need to do it tonight and I’ll keep calling until he picks up.
Which thankfully he does after only a few rings.
“Reign? Are you all right?” my brother asks in a groggy voice
