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“I don’t feel a single thing,” I mumble in awe, breathing fresh oxygen for the first time in months instead of drowning in my own damn sorrow and darkness.
“Yeah. Here’s the deal. You ditch the fucking drugs, and then you come to me. I’ll set you up with as many damn fights as long as you’re healthy. You’ll bring more people to the show, and my place will bring you relief.”
“Who the fuck are you?” I ask when he hands me a card with an address close to the edge of town on the bluffs.
“They call me Ruthless,” he says with a shrug, taking a step back. “See, now we know each other. Come to that address when you’re feeling frisky. You scratch my back, and I’ll scratch yours.” The mystery man marches down the alley and disappears into the darkness, leaving me with a spark of hope.
Fighting became my damn religion, blackening everything and dulling my pain. Pounding flesh became my drug of choice. Spilling blood became my addiction, relieving all the pain festering in the depths of my soul, rotting me from the inside out. For thirty minutes at a time, I was no one—a blank space, circling opponents with one mission in mind—causing pain.
The daily cravings grew less for drugs, going completely extinct without trying. Soon, my mouth watered for the opportunity to jump into the octagon. In a sick way, it knocked her memories away and blanked out my damn mind from the useless noise around me. After pummeling Asher’s face, I went to the ring and took on two more opponents, winning each round within five minutes until I wore myself out. Absentmindedly, I rub along the bruise forming under my right eye, reveling in the slight tinge of pain.
Seeing Asher black and blue for his crimes leaves me with a mixed bag of emotions. On one hand, I feel victorious for my swift retribution. Asher got what he deserved and much more. On the other hand, my stomach churns at the thought of what I’ve become due to my unswallowable pain—a violent monster addicted to cruel bloodshed. The old Callum would vomit at the thought of what I let consume me.
Asher slightly shakes his head, twisting his expression. “I don’t know. She didn’t exactly say,” he mutters, darting his eyes across our faces, scrutinizing our expressions.
Kieran scoffs, hastily marching toward Asher and baring his teeth like a rabid dog on the damn hunt. My body stiffens when Kieran pushes at Asher’s shoulder, knocking him back an agonizing step and causing him to cry out in pain. His body pitches forward, slumping over his guitar hanging from his body.
“Fucking hell,” he wheezes, taking deep breaths.
“Jesus,” Rad groans, rubbing his forehead. “Didn’t we just discuss that violence wasn’t the answer? Drag your balls across his face or something. Let him smell like cottage cheese dick for a few days. Lesson learned.”
I snort at his reasoning. Pure fucking Rad. Pure fucking stupid. There’s no getting over what he did or leaving it alone. Asher deserves multiple punishments.
“You’d seriously just forgive him? Just like that?” Kieran snaps, curling his fingers into Asher’s shirt and bringing him close again. Asher frowns but doesn’t fight him off, letting him growl in his face. “After he fucked not only us but River over?”
“You think I’d let it slide?” Rad asks through clenched teeth, slamming his drumsticks down on his stool. “He deliberately fucked us all in the ass with no lube and a spiked fucking dick. There’s no way in hell I’d forgive him with the clap of my ass cheeks.” Rad takes a deep breath, pinching the bridge of his nose. “But we have shit to do. Instruments to play. And a lucky lady to get back into our good graces.”
“Her good graces? You think she’s going to forgive us?” Kieran asks, dropping Asher back to his feet, forgetting his rage.
“Pfft. I’m not giving her a choice,” Rad quips, waving a hand. “Ask Cal about my date.” He beams with pride, puffing out his stupid chest.
“Your date?” I scoff. “More like a third wheel no one invited along.” I’d never tell Rad how invigorating it was to spy on her while she dined with Rocco. The way her body fit into the dress she wore nearly gave my attraction to her away, even if I was still in denial about it all. Rad was right about everything that night when he slapped his chest and told me nothing felt right.
“That offends me! I bought her flowers—”
“And then she pulled you out of the restaurant by your ear and rode home with me.” My eyebrows raise when he frowns, turns his back to me, and mutters to himself.
The warmth of her arms ghosts around my middle, pulling herself closer to me. Discreetly, I hide the heat traveling up my neck and face as I remember how she felt against my back. Like she was meant to be there—like she was mine again. But will she ever be that girl for me again? The one I look for in a crowded room? The girl who holds my aching heart in the palms of her hands? Fuck. Maybe I never belonged to anyone else. I sure haven’t touched another woman since her—my one and only.
“Anyway, it was a good date,” he quips, twirling his sticks between his fingers. “And I can’t wait to do it all over again. It’s all about the actions, boys. Do you want River again? You gotta show my Pretty Girl how much you want her. Tell her sorry all you want, but she won’t buy it.” Rad’s smile fades into nothing, swallowed by a darkness clouding his face, plopping on his stool. “Believe me, I tried.”
“You tried?” Kieran asks, rubbing his chin. “Even before this asshole admitted to what he did?”
Rad shrugs, twirling his sticks again. “I can’t fight this feeling, bro. I almost forgot what I was fighting for. And what I’m fighting for is my lady. All of her. My daughter…”
“Mine,” Kieran growls, clenching his fists.
“Lyric is all of ours, you tithead. She doesn’t just call you daddy. River made sure Lyric knew who we were.”
“But why?” I croak, hanging my head in shame. I’ve missed everything in Lyric’s life.
“I don’t know,” Rad murmurs. “She knew whose kid she was biologically. Yet, she still introduced Lyric to our faces as her damn fathers.”
Silence fills the space. Our thoughts consume each of us with the possibilities of what we missed and what the future holds. At least, that’s where my mind travels to. Lyric. Our child. She calls us daddy, looking at us with wide, loving eyes like we didn’t put her mother through hell by walking away with our tails tucked. Looking back, I wish I had done so many things differently.
Our story isn’t written in pencil. We can’t erase the things we’ve done with a few swipes and move on like nothing ever happened. We’ll continue our broken tale on damaged paper riddled with marks and scars, filled with old wounds and betrayals.
Every foundation starts somewhere—built on shifting rocks and unsteady ground. We won’t move on until we’ve patched up our past, talked through our failures, and begin to rebuild on—sturdier terrain.
