Never Choose Flight (A Fighter Romance Novel) (14 page)

The next morning was brutal. I wasn’t as hung over as I had been, but that just made it worse. My head didn’t hurt, so I didn’t have that as an excuse for feeling shitty. I had to face the shitty reality, and realize that even when I didn’t drink too much, things still sucked.

It was all so boring. All so the same. I did the
exact
same thing I’d done the morning before. Ate the same breakfast. Drank the same amount of coffee. Took the same route to work.

It wasn’t even that I’d had a different routine when Malcolm had been around. It really was more or less the same. But when I woke up in the morning, I wasn’t sure what, exactly, the day had in store for me. I knew what I’d have for breakfast, but I didn’t know what I’d be doing after work. I knew that I’d be sending emails, but I didn’t know if Malcolm would show up for lunch.

But now I was facing the same exact breakfast every morning. And the same exact work every day. And the same exact thing every evening. Sure, I’d read different books, but they were all pretty much the same. Boy meets girl. Girl likes boy. Happily ever after. Even the plots of the books fell into a routine.

I felt like I was Amish. Or one of those religions where they live completely separate from the real world. I always thought that the way I lived was the only option. That every other possibility was far, far worse.

But then one day, a man from outside of my village came and took me away. He showed me how amazing the world could be. The excitement of a city. The rush of a fight. And the passion of a man’s bed.

Then, a couple weeks later, he decided that the outside world wasn’t right for me. He dropped me back off at my village, and drove away in his cool car. And that was that. Adventure over.

But I was no longer happy living in the village.

This whole story played out in my head. I wondered if the girl in it would ever be able to get used to village life again. A life without sin. Without cities. Without fights. Or if she’d go crazy, and leave some day, with or without that man to guide her.

I got to work with a smile on my face. The way I figured it, I might as well try to act the way I’d acted before. Maybe if I acted that way for long enough, I’d forget that I was acting eventually.

It worked well enough. Samantha saw the smile and smiled back at me. “Hey,” she said.

“Hey,” I said. “How’s it going?”

“Not bad,” she said. “And you?”

“I’m doing alright,” I said. That’s the kind of thing I’d say on a normal day, right?

“Good,” she said.

I sat down at my desk and got right to work. Like I normally would. This was no time for messing around. Wondering about life. I was at work now and it was time to do work.

I spent my whole morning sending emails and answering phone calls. Making sales. I got more than I normally did in a morning, even before all of this stuff happened. It felt good. I was sinking back into it. Back into the routine.

By the end of the morning the act had almost stopped feeling like one. And then when it was time to lunch, I got in my car. And I drove. Home.

I walked into my house. I put down my purse. I walked over to the couch. I put my head in my hands. And I cried.

It wasn’t pretty. I didn’t hold back. My shoulders heaved with dramatic sighs. My lips curled and my chin scrunched. My face was shiny with tears and spit and snot. I didn’t care.

It was loud. I was whaling. Loud moans, with the rhythm of my bobbing shoulders finding its way in. I just couldn’t hold it back anymore. It had been building inside of me for so long, and now I just had to let it out.

I didn’t
want
to work at my old job anymore. I didn’t
want
a boring life. I wanted to get hurt. I wanted my boyfriend to be in danger.
I
wanted to be in danger. I didn’t care. I didn’t care what my parents would think, or what Malcolm would think, or even what the logical part of my brain would think. I just wanted to get out of my terrible job and get back to doing something exciting.

But that’s not why I was crying. I was crying because I knew all that great stuff wasn’t really an option. I was stuck. Malcolm had dumped me. He didn’t want to care about me, and there was no way for me to change his mind.

I just cried for all of my break. Long enough that I was late getting back, because I had to apply my makeup to hide the smeared of mascara and redness around my eyes. But I got it back together, and I was smiling when Samantha welcomed me back to the office where I’d be working until I died.

But after that lunch, I really felt better. Not, like, thinking my life was any better. But I felt relieved. I wasn’t holding all of those tears back anymore. I’d admitted them to myself, let them happen, and now I was ready to move on. Or so I hoped. And if I wasn’t ready to move on, I was going to do it anyway. That’s what I wanted, right? A challenge?

So I went the rest of the day thinking about him as little as possible. Thinking about anything else. I let myself slack at my work a bit, but only to keep my mind off of him. I wasn’t allowed to google about underground fighting, but if I wanted to waste my time with stupid quizzes, that was acceptable.

Anything other than him was acceptable. That was my coping strategy, and it started to work.

The next day I didn’t need to work quite so hard on it. When I wasn’t thinking about anything, he wasn’t
always
the first place that my mind wandered. And when I did think about him, I found that I could usually just turn it off, like a switch. Move my mind onto something else.

And sure, most of the other things seemed more boring, but that didn’t matter. Boring was good. Boring was what I could tell my parents. I kept repeating those phrases again and again in my head.

By Friday, I was a total pro. I was good enough that I actually
could
think about him, if I wanted to, without my mind becoming overwhelmed with how terrible or wonderful I thought he was. I could just think about the whole situation clearly. Without worrying. Without panicking.

But I found that I didn’t
need
to constantly think about him. He’d mocked it, but I actually got pretty into my work. I had deliveries to worry about. Sales to close. Contacts to stay in touch with. And at home I had my novels, and some wine, to pass the time.

I began talking with Derek in a more normal way than we’d talked in a long time. Like we were just adult friends. No terrible tension. No hitting on anyone. It was as if Malcolm had literally knocked some sense into Derek. And maybe some into me as well.

Either way, we were getting along quite well. We’d make jokes about our clients, talk about our days, and generally have a good time.

Samantha and I got back to having lunch together every day, and I could tell that she’d missed my company. It was strange, hearing about her more exciting life with clubbing and friends, I wasn’t jealous. I’d never been jealous. I’d never wanted that.

It was all kind of confusing, to be honest. I didn’t know how I felt. What I wanted. Whether or not I was acting. All I know is that by the end of that week, I was actually feeling pretty good.

And then everything changed on Saturday.

* * *

I slept in. It was nice. I hadn’t drank much on Friday night, either, so I didn’t wake up with a hangover or anything unpleasant like that. I woke up at eleven, feeling good.

Everything in my brain had had time to process. I was back to normal. Emotions were in check.

I went into the pantry and pulled out a box of pancake mix. I’d bought it months ago, and made pancakes with it exactly one time. But for some reason, I felt like making them on that Saturday where everything changed.

I didn’t even put the coffee on, that’s how good I was feeling.

I turned the mix into dough, and then put them on the hot greased pan. As they sizzled, sides going dry and bubbles working their way through, I thoughts. And for some reason, somehow, one thought was perfectly clear in my mind.

I was
not
done with Malcolm.

I thought about the thought. I wondered where it had come from. But I didn’t argue with it. Didn’t debate it. It wasn’t that kind of thought. I knew it was true, somehow.

I flipped the pancakes, and they sizzled more in the pan. I got the plate ready, and then moved them over when they were done. I drizzled them with syrup, and then sat down to enjoy.

While I ate, I figured it out. Malcolm had made all the decisions for me. They were not all up to him.
He
said that the only way I could stay safe was by leaving. He didn’t ask if I
wanted
to be safe.
He
said that I wouldn’t be able to handle the dangerous life. He didn’t give me a chance to prove that one way or another.

And I wasn’t mad at him for this. I knew that he’d done what he thought was right, every step of the way. I knew that he cared about me, and only wanted what was best.

But I also knew that he was working with incomplete information.

He didn’t know me. We hardly had
time
to get to know each other. I knew myself better than he knew me, I decided while eating those pancakes, and so these decisions should have had more of my input.

Once I’d satisfied myself with that, I just needed to decide how to work with that decision. Sure, I understood everything. It all seemed clear now. But I didn’t know how to work with these new thoughts.

I decided that I’d go see him. Drive over to his house. Knock on his door. Hope that he was home. That’s what I’d do, and I’d make up the rest of the plan as things moved along.

I finished up the pancakes. They’d been wonderful. The perfect amount of fluffiness to absorb the syrup with.

* * *

I had a shower and went through my
whole
routine for the first time in a while. Got everything shaven, plucked, cleaned, and rinsed. I felt damn sexy when I got out of the shower. I looked in the mirror, and thought I looked womanly.

At first I thought that I was seeing me how Malcolm saw me. How Malcolm had described me. But then I realized that I was actually just seeing myself how I was. I
was
a beautiful woman. I
did
have a womanly figure. That wasn’t Malcolm. That was me. That was just the truth. It felt good. I felt good.

I got in my car. The drive starts the same whether I’m going to Malcolm’s or to work. I get onto the freeway as soon as possible, basically. But today I wasn’t going to work. And it felt good. It felt amazing to go past that exit. Like I was free. Not that I ever worked on Saturdays, but something still felt amazing about it.

Then I took the exit onto Terminal Island. A neighborhood that I would have been terrified to enter only a few weeks ago. Where there are criminals. But now I wasn’t scared. I was
excited
. I was on my way to see one of those criminals. Give him a piece of my mind. And then… well, who knows?

I drove right up to his house and parked outside. Didn’t even notice that car that had jutted in front of me the other day, parked half a block down. I walked right up to his front door, and gave it a knock.

There were no noises inside the house. I didn’t see any lights turned on. But that didn’t convince me that he wasn’t home. I wasn’t going to leave just like that.

I knocked again, loudly. I waited. Thinking about what I’d say if he came to the door. How I’d explain all of this to him. All of my thoughts. All of my feelings.

I knocked a third time, and continued to wait. Nothing. He wasn’t home. That was it. I didn’t need to wait any longer.

“I don’t think he’s around,” said a voice from behind me. It was deep and husky.

I turned around to see one of the men had gotten out of his car. One of the men with the New York accents, who was trying to mess with Malcolm. I wasn’t going to be messed with though.

“Doesn’t look like it,” I said.

He was standing in my way, in between me and my car, but I knew not to show any fear. I tried to walk straight towards him, hoping that he’d step out of my way, but he stood his ground.

“Who would you be?” he asked when I stopped and waited for him to move.

“I’m Jessica,” I said, as confidently as I could muster.

“Sorry, I phrased my question incorrectly. Who would you be to The Beast here?”

I looked him in the eye. “A friend. From way back. Just looking to catch up a bit.”

He looked me up and down, unashamedly. “Is that so?”

I nodded.

“Well he’s not here right now,” said the man. “I’ll tell him that you stopped by.”

“Thank you,” I said.

Then the man stepped out of my way and I carried on to my car. I got in and drove away.

It freaked me out how calm and polite those men always were. Unless, of course, they were beating someone within an inch of their life. I imagine they’re less polite when they do that - but probably just as calm.

I drove back to my place feeling unsatisfied. That whole morning spent realizing an epiphany, and then it lead to nothing. Sure, I could stop by another time, or I could go to his fight the next day, but that wasn’t the same as actually seeing him. Talking to him.

I was going to have a good day regardless though. When I got back home I changed into my nicest pyjamas. And I grabbed myself a small bowl of ice cream. Sat down on the nice couch. Got ready to watch a movie. Chose a movie. And then my phone rang.

It was Malcolm’s number. He’d only called me once before, and still that number was burnt into my mind.

I panicked. I thought that man had been joking when he said he’d tell Malcolm I stopped by. And if that hadn’t happened, then why was Malcolm calling me out of the blue?

“Hello?” I answered.

“Hi,” said Malcolm. “It’s me.”

“Malcolm?” I asked, just to be sure.

“Yep.”

There was a silence then that I was determined not to break.

“Sorry,” he said eventually. “About all of this. I really didn’t mean to drag you into anything.”

“You never dragged me,” I said. “I knew what I was doing. The closest you got to dragging me was when you sent me away.”

“I’m sorry about that too.”

“So did you just call to apologize a bunch of times or what?”

“I wish,” he said. “But, uh, something has come up. I think my plan may not have worked as well as we hoped.”

“What do you mean?”

“I just got home. There was a piece of paper on my door, stuck into it with a knife.”

“What did it say?”

“Not much,” he said. “It just says that my ‘friend’ might be in some trouble. That’s it. So of course I thought of you, and then I called you, and now I’m talking to you and I realize that I have no idea what we should do about this.”

“You think I’m the friend?” I asked. I knew I was. That’s what I’d told the man I was. I’d given myself up to them.

“You must be,” he said. “I don’t really have many friends.”

“Right,” I said. “So what should I do?”

“I think that you-”

A pause. I pulled the phone away from my ear. The line had disconnected. I called back a second later, and I got a robotic message about the call not being able to go through. The line in Malcolm’s house had been cut.

* * *