Chapter 2 #2
"Take it personally?" Arpad mutters. "Of course, we take it personally.
You are one of us, bro. One of the Seven, bound by an event that turned all of our lives upside down.
We are, each of us, struggling to come to grips with it in, our own way.
Admittedly, we all have our own ways of coping with it," he raises his shoulders, "and sometimes, it gets to be too much.
I get it." He drums his fingers on his thigh, "I get that it can get overwhelming and sometimes, you need to get it out of your system—"
"Which is why we have the underground fights," Sinclair murmurs, "so we can beat the shit out of those foolish enough to volunteer for fights—"
"Or each other." Saint smirks.
"Failing which, you can always talk it out," Weston offers. "You could get help—"
"No," I swallow, "no therapy."
"What then?" Baron barks. "You continue to shoot yourself up the first chance you get, until you OD and die? Is that your big plan?"
"Yes," I turn to him, "that had been my plan."
"Had been." He scowls, "So, it’s not so any longer?"
"Let’s just say, I have no wish to repeat this experience again."
He snorts, "You expect me to believe that?"
"Believe it…or not." I raise a shoulder, "All I can tell you is that I am not going to try that stunt again."
"To what do we owe this sudden resolve?" Sinclair drawls. "Don’t tell me you saw the light when you almost died?"
There’s silence in the room. For a beat, another, then Baron swears, "Shit." He rubs his chin, "You actually did have some kind of realization or something."
"Or something," I agree. "It was…" I glance around the room, "It was a moment of clarity… No, not even that. It was," I search for the words, "a few seconds of just being. Know what I mean?"
The men shake their heads. I turn to Baron, who’s watching me carefully, "Don’t tell me you saw God?" His tone is light, but his voice is wary.
"I saw… No… I felt… Like I was in the presence of something that was definitely like nothing I have felt before," I finally say.
"Hmm." He folds his arms over this chest, "I’m all for it, if it means that it keeps you out of drug dens."
"It will," I reply. "I am not going back there again."
"And you are going to get yourself cleaned up?" He scowls. "You’re going to get into rehab and rid yourself of that nasty habit?"
"Do I have a choice?"
"Nope," he growls. "Where do you think you are now? Already checked you in, as a matter of fact, and the bill’s all paid up. With your money."
"My money?"
"Your parents footed the bill.”
"Of course, they did," I murmur. "Anything to get their errant spawn off their backs."
They haven't come to visit, though. Clearly, they can't bear to ruin their public image by acknowledging that their only son is a junkie.
"Who cares whether your family likes you or not?" Weston scowls. "As long as the Seven of us stick together, we should be fine."
"You’re one to talk. You and bastard Beauchamp, here," Damian jerks his chin toward Arpad, "have the most supportive families amongst us. Not that I am complaining," he adds. "The less you have to do with blood family, the less therapy you need for the damage they inflict on you."
"Jeez, that’s cynical, don’t you think?" Arpad frowns. "Okay, so I know I have a more understanding family, as compared to most of you, but still." He shakes his head, "Family is important. Both made family," he gestures to us, "and the blood one."
"Can’t speak to the latter, ol’ chap." Sinclair rises to his feet, "And that, I believe, is my cue to get the fuck out of here and get working on the algorithm."
"Algorithm?"
"Yeah," Saint unfolds his frame from the couch, "Sinner and I have been working on one to crack the stock market patterns. We believe we should be able to create an algo which predicts trends on the stock market."
"That’s bloody impressive." I jerk my chin, "And quite a feat, if you do achieve it."
"Oh, we will," Sinner smirks, "and when we do, it’s going to catapult us straight into the ranks of the richest in the country."
Money. It’s important. It’s also what landed all of us in this mess of a situation.
You want it, but also don’t want too much of it to screw up your life.
And shit… That encounter with whatever-it-was, when I was knocked out, has clearly, rewired my brain in some way.
I’ve always been introspective, but now, it feels like I am on the verge of some kind of breakthrough.
The rest of the men rise to their feet.
"We should be off then." Saint walks over and we bump fists. The rest of the guys follow in variations of the same as they bid goodbye. They trickle out until it’s only Baron and me in the room.
"I’d best get going too." He pushes up from the chair and turns to go.
"Baron," I call out, "thank you."
He pauses and turns to stare at me over his shoulder. "Don’t thank me," he growls, "just stay out of your own head for a while, will you?"
"If only it were that easy."
"It’s only as difficult as you make it out to be."
"You wanted to know the difference between chasing the high and seeking a high from the chase."
He scowls. "What is it?"
"The former is me, of course. Or, it was me." I lower my chin. "The latter…is you—finding new ways to put your life on the line, and each time you walk away unscathed, wondering why you’re still alive."
"Is that your observation?"
"It’s my conclusion."
"You’re wrong."
"I am?"
"Each time I skydive, I know the risks I am taking. I have carefully trained for it. In fact," he widens his stance, "there’s a 99.99% chance of surviving a skydive."
"What about the 0.0007% chance of dying?"
"That?" His grin broadens, "That’s where the fun starts."