Chapter 14
“Hey, Wolf!” a deep voice calls from down the hallway.
Xander Collins, the Head of Talent Relations for Elite Wrestling Entertainment, walks down the hallway in his signature maroon-colored suit.
His strides are longer than normal, trying to catch up before Colin and I can disappear around the corner. “Ryker,” he says to the man at my side.
“Xander.” Colin offers a brief nod before turning back to me. “We’ll talk in a bit, Wolf. Go through that finish again.”
“Actually, that’s what I wanted to talk about. You guys won’t be having a match tonight. Colin, you’ll be facing Slade.”
“Xander, what the fuck?” I practically hiss, but he ignores my outburst.
“You and Slade are now going on first. So, you should probably go figure out what you’re doing tonight. You have”—Xander glances at his watch—“twenty minutes to bell time.”
Colin looks between us before walking away with a sigh.
We’ve been planning the matches over the next two weeks to prepare for the big conclusion to our feud at Paradise City.
This is the end before I dive deeper into my new feud with Grady.
Please, God, tell me they aren’t moving that up on the docket.
The less time I have to spend with him, the better.
One of Xander’s many jobs is to deliver bad news to the talent, whether we want to hear it or not. Something tells me this isn’t about Grady, but I’m still not going to like whatever he is about to say.
Xander waits until Ryker is out of earshot to begin the conversation.
“We’re taking you off the card for the rest of the weekend.
” Excuse me? Taking me off? “Look, Wolf, I don’t want to.
With Brooks gone until Monday, you and Brody are the main draw, but I don’t have a choice.
I need you on TV, and I know that Achilles has been bothering you.
” He cuts me off when I try to deny it. “Take this weekend off, rest up, and come back ready to go on Monday. You and Grady need to be ready to build up for Beachbash. I can’t have you out longer than a few days. ”
I fold my arms, refusing to look at him, and run my tongue over my teeth. This is bullshit, and he knows it.
“Wolf, don’t make me call Doc in on this.”
“Why did you let me come out here then?” I could’ve stayed in Tampa—or, hell, I could’ve gone up to Boston with Sloane.
“Creative had to make some adjustments before we could talk to Amos about this. I wanted you to be here in case he said to put you on tonight.”
“This is bullshit, Xander.”
“Look, take this weekend and let it rest. You’re not fighting Monday; it’s just a promo. And you’re not slated for Commotion next week, so by the time PC rolls around, you’ll be good as new.”
“I’m not working next weekend either?” My voice bounces off the walls, catching the attention of a few crew members down the hall. “What the fuck, Xander?”
“Better to be safe than sorry. I would rather lose you on a few of these smaller live events than PC or Beachbash. Or would you rather risk blowing it and you’re out for another six to eight months?”
“No,” I say through gritted teeth.
“Good, me either. Pack your stuff and go home. I’ll see you on Monday,” he says, turning on his heel to walk back down the hallway. “Oh, and Wolf, don’t even think about going to NextGen.”
I close my eyes and take a deep breath, but it doesn’t do anything for the annoyance and anger racing through my veins. You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.
“Hey!” I hear Brody call from behind me, as I stalk through backstage. I pause my steps, but don’t turn around. “What’s going on? I just overheard Ryker say—”
“They took me off the card. I think Juliet may have called Collins because my foot was bugging me while I was at NextGen the other day. He wants me to take some time to let it rest so I can be ready for Paradise City and Beachbash.”
“Maybe that’s not a bad idea.” Brody lifts his hands when I shoot a glare at him. “It’s been bothering you, man. Wouldn’t you rather be safe than sorry? You don’t want to blow it out again.”
Scrubbing a hand down my face with a hard exhale, I shake my head. “I know, but it sucks. I’ve only been back three months, and they’re already benching me.”
“It’s only for a couple of shows. Take these few days, go hang out with Sloane, get some ‘you time,’ and come back ready to kick Ryker and Grady’s asses.”
“Shouldn’t you be getting ready to go out for a match or something?” is the first thing Sloane says when she answers the phone. She sounds exhausted, and after the day she’s had, I have no doubt she is.
“Yeah, probably,” I say, lifting the handle of my suitcase when I step off the bus. I give Winston a brief nod that he returns, whispering a command to take care of myself. The door of the bus closes behind him without another word.
“So, what are you doing calling me?” Sloane asks, followed by a soft yawn and the rustle of sheets.
“You may want to cancel that flight tomorrow.”
“What? Why?” She sounds more awake now, and the television in the background ceases. “Bennett, are you okay? Did something happen?” A soft smile tugs at the corner of my lips at the concern in her voice.
“Nothing like that. I’m fine, Honey. They cut me for the weekend.”
“Why would they do that? You’re one of their biggest names! How can they—”
“Sloane, they can do whatever they want, regardless of who it is. This happens all the time,” I say, climbing the steps of the private plane Savannah so generously offered me.
She said I was lucky it hadn’t left yet, or I’d be booking myself on a two-stop commercial flight because all the nonstops are booked solid.
“How was your meeting? We haven’t had a chance to talk. You seemed really worried about it.”
“It was…fine. The client I’m currently working for wanted an update. He heard through the grapevine that I was on vacation and not working on this article due in a few weeks.”
“Why would he think that?”
“Because his deputy editor saw photos online from when I was in Phoenix. She and I have never gotten along, and I think she’s mad because he gave me the story.”
“As opposed to who?”
“One of their staff writers who just got fired. The rumor mill says they were sleeping together, but I think he got fired because he wasn’t doing his job.”
“Either one is a pretty good cause to let him go,” I say, falling into one of the oversized window seats.
She hums in reply. “Where are you going?”
I yawn, the overwhelming need for sleep increasing now that the adrenaline of preparing for a match has worn off. “What do you mean?”
“Well,” Sloane draws out. “You’re leaving Salt Lake, but you didn’t say where you’re going.
I was looking forward to spending a little more time together on the road this weekend.
” I can perfectly imagine her sitting on her bed, hair pulled into a messy bun on top of her head, gnawing on her thumbnail as she tries to maintain her cool, no doubt hoping I can read between the lines.
“Where do you want me to go, Honey?”
The pilot steps out of the cockpit, motioning with his index finger to wrap it up. “We’re about to take off,” he says. “Gotta get back to Tampa.”
“Think about it. I’ll be back on the ground in about four hours,” I say, ready to end the call, but her scoff catches my attention.
“Well, that kind of answers the question, doesn’t it?”
“Not necessarily,” I say, giving the pilot a thumbs up. “Brooks was kind enough to lend me the plane back to the East Coast, but that doesn’t mean I can’t find my way up north. Think about it.”
I woke up about thirty minutes outside Tampa, and left my phone turned off until the wheels hit the tarmac.
The screen lit up with a variety of messages, emails, and random notifications, but not a single one was an answer to the question I’d posed before take off.
She had probably fallen asleep before getting a chance to answer.
Not that I blamed her; it was a little before midnight when I called, and she’d had a long day.
I considered going home and catching a few more hours of sleep, but instead, I went home, repacked my bag, and hopped on the first flight up north. Now, there are four unread text messages and two missed calls from the woman on the other side of the red door I’m currently standing in front of.
“Thank God, I was starting to think—”
“You know, you make it really hard to surprise you when you don’t label the buzzer on the front door,” I say, interrupting her.
“The buzzer?” Sloane repeats. “What are you talking about?”
“Come outside and I’ll show you.”
There’s silence on the other end, before finally, I hear her shuffling around in the background, and the phone disconnects.
Within seconds, the front door of the brick walkup swings open.
Her blue eyes widen when I step up to meet her in the doorway.
Even with the small height boost from the stoop, Sloane still stands a good four inches shorter than her normal eight or so.
“Bennett, you’re supposed to be in Tampa. ”
“I was,” I say, planting my hands on her waist.
“W-What are you doing—” Her words are cut off when I lean down to cover her mouth with my own.
A soft gasp follows, but she doesn’t hesitate to return the kiss.
Sloane winds her arms around my neck, opening her mouth, and as much as I’d like to take my time exploring every inch of her, I don’t think the rest of the city wants a front row seat.
“You’re here,” Sloane says when we part, and it sounds a lot more like a question than a statement.
“I’m here, Honey, and I would’ve been here sooner, but—”
“It doesn’t matter. I’m glad to see you. I am a little sad I won’t get to experience true life on the road, though.”
“There’s plenty of time for that. They aren’t quite ready to send me off to the glue factory, yet.”
“Bennett!” Sloane smacks my chest. I chuckle, catching her hand and bringing her palm to my lips. “That was a terrible joke.”
“It was funny, and you know it. Besides, weren’t you calling me old man the other day?”
Sloane’s cheeks flush under my stare. She rolls her eyes, pushing me away to take a step back, allowing me to walk inside.
Her building reminds me of a typical city apartment building: white walls, dark blue carpet, and light-stained wood fixtures.
There’s one door on the entry level toward the back, but Sloane proceeds up the carpeted staircase, and I take two steps to catch up to her on the second floor.
There are two doors on either side of the landing on this level, and she walks through the left-hand one, which is still open.
“Just a thought, but you might want to close the door next time you leave,” I say, doing just that when I walk inside.
“Where are your bags?” she asks, clearly ignoring my statement.
“At my parents’ place. I stopped by on the way here.”
“Yeah, you forgot to mention they lived ten minutes down the road,” Sloane says, sinking into the couch, and pulls one of the gray pillows into her lap.
Her condo is small; it might be smaller than my bus, and I didn’t think that was possible.
The entry opens to a long, narrow, open-concept living space.
An exposed brick wall runs the length of the exterior wall.
There’s a built-in bookcase beneath the front window with a small dining table in front of it.
The living room separates it from the galley kitchen tucked behind the back wall, which I assume leads to the bedroom (or bedrooms, I’m not sure).
The one thing that catches my eye is the workspace carved out in what appears to be an old linen closet.
The top shelves hold books, files, and decorations, while the bottom one houses her laptop with a desk chair pushed in beneath it.
“No funny business, remember?” I smirk at her over my shoulder when I pass by to walk farther inside.
No funny business, I repeat to myself, because if I had taken her home, or if we’d made it past the threshold of her building that night after the coffee, there would have been plenty of funny business to attend to.
As suspected, the galley kitchen leads to another hallway with more exposed brick, a laundry closet, two bedrooms, and one bathroom. Despite the warm and inviting energy Sloane has cultivated here, the thought of living in such limited square footage makes me claustrophobic.
“You know, I hate to ask, but how much do you pay for this place?” I ask when I return to the living room, leaning against the wall that separates the kitchen.
Sloane laughs. “You don’t want to know.”
“Three?”
“Not quite, a little under.”
“That’s insane,” I say.
“The price you pay for having a little bit of room in a good neighborhood. At least I have in-unit laundry. I couldn’t bear to go to the laundromat anymore.”
Just under three thousand dollars a month for what?
Close to six hundred square feet? The thought of living here makes me claustrophobic.
I have more room inside a tour bus than she does in this fucking apartment.
Hell, my first apartment in Texas was bigger than this, and the rent was less than half of what she pays now.
My first house was sixteen hundred square feet, and the mortgage was still half of what she pays.
Even now, the house I bought after the divorce is five times the size of this place, and my mortgage will be paid off by the middle of next year.
Okay, so maybe I’m a little more out of touch than I thought.
“It’s not your family’s three-thousand-square-foot townhome on the Common, but it’s not so bad,” she says. “You know, maybe it wouldn’t be such a bad thing for you to live like the common folk for a few days. Get a nice dose of reality.”
“As much as I want to believe you,” I say, and take her hands in mine when I squat down to her level. “I think we should stay at my place while I’m in town.”
Sloane rolls her eyes and shakes her head. “Fine, but only because I really want to spend time in that library.”