15. Tyler
15
TYLER
My reflection shows nothing of the guy I was twelve days ago. Part of that has to do with the last vestiges of the fading bruises. No matter how much concealer I use, I can still see the darker splotches of skin under the makeup. The coverage is good enough that no one else can tell, but I know what's there. I still see the proof of it every day in the mirror. Once the last of the scars are gone, will I be able to forget? Will I be able to close my eyes without remembering what it was like to not know if I'd ever open my eyes again? Will I be able to let my boyfriend tackle me playfully and grope my ass without panicking?
Boyfriend.
That's the difference that people can see. All around me, people have been smiling and making conversation, treating me differently than they ever did before. It took me half the day to realize what’s changed, and it’s me. People are smiling at me because I'm smiling. They're talking to me because I'm greeting them in return, not avoiding eye contact and shrinking into the background.
People are treating me with a different level of respect because I've learned to respect myself. The world is a different place when you walk through it with even the smallest amount of confidence. I recognize that I owe the difference in me to Isaac. Not because I need a man to make me worthy, but because in our short time together, he's taught me that I already am. I always was.
I don't recognize the man in the mirror, but I like this version of myself so much better.
This version of me wouldn't have escaped through a back door because his date was embarrassing him.
This version of me wouldn't have gone anywhere with the asshole when he showed up half drunk.
This version of me wouldn't have agreed to the damn date in the first place.
This version of me would have smiled back the first time the tall, tattooed hottie looked my way.
This version of me would stand up to my father.
Or not.
Because when I run into him less than an hour later, as I'm getting in my car to leave campus, I can feel myself shrink in on myself. I physically feel myself grow smaller, like Alice In Wonderland, just being in his presence.
"It seems you've recovered from your mysterious illness," are the first words I hear from him.
"Hello, Father."
"Where have you been?"
"I don't know what you mean."
He reels back like he’s been hit. My audacity must be shocking to him.
"I mean exactly what you heard. You've supposedly been ill, and yet your doorman informs me you haven't been home in over a week. So where have you been?"
"It's really none of the doorman's business. Or yours. I'm twenty-three years old."
"You also live in an apartment that I pay for, drive a car that I bought you, and are spending your time flouncing around a university getting a useless degree that I am also funding. As long as you're living on my dime, you'll follow my rules and expectations."
The static between my ears gets loud enough to overpower the steady drum of my pulse banging around in my head. I’m so fucking tired of hearing it. I’m done with it.
"You're right. I'm incredibly privileged and have probably taken those things for granted. But I am still an adult with my own life and rights to my autonomy and privacy. I appreciate what you do for me, but if your parental support comes with strings attached, I'd rather do it on my own."
He laughs. It’s a deep, affected laugh that shows just how little he thinks of me. "Maybe you're right. Clearly I've entertained your foolish whims long enough, if you no longer understand what is expected from you and how to respect your betters."
Betters . Not parent, not elder, not family. Betters.
"Let me guess, you count Guy Montague as one of my betters , as well?" As soon as the words are out, I regret them. There's no point in dwelling on my father's obsession with that asshole.
"At least he understands what is expected of him and how to behave like a responsible adult."
"Ah. Yes. And has the responsible adult who meets your expectations given you any more information about what happened on our date?"
"Only that you behaved inappropriately, including making a pass at a man who looked like a hired criminal, and then made a dramatic show of leaving when he called you on it. And when he decided to be the bigger man and try to make peace, you behaved like a child and blocked his number."
"And you believe him?"
"I have no reason not to."
"I told you–" I sigh. "Moving past that you don't know your own son well enough to know better, I told you that's not what happened. I told you he was the one being inappropriate. When I tried to leave, he got physical. Now he's been showing up at my apartment and blowing up my phone."
My father makes a face that is equal parts irritation and exasperation, and I know there's no point. This is exactly why I didn't go to him in the first place. I have a feeling if I'd called him, he would have made excuses and found a way to blame me, anyway.
"The more important matter is that Guy is wiling to forgive you. He feels, as I do, that our families could both gain a lot by–"
I cut him off by climbing inside my car and shutting the door. I don't even look his way as I pull past him and drive away.
The bank is my first stop. I make sure my father has no access to any of my accounts, drain and close the accounts he does have access to, and take out as much cash as I am able. Then I drive to my apartment and pack everything that's important to me. I load it all into an Uber, leaving my keys and phone behind. A stack of noise complaints rustles on the door as I shut the door and leave the old version of me behind.
When I pull up to Isaac's place and pile all the boxes and luggage on the sidewalk, I'm expecting him to freak out.
"I know this is a lot, and I promise it's temporary?—"
He immediately pulls me into a hug. "Tyler. I've already told you that you’re welcome to stay for as long as you need."
"I'm pretty sure you didn't intend for me to move in."
He shrugs, but I can see the worry in his eyes. "What happened?"
"My father showed up, and I decided I don't want his money or his support if it means fitting myself into the miserable shell of a future he has picked out for me. I don't want to know him if he refuses to know me."
A smile crosses Isaac's beautiful face, the late afternoon sun glinting off his dark irises. This is the first time I’ve seen a hint of color in them.
"Your eyes are brown," I say, staring up at him. The chocolate depths pull me in, wrapping me in indulgent comfort.
"Yours are… beautiful."
"Thank you." His lips quirk at the edges and I roll my eyes. "Not for the compliment, although that is part of it. I noticed today that I am a different person since I've been spending time with you. A better version of me that I’m not embarrassed of."
"Well, for the record, I like every version of you that I've met so far." Isaac bends down and kisses me lightly. "Let's get all this inside so we can properly celebrate."
* * *
I thought celebrating would involve more nudity, but it turns out to be standing in the middle of a loud, crowded room full of hundreds of people screaming for blood.
To be fair, the original destination was supposed to be a new ice cream place that supposedly has great dairy-free options. And while I'd still prefer an orgasm over ice cream, it's a close second. But I didn't even get the ice cream. What I got instead is just anxiety inducing.
This is your own damn fault.
I couldn't let Isaac pass up this opportunity, though. He got a call from a promoter friend needing a fighter for an event tonight, and the guy was desperate. It seemed like Isaac was going to say no right off the bat, but apparently, I'm still feeling cocky after walking away from my father. I started asking questions, and eventually, Isaac handed me the phone so I could talk to his good buddy, Jimmy, myself. Somehow, I ended up negotiating a favor that involves a higher cut of the profits and got him to agree to host one of his popular fight events for Isaac's grand opening.
Now I'm here. Standing next to a giant cage, waiting for Isaac to potentially get his teeth knocked out. The guy he's fighting was just announced with much fanfare and entered the cage. He's huge! I don't understand how the weight classes work, because I expected someone closer to Isaac's size. Maybe the rules are a little looser when they aren't sanctioned professional fights?
It smells like sweat and the metallic tinge of blood. The overhead spotlights glare down on the cage, illuminating it from every angle. The venue is a community arena, and there are a surprising amount of people packing the stands. Lucky me, I get to be up close to the action in the VIP floor area. Apparently, being close enough that you could get sprayed with sweat or blood is a selling point. Who knew?
When they announce Isaac "The Rogue" Casey, there's an odd response from the crowd. There's cheering, but there's also a low murmur of discussion, like people know who he is and are surprised to see him. There's a lot of gawking as he makes his way to the cage. I'm also gawking, but for a different reason that has nothing to do with his fighting reputation and everything to do with all the skin on display. He’s all greased up and shiny and it’s doing something to me. Maybe he can get this over quickly and I can lick him like the ice cream I was promised.
The bell rings, and I swear my heart skips a beat. The big guy charges in first, meaty fists up, but I can tell right away that he's all brute strength and no finesse. Isaac barely moves, just weaves enough to dodge his opponent's clumsy swings. More than once, a hit lands, and the more I pay attention, the more I see that Isaac isn't doing much to fight back or even block. I don’t understand what’s happening. It goes against everything he’s been teaching me.
A solid jab to his ribs reverberates in my own bruised torso. A right hook snaps his head to the side, but his face remains impassive. Blood trickling from a cut on his cheekbone is the only evidence he's affected at all.
The first round drags on, Isaac throwing lazy punches—light taps that only serve to rile the other guy up. The crowd is getting pissed, but there's a low rumble of laughter that's starting to piss off the big guy. His swings are getting sloppy.
Finally, a bell rings, signaling a break, but I don't move. When the fighters move to their respective corners, I don't approach the cage. I stay planted where I am, arms crossed, pulse hammering in my ears. I should go over there and tell him to stop screwing around and fight back. What is he even doing? But I don't. I'm frozen in place.
Round two begins, and Jimmy the promoter joins me on the floor. There's more of the same nonsense from the first round. Isaac fucking around, dodging some punches and kicks, absorbing others like they're love taps. Like he isn't getting paid to fight but to bait the other guy and endure being hit over and over.
The crowd roars in frustration. They want carnage, but all they're getting is an almost bored looking Isaac screwing around. Then the giant lands a hard kick to his body, enough to send Isaac stumbling back.
He laughs. Fucking laughs. He catches a hard jab to the mouth, his lip splitting open. Blood covers his teeth when he smiles.
He's insane.
"What is he doing?" I mutter to myself.
Jimmy leans in. "He gets paid more if the fight lasts all three rounds. He's just having some fun."
Fun. Right. What the fuck is wrong with these people?
I press my lips together, nerves and frustration competing for space in my stomach. The round ends, and this time, Jimmy pushes me towards the cage.
Isaac wipes sweat from his forehead, smearing blood across his face. He looks unhinged. Feral.
I want to yell at him to stop screwing around, but I don't. Because as much as I don't want to admit it, he's beautiful like this, wild and reckless and untouchable.
"Could you maybe not mess up your pretty face any more than you already have?" I ask, trying to sound casual. He sees through me.
His smile stretches wider. How did I not realize he's deranged?
"You're not worried about me, are you kitten?"
I roll my eyes, but before I can say anything snarky, something in his expression shifts. He crooks a finger at me, and I step closer without thinking.
Fingers pinch my shirt through the gaps in the fencing, pulling me flush against the cage. His mouth crashes to mine, tongue snaking in to play with mine, tasting like sweat and copper. The noise of the crowd fades to a dull roar. All I can hear are his ragged breaths, the low moan he feeds into my mouth, and my frantically beating heart. He kisses me like I'm the only thing that matters. All in, no hesitation, no fear.
Through the links of the chain, my fingers caress over the tattoo on his rib cage.
Nothing to lose. Everything to gain.
I'm dazed when he pulls back. Speechless. And I have a fucking boner in public.
He winks at me before stepping away as the final round begins.
The bell rings.
"Here we go," Jimmy sings next to me.
The round starts similarly to the others, except this time Isaac doesn't try to dance away. The big guy lumbers up to him and punches him right in the middle of his face. A drop of blood falls to the floor. My eyes are stuck on it. On the feeling of knuckles cracking against the cartilage of my nose. Blood pouring out.
Something bumps me from behind, and I shake myself out of my head. I look up to find Isaac watching me. Waiting for me to come back to myself. The moment our eyes meet, I know he's waiting for me to signal that I'm alright. I give him a slight nod to get on with it already. He smirks and winks.
Then, in a succession of quick, brutal movements, Isaac has his opponent down, face-first on the mat. The referee rushes in. Knockout.
Isaac doesn't look anywhere but at me as the ref announces him as the winner. His smile is dangerous, and I feel the promise of it like fire under my skin.
I'm in so much trouble.