18. Isaac
18
ISAAC
This place stinks. It smells like rancid beer, sweat, and the sour tang of desperation.
The crowd presses in close. There's no cage or even a ring here. It's just a dingy warehouse with a circle marked out with duct tape. My mind flashes to the day Tyler went to the hardware store with me and the rainbow duct tape he bought. I can picture it in place of the silver tape on the floor now, and it makes me smile.
"The fuck are you smiling at?"
The guy I'm fighting is shorter than me, but stockier. His body is covered in a thick blanket of dark hair, from his toes, up his legs, his rock hard belly and barrel chest, and his back and shoulders. He has a thick beard. All of that hair everywhere, except for the top of his head. It's bald and shiny as a polished bowling ball. You can see where he's shaved his head around the sides and back, but most of his head is completely smooth.
We haven't been here long, but he's getting impatient with me. The way he's acting, his jerky movements, and over-hyped attitude make me think he might be on something. Coke probably. A lot of that gets passed around here. Some fighters think it helps them, but it doesn't. His movements are clumsy and his reaction times are off. He doesn't appreciate the way I've been playing with him. If he wasn't high, he'd probably have noticed me daydreaming and could have made a move.
Instead, he tries some weak insults and comes at me with zero finesse. I look over at the guy who runs these fights and give him an exasperated look. This is really all you have for me?
He gestures for me to get on with it and calls over one of the security guys, who has a clipboard with all the people signed up to fight tonight.
Ready for a real challenge, I put the hairy guy out of his misery. He practically knocks himself out, running straight into my fist with his throat. My foot coming around the side of his head is on me, but if I didn't knock him out, he'd just keep trying. He feels nothing now, but that's gonna hurt in the morning.
I stand in the middle of the circle, not talking to or even acknowledging anyone. I'm here for one thing, otherwise I wouldn't be here at all. It's been a long time since I fought in a shithole like this. I try to stay away from the betting rings and less-than-legitimate fights, but I needed to work off some tension, and the extra cash is always useful.
Someone new steps into the circle, and the crowd goes wild. My new opponent. He's big—built like a damn tank, all bulk and no neck. He paces across from me, cracking his knuckles, glaring at me while he pumps himself up.
A lot of guys feel like they need to hate the guy they're fighting. They need to get angry. I smile at him to help him along. That usually pisses them off enough to get on with it. I've never had that issue.
A fight is like any other sport. It's muscle memory, precision, instinct. Everything makes sense here. I don't need to be angry or hate someone to pull off the moves, and because of that I go into a fight more clear-headed.
Or at least I normally do. Right now, my head is a mess. Because right now, instead of focusing on Mr. Muscles, I'm focused on how Tyler makes me feel like I'm coming apart at the seams and putting myself back together all at once.
The crowd loves this guy. He's the kind of fighter they bet on without thinking. And they expect him to win, to obliterate, to give them a show.
Good.
I want him to hit me. I need him to.
Then, when I'm ready to end this thing, I’ll walk away with fatter pockets as well as a clearer mind.
A ref stands between us and makes a joke about there being no rules. He raises his hand, then drops it, signaling for the fight to begin.
The brick shit house charges, throwing a heavy right hook. I don't move to dodge it, letting it connect with my jaw in an explosion of pain, blood, and spit. It sprays the people standing closest, and they roar their excitement and approval. I shake my head out, but otherwise barely react. I just smile, blood pooling in my mouth.
The crowd eats it up.
I dodge his next punch, and then another. He tries to connect with his foot, but he's not fast enough. With every punch I take, the crowd grows wilder. I could take him down right now if I wanted to. I could end this in seconds. But that's not what I'm here for. I shift on my feet and throw a lazy jab to his ribs just to keep him engaged. I take a heel to the kidney, but I barely register the impact.
I came here to stop thinking. To drown out the mental image of Tyler on the ground, unconscious, and the previously faceless man holding him down. He has a face now. The same face that had Tyler backed into a corner yesterday. The sneering, spitting snake that had my Tyler ashen faced.
Tyler is keeping secrets. He’s entitled to them, but it's burning me from the inside out .
Another hit lands, this time to my ribs. It stings, but I don't flinch. I spit blood on the floor and show my teeth again.
My opponent hesitates, which surprises me. I suppose he's used to people flinching, stepping back, showing fear or hesitation when they're around him. That's not me though. I don't give him any of that. I just circle him, waiting.
The fight drags on, the crowd growing restless as I take hit after hit without dropping. Tyler's not going to be happy about the state of my face when I see him Friday. I suppose I probably shouldn’t let him hit me so many more times. But I do love to play with my food.
I step up my game a little, replacing my easy smirk with a more serious demeanor. I make him work for it now, dodging his swings, letting him waste his energy. Dragging out the inevitable. I'm not ready to end this yet. More hits, more pain, more screaming from the crowd. More distraction from the chaos in my head.
I see the moment Hercules begins to slow, frustration bleeding into his movements. I let him land one last hit before I make my move.
Three quick steps. A feint. A sharp hook to the temple. He drops like a sack of bricks, and I'm on him, sitting on his chest, my knees squeezing his jugular.
The ref hesitates, probably debating whether it's better to call it and not risk the fighter's life, or drag it out for the people betting. My opponent isn't moving, though. I give the ref a pointed look and he throws up his arms, calling the fight. The crowd erupts. Money gets passed around, cheers and curses fill the air. I barely hear any of it.
When the big guy regains consciousness, I offer a hand to help him up, thank him for a good fight, and smile when he mutters that I'm a crazy bastard. Then I grab my cut and get the hell out.
The night air is cool against my overheated skin. My ribs throb, my knuckles ache, but my head is clearer than it's been in days. That fucker's face is also clearer.
Fishing my phone out of my coat pocket, I check for any messages. There's one from Anders, responding to a text I sent earlier, confirming some plans at the cafe.
And there's one from Tyler, responding to some texts I sent him earlier today.
Me: I'm so sorry. I'll make it up to you, I promise.
Kitten: You don't need to be sorry. I understand. You need to be there for your mom.
Kitten: Although you are perfectly welcome to make it up to me if it'll make you feel better ;)
Me: Oh yeah? Anything specific in mind?
Kitten: Well. there's that thing you did with your tongue…
Uuugghhh. Now I'm hard. Away for the second night in a row, standing out in some dirty alley, and I'm aching for him.
Me: You're killing me over here.
Me: Here I was, thinking something sweet and innocent like taking you on a date tomorrow.
Kitten: A date?
Kitten: Tomorrow?
Me: Yeah. I want to take you out and show you a good time.
Kitten: You don't have to take me out to do that…
Kitten: Also, you realize that tomorrow is Valentine's Day, right?
I actually didn't realize that when I initially texted Anders. He got a good laugh out of that. I think Valentine's Day is a stupid made-up holiday. Then again, I used to think relationships were stupid, too. And yet, here I am, checking my phone like an idiot every five minutes just to see his name. Strangely, I don't hate having an extra excuse to get grossly lovey-dovey under the guise of tradition. I have a real problem with holding back when it comes to Tyler. I have to keep reminding myself it's only been a couple of weeks, and I need to slow down. But that feels impossible when every cell of my body is set to full steam ahead.
Me: Feels like something people in a relationship do.
Me: But don't worry, I'll still do that thing you like.
Me: And then after…
Kitten: You don't play nice.
Kitten: I miss you.
Me: You miss me, or your dick misses me?
Kitten: Can't it be both?
Me: So is that a yes, then?
Kitten: To the date? Or to the dick?
Me: Can't it be both? ;)
Kitten: It's a yes.
Kitten: To both.
Me: Goodnight, Kitten.
Kitten: Goodnight.
I run a hand through my hair, my slow exhale visible in the frigid air. The anger, the frustration, the helplessness, it's all still there, coiled like a viper in my chest. But it matters a little less now that I've worked out some of that excess energy, and gotten to talk to him.
Right now, I just want to get home to him.
Maybe I'll be able to sleep tonight, unlike last night, where all I could do was lay awake and overanalyze every moment. Envisioning Tyler with Guy, every time he's mentioned him, or that date he went on. It's unlikely I'll get a full eight hours or however many hours of sleep people are “supposed” to get, but a few hours would be helpful. Mom's pain doctor canceled on her today, and the walk-in clinic was overrun. We waited for hours until Mom couldn't handle sitting in the uncomfortable waiting room chairs. I even had her lay in the truck for a while, but it was obvious we weren't getting seen today. The receptionist took pity on us and squeezed her in tomorrow. I make a mental note to bring her flowers. I may or may not have played the flirt when it seemed like it might help. I appreciate her help, but I will riot if my mom doesn't get some help tomorrow. She's having a really bad flare up, the likes of which only happen maybe once a year. When it gets this bad, nothing helps except certain shots they inject directly into her spine. Unfortunately, her shitty Medicaid plan doesn't cover the shots, so we have to pay cash. Thanks to the other night, and the fight tonight, I have the cash to cover it, and a little extra to make my Valentine's Day date something special.
* * *
The Nook doesn't just look different tonight—it looks ethereal. Like we're in another world. A world that's warmer. Softer. Dreamier.
All the tables are pushed to the back, aside from one that stands alone in the middle of the room. The dark fabric of the tablecloth is illuminated by softly flickering candlelight dancing across the surface. The overhead lights of the cafe are dimmed, and string lights are draped here and there, casting a golden glow over the space. In the background, that indie band Tyler likes is playing softly, too softly to make out the lyrics over the erratic beating of my heart.
It's beautiful and perfect. Then there's him.
Tyler stands in the doorway, lips parted, blue-green eyes wide as he takes it all in. The butterflies in my chest make it hard to take a full breath.
"You—" He turns to me, blinking rapidly, like he's not sure if this is real. You and me both. "You did all this?"
I shift on my feet, suddenly feeling the weight of what feels like too much and not enough simultaneously. "I mean, I had help."
Tyler walks into the center of the room, the candlelight catching the natural highlights in his hair, and glinting off those glasses I know he wore just for me.
"Isaac," he murmurs, and it's not just my name I hear. It's something else, something intangible that lodges itself in my chest and holds all those butterflies I was feeling captive, so they're fluttering even more frantically.
Coming up beside him, I clear my throat and pull out his chair. "Here, sit. Please."
His fingers graze over my arm when he takes the seat. He barely touches me, but I feel it everywhere. I keep my eyes locked on him, watching him take it all in as I take the seat across from him.
"No one's ever done something like this for me before," he says, voice thick with emotion.
I’m reminded of one of the conversations we had recently, where he told me he never had a real birthday party. That his day was used as an excuse to invite a bunch of stuffy old rich people to their house, and that he was expected to dress a certain way and behave accordingly. That's going to have to change. I’m already planning glow-bowling and pizza parties.
"You deserve to be treated special every day of your life."
He blinks back at me, emotion showing in his watery eyes and the slow smile that spreads across his lips. "So do you," he whispers.
I lean forward, tugging on his hand to get him to do the same, and meet his lips halfway. The kiss is slow, and sweet, but definitely not chaste as Tyler's tongue teases the seam of my lips.
A throat clears, and I half groan, half laugh at the perfect timing.
Not saying a word, but saying so much with their eyes, Mac and Anders walk from the back holding trays. They're both wearing maroon vests and black pants, with white aprons tied around their waists.
"Oh my God, you guys are so extra!" Tyler says, his eyes dancing with amusement and gratitude. I recognize it because I feel the same. How will I ever repay this kindness?
I really wanted to do something special for Tyler, for our first official date, and asking for favors is not something I take lightly. I can't afford much, but this feels extravagant in exactly the right way. Mac and Anders insisted that using the space after-hours was no trouble, and even made us some light hors d'oeuvres and desserts for a price that can't possibly pay for all of this. I expected a few candles and dinner, but the rest of it… the decorations, the matching outfits, the sealed lips and exaggerated eyebrow waggles as they leave? It's more than I could have asked for or ever thought of myself. I'll find a way to thank them. They've been amazing friends.
As we eat, I feel especially grateful that it's a light menu because I feel weirdly nervous. Jittery. Excited. The conversation is just as light, but I think we're both aware of the heavy topics that are floating in the background. We almost touch on them when Tyler brushes a hand over my black eye and swollen cheek and asks if we’re going to talk about it.
I shake my head. All of that can wait for another day.
"I have a gift for you," I say, my nerves showing through my shaky voice. I clear my throat. "It's nothing big, and might not be usable, but…"
I lead Tyler over to the tablet Brenna left on the front counter and unlock the screen. Tyler glances down at it, confused, but then the words start to register. He lifts a hand to the screen and scrolls through the website Brenna and I have been working on since the day he dropped his major down to only graphic design. Tyler gapes at the screen like he's afraid to touch it, his finger hovering just over the glass.
His breath catches. "This is…"
"All your work. Your art. It's an online portfolio. You don't have to use it if you don't want to, but I thought seeing your work displayed this way would show you what I see. What everyone sees."
He scrolls the page, seeing his work laid out in a simple design that enhances the professionalism of his work. He is an artist, but his focus is all about practical applications. The template Brenna used highlights that perfectly, and gives the page an aesthetic that is exquisitely Tyler.
"Isaac," he breathes, my name barely a whisper.
"You are so fucking talented, Tyler. People should get a chance to see that. I just wanted to–" I exhale, shaking my head at myself for getting all emotional. "I wanted you to see what I see."
He finally looks up, and something in his expression knocks the remaining air from my lungs. It's raw, unguarded. Like no one has ever told him he's worthy before.
I want to change that. I am going to change that.
I see the change already, in the little moments between just us. Someday the rest of the world will see it too. More importantly, he will see it.
"I want to say thank you, but it's not enough."
He doesn't need to say any of it. I can see it in his expression, hear it in his voice. It's in the way he holds the tablet like it's something precious and fragile. If he can accept this, maybe accepting himself as he truly is—the wonderful, amazing, talented man I've come to know these past couple weeks—isn't all that far off. He's already taken all the first steps. I hope he truly understands how proud I am of him.
Tyler steps into me, and I wrap my arms around him. With the music playing softly in the background, it's almost like we're dancing. Time passes in a blur of quiet conversation, soft touches, and shared glances. There's something growing between us that feels bigger than words. When it's over, and I walk him home, even the cool night air can't temper the heat rising in my veins. I'm so ready for what comes next, but I'm nervous too. No matter how many times I've had sex before, I've never given a piece of myself to the person I was with.
When we get to my building and I pull my keys out to unlock the main door, Tyler puts his hand on mine and shakes his head. He laces his fingers through mine and pulls me toward the side of the building and the narrow set of stairs. Without a word, he takes my hand and leads me up the stairs, only hesitating momentarily once he's unlocked the door.
The difference is immediately obvious. The space is open and empty, where before it was cluttered with trash and boxes and debris from before I moved in. But it's clean now. The dust and clutter are gone, the space completely cleared. There's a lot of work to be done, but it's not as bad as I initially thought when the space looked like a hoarder's den. The walls and flooring are all intact and need some sanding and a coat of paint. This is… livable. I— we —could move in up here and not have to sleep on a mattress in the back room of the gym.
Tyler must have realized this too, because through an arched opening that separates the main living space, the bed has already been moved in. It's set centered on the wall opposite the slanted ceiling, on an actual platform bed frame with a headboard. There’s a dresser and two night stands, too. Battery-operated candles are scattered everywhere in the room, casting everything in a romantic, flickering glow.
I've been silent since the moment we stepped in, because I'm so surprised, overcome with goddamned feelings that are too fucking big for my body right now. "Tyler, this is amazing."
"You've been working so hard on the gym, and taking care of me, that you haven't had time to work on making room for yourself," he says. "And I wanted to do something for you. You've gone out of your way to make me feel welcome in your space, to give me somewhere that feels like home." He swallows hard. "You should have something for yourself. Somewhere that feels like home. So, if you're okay with it, I'd like to finish this space for you."
I don't know what to say. My throat is tight, my chest feels too full. I step toward him slightly, feeling the way his breath hitches when I reach around his waist and pull him close. He looks at me like he's waiting for something, but that something isn't permission to paint my apartment. It's to be part of my life.
When I kiss him, it's not rushed. It's not desperate. It's steady. Certain. My hands find his face, thumbs brushing over his cheeks as I cradle the back of his head. I pull back and stare down at him, this man that has become everything to me in a matter of weeks.
There's so much I want to say. Mostly, that I'm not worthy, but I'll strive to be every day.
But for now, this is enough.
He's here. With me.
And it's everything.