Chapter 1 The Job #9
At first, it doesn’t feel like much. I tell myself to roll with it.
But then the pain comes, in a flash of white-hot hell—a tsunami wave of fire swallowing me up, radiating from the lower right side of my torso.
It feels kind of like getting kicked in the balls—because it doesn’t just hurt where he landed the punch. It hurts everywhere, all at once.
My vision wavers, and I crash to my knees, my whole body dropping like a deadweight. Next thing I know, I’m curled up on the floor, gripping my side.
I can’t breathe.
I can’t breathe.
Bruiser crouches beside me, shaking my shoulder. “You okay, kid? Come on, talk to me.”
I can’t talk, not without moaning in pain. I just nod, blinking back tears. Dammit. I spit out my mouth guard, pressing my forehead into the floor as another wave of excruciating pain grips me from the inside.
God almighty, it hurts.
But after a moment, I force myself to swallow back the agony and straighten up. “I’m fine, Bruiser. I’m fine.”
And it’s true—the pain is nothing compared to the flames of humiliation burning me alive. I can’t look at Devon as he ducks out of the ring on Bruiser’s command and struts off to see his girlfriend. I can’t look at any of the other students. I can’t even look at Bruiser.
“Can you stand?” he asks.
And maybe he would have said it to anyone who just got their ass handed to them.
But saying it to me feels like another knockout.
“Yes,” I bite out through clenched teeth. “Of course I can stand.”
Bruiser doesn’t help me up. He watches as I climb to my feet and steady myself on the ropes.
“Take a timeout, kid. Catch your breath. I’ll come check on you in a minute.”
As I make my way over to the benches at one side of the gym, I can feel gazes following me. I can feel my self-respect withering up and dying in the pit of my stomach.
I tear off my gear, sit down on the bench, and grab my water bottle. For a second, I wonder if Leia is going to make a big deal out of this. If she’s going to come over and pretend to feel sorry for me, offer to bandage me up and give me another slobbery kiss to make me feel better.
But then I spot her by the heavy bags, talking to Devon—caressing his sweaty face like he’s some knight in shining armor who just slew the dragon who was out to get her.
I guess her game is over.
I sit out the rest of class, doing light stretches and maintaining my tough face so I don’t look like a pansy-ass.
When eight o’clock rolls around and the students disperse, Bruiser pulls Devon aside.
I can’t hear their conversation from this far away, but I can see the severe glint in Bruiser’s eyes as he speaks, nodding in my direction.
Devon glances over his shoulder and sees me sitting on the bench, leaning forward on my knees. His gaze lowers to my shoes. And I could swear I catch a look of regret in his eyes.
Bruiser didn’t tell him, did he? No. He wouldn’t.
But then Devon walks across the room and stops in front of me, his gaze still stuck on my shoes.
“I’m… sorry, for what I did earlier. It was wrong of me to go that hard on you.”
A knot of embarrassment and anger twists in my stomach. But I try not to let it show on my face. Instead, I just shrug and say, “I can handle it.”
Devon nods stiffly, not looking me in the eye. “Well, Bruiser told me…” He clears his throat, abandoning the rest of that sentence. “Never mind. Let’s just forget about what happened, okay?”
“Okay,” I say.
But I’m boiling inside.
Bruiser told me… you’re an amputee. That’s what he was going to say. Bruiser told me I shouldn’t have hit you; I should feel bad for you. I should treat you differently because you’re not like the rest of us.
Devon didn’t say any of those things, but I know how to read between the lines. I know what pity looks like. I know why some people can’t look me in the face once they know.
Bruiser had no right to tell him things I deliberately kept private.
He had no goddamn right.
When the rest of the students leave, Bruiser calls me into his office. I swallow back my simmering anger and follow him, determined to speak my mind this time—to hell with the consequences. I’m sick of slipping and dodging the truth.
Bruiser sits behind his desk, pushing papers around in search of something. “You okay, kid? Got hit pretty hard back there.”
“I’m feeling better now,” I lie, taking my hand away from my side, which still feels like it got smashed by a battering ram. “It just surprised me, that’s all.”
“Surprised me too,” Bruiser admits, adding insult to injury by saying, “That was one hell of a knockout. Didn’t think Devon had it in him.”
A muscle in my jaw twitches. “He had a score to settle with me.”
Bruiser nods, like he already knew that. “And you had a score to settle with him, by the looks of it.”
“No. I wasn’t… That’s not what it was about.”
“What was it about, then?”
I stand there like an idiot with my mouth hanging open, unsure what to tell him. The truth? I wanted to impress you. I wanted you to see that I have what it takes. I wanted to prove that I’m good enough for this job.
But I can’t say all that.
It would feel too much like… I don’t know. Like carving my chest open and letting him see something I don’t want him to see.
After a long silence, Bruiser sighs, looking down at an envelope in his hands. “You’re a straight-shooter, Weston. So I’m going to be straight with you, too. Okay?”
I swallow, a twinge of dread taking root in my stomach. Somehow, I know exactly what’s in that envelope. And I don’t want him to hand it to me.
But he does.
“I don’t think this is the right time for you to be working here, kid.” He doesn’t look me in the eye when he says it. “But I appreciate you giving it a fair shot. Here’s a week’s pay.”
I take the envelope, my fingers stiffening around the corners. I don’t want the money. I never wanted the money—I wanted this job. I loved this job. And I was good at it, too.
Now, I’m getting fired.
And I know the reason.
Still, I have to ask, “What did I do wrong?”
Bruiser shakes his head, looking down at the desk. “I didn’t say you did something wrong. I just said it’s not the right time—”
“When will be the right time? When my legs grow back?”
His steely eyes lock on mine. “It’ll be the right time when you change your attitude, kid.”
“My attitude?”
“You started out fine on your first day,” Bruiser says, his voice even and calm. “But I’ve watched you over the course of the week—I’ve watched you get more competitive and cocky with every training session, and now I know why. Because your ego is getting in the way.”
“My ego?” I sputter. “This has nothing to do with my ego. Don’t give me that bullshit. I know what this is. I’m not an idiot. I saw your face that first morning when you saw my legs. I’ve seen that look enough times to know exactly what it means.”
A shadow of remembrance passes over his face as he stares down at his hands clasped on the desk. “There’s more to it than you think, kid.”
“Oh yeah? Like what?” I cross my arms over my chest, nailing him with my gaze. “Enlighten me.”
But he doesn’t. He just sits there, avoiding eye contact, his resting grumpy face as hard as granite.
I scoff under my breath, shaking my head. “I thought you were different.”
He looks up, meeting my eyes.
“That first day,” I continue, “when you tested me and put me through all those hellish drills, I thought, ‘This guy is actually going to give me a chance.’ I wanted to work for you because you treated me like an equal. But then you changed. You started acting like I have special needs or something. So what the hell was that first day? Were you just trying to scare me off so you wouldn’t have to deal with me? ”
“Weston—”
“I don’t want to work for someone who treats me like I’m broken.” My voice shatters on the last word, angry tears stinging my eyes. I throw the envelope down on the desk. “Keep your money, sir. I don’t want it.”
With that, I turn and storm out of the boxing gym, letting the door slam behind me. My hands tremble with pent-up rage as I walk down the street to my mom’s car and collapse into the driver’s seat.
There’s a forest fire in my chest, and I can’t hold it in any longer. I slam my hand into the steering wheel over and over again, every hit making the pain in my side flare up, but I don’t care—I’m so burning mad, I could put a hole through this steering wheel.
SLAM, SLAM, SLAM.
I crumple forward with my face in my hands just as the tears spill down.
Weston:
Hey
Are you still awake?
Tessa:
Yeah
What’s up?
Weston:
Can I come over?
I know it’s super late but
I want to see you
Tessa:
Of course.
I’m staying over at my mom’s apt tonight
but she’s already gone to bed
Is everything ok?
I don’t answer that last question because I don’t need to. It’s obvious when Tessa opens the door of her mother’s apartment and sees me standing on the porch, holding my side.
“Oh my god, what happened? Are you hurt?”
I shrug one shoulder. “Not really. I got hit while sparring, but I’m okay.”
Tessa knows me better than that. She knows I’m not okay.
Without a word, she takes my arm and escorts me into the tiny living room. It’s dark but for the soft light of a few lamps. Tessa is wearing fuzzy slippers and one of my hoodies. She looks ready for bed. Is it really that late? I glance at the clock. 10:30. I guess so.
Tessa drags me over to the couch and makes me sit down. “When did you get out of the gym?”
“Hours ago.”
“And you didn’t go home?”
I shake my head. “I just drove around for a while. I wanted to be by myself. And then I wanted to see you.”
Tessa looks up at me, worry swimming in her big blue eyes. I don’t know if it’s because I’m still gripping my side like a horse kicked me in the liver or because I just confessed that I wanted to be alone, which is about as weird for me as a snowstorm in Hawaii.
“What happened, Wes?”
When I don’t reply, Tessa investigates for herself—pulling up the hem of my T-shirt to check out my injury.