8. Max
CHAPTER 8
MAX
U neasiness spreads over my skin as I shoot up in bed.
My interrupted sleep is going to catch up with me one of these days. The exhaustion is going to take over and I’m going to end up passed out on the bar top just to get a couple extra minutes of sleep.
I can’t even blame the nightmares every time because they don’t appear every night. Just most. Yet, when I wake up with my heart racing and glance around my dark room, I can’t help the feeling that there are eyes on me. Someone can see me, even though it’s impossible.
I’m paranoid. Maybe on the verge of a mental breakdown. I’d say I’m about due for one considering everything I’ve been through. Everything I escaped. Add in the less than enthusiastic welcome I’ve had in this town, and it would make sense.
Dropping back onto my bed, staring at the dark ceiling, I can’t shake the feeling, and it makes me restless. I close my eyes, seeing if that will trick my mind into shutting off and letting me sleep, but it doesn’t.
Resigned to not sleeping, I grab my phone and find a song to play, I continue to lay here, even as the melody flows through me, urging me to move. Begging me to let it out and let the instinct lead me through the familiar motions of dancing.
I keep myself plastered to the bed, just listening to the music as my body screams at me to let the notes carry me across the floor, but I can’t. I just can’t do it yet.
“Dance for me, wifey,” Carson sneers, snapping with one hand while the other cradles his whiskey glass. I think it’s his fourth since he got home from work an hour ago. Maybe fifth.
“Not your wife,” I grumble, attempting to storm past him into the bedroom. He’s worse when he drinks.
His hand shoots out to grab my wrist and I gasp at the immediate pain from the tightness of his grip. “Not yet, but you fucking will be. I want you to dance, so do it.”
“Let go of me,” I insist.
He only squeezes tighter.
“You’re hurting me,” I try to keep my voice steady. I shouldn’t have instigated him. I know what happens. It’s what always happens. My mom’s voice rings in my ears telling me how if I just did what he asked he wouldn’t hurt me.
“Then fucking dance. Maybe then I’ll fuck you how you want, like the disgusting slut you are.” His face twists in repulsion before he swallows the rest of his drink, dropping my wrist and I immediately rub at the sore joint.
Tears fill my eyes. I made the mistake of telling Carson what I may like to try in the bedroom, and he’s never let me forget how gross he finds it. Especially because my needs don’t matter. They never have and never will with him.
“I’m waiting, wifey .”
Instead of trying to fight this battle more tonight, I do what he says, and I dance. I dance, hating every single second of it. I dance as the tears fall down my cheeks and he just watches. Smiling the entire time, enjoying the sight of me breaking right in front of him. Losing another piece of myself every second I perform for him.
This hasn’t been for me in a long time, and it never will be again unless I manage to leave.
The song ends, and I’m crying, tears coursing rivers down my cheeks. Wiping them away, I shut the music off and turn over, forcing myself to try and sleep as the silence consumes me. But the uneasy feeling of being watched doesn’t leave.
Though, it doesn’t feel the same as when Carson’s eyes were on me. This feeling of being watched sends fear trickling into my blood, but there’s something else there—adrenaline. Excitement. Something I haven’t felt in a long time. I’m probably just being paranoid, but despite that, my body eventually gives into the exhaustion as sleep pulls me under once again.
Even though I have to work tonight, I’m not about to miss my second BJJ class ever. This is something I need to stick with. Something I need to do for myself.
I arrive at the gym, ready for another class and to face Drew and his doubt in me once again. But it’s not Drew that I see standing at the front. It’s one of the other guys from my first shift at the bar, the older man with tattoos covering his arms, hands, and up his neck. His salt and pepper hair is cut short. He doesn’t smile or greet me when I walk in, just looks at me expectantly.
“I’m Max,” I tell him, stepping up to the front desk.
His eyes roam over me, but not in a way that makes me uncomfortable. It’s like Drew last week, and I immediately feel like he’s sizing me up because he doesn’t think I can handle this. Which pisses me off because I’ve been underestimated my entire life. Just a figure to be looked at and admired. An accessory . First for my parents, then for Carson. And now, I’m here, and these guys think they’re better than me just because I’m not six foot whatever and covered in muscles. I watched enough videos to see women in MMA to know that’s not even necessary.
I go to speak but he finally says something instead, “Start your stretches on the mat.”
“Okayyyy,” I draw out the end of the word. “Can I at least know your name before you start barking orders at me?”
His eyebrow raises and I realize how bitchy that sounded, but I’m done letting men boss me around. I’m done letting anyone boss me around.
“You can call me Coach,” he responds gruffly.
“Interesting first name, Coach.”
I go over to the mats and start stretching. As I drop down onto the floor, that same feeling of being watched comes over me and I try my best to shake it away, obviously I’m in public and people look at other people in public.
But this is different.
I glance around trying to find the source, and that’s when I see him again. The man from the bar. The asshole with the mesmerizingly blue eyes.
He’s leaning against a far wall and there’s no denying where he’s looking because it’s right at me. I debate flipping him off but decide against agitating him right now and go back to focusing on my stretches.
“Okay, everyone,” Coach announces. “Before we get started today, you’re going to watch a couple of my professional fighters go a round to show you what it’s like.”
Coach points over to the man who’s been watching me. “This is Caine, he’s one of our pro fighters here. He’s going to be sparring with Cal.”
Both men go into the cage, and I watch their minimal preparation, assuming because they’ve already done any stretching or whatever they needed to before this. Or think they are too good for it. Either way, it doesn’t matter much to me.
Coach signals them to start, and they are circling around the ring, slightly bent at the hips with their hands wrapped and up, ready for the first move. It doesn’t surprise me that the first move is made by Caine and then everything happens quickly as he maneuvers his body around Cal’s who’s trying to fight back. He manages to get out of Caine’s hold, but it isn’t long before they are on the ground. Caine’s legs are wrapped around Cal’s body and his arms are around his neck.
Cal taps the side of Caine’s leg, and he lets go. That’s it.
“Alright, pair up,” Coach calls out to the rest of us, and I linger, continuing to watch the two men as they stand back up. Especially since Caine’s eyes find me instantly. His blank face pulls into the smallest smirk.
I turn away instantly, ready to focus on class and learning how to handle myself like that. I want to feel strong and powerful. To feel safe for the first time in my life.
I end up paired up with another guy in the class, he seems young—early twenties at most— around five foot six and has a shy smile. I can tell he’s not used to this, the martial arts or the talking with new people. Eventually, I learn his name is Skylar and do my best to make him feel comfortable practicing the moves with me since that’s why we are here.
Yet, the entire time I can’t shake the feeling of eyes on me, and I know who they belong to. I refuse to acknowledge him for the remainder of the class. I don’t even spare a glance in his direction as I leave the gym.