Glorious Ruin (The Kayfabe #2)

1. THURSDAY, AUGUST — SAN JUAN, PUERTO RICO

THURSDAY, AUGUST — SAN JUAN, PUERTO RICO

Now playing: The Spins - Mac Miller & Empire Of The Sun

The rain in San Juan hit the hotel glass differently than it did in the South.

When we were back on the Reed land, the rain was a wash.

A cleansing force that smelled of turned earth and pine needles.

A reprieve. But here, fourteen stories up in a sleek, overpriced resort overlooking the ocean, it felt heavy, like a tropical curtain.

It was warm, relentless, and smelled sharply of salt spray and humidity.

It blurred the palm trees and the distant blue of the ocean into a watercolor painting of turquoise and gray, trapping us inside the climate-controlled bubble of the suite.

While I admired the sound of the droplets hitting the thick glass, I felt trapped in the haze of my own mind. So much of my life had changed in the last eight months.

I went from being the angriest, most hurt I’d ever been when Silas came back to the UWF, to doing something I never thought I’d be capable of: forgiving him.

I had fallen deeper in love with him, more than I’d ever been before, while helping him come out to his family.

The Reeds had accepted me, much like the Donovans had when I was a scrawny, terrified runaway, covered in bruises and cuts.

I’d even progressed to sending a large chunk of my things to his space in North Carolina.

Life was changing at a rapid pace, and though it scared the literal fuck out of me, this was the first time in my thirty-something years I truly recalled feeling a profound sense of peace.

I had a family, Silas, and everything I ever wanted resting right in my hands.

“Cal,” Lena sang in her exaggerated, drawn-out tone. By the way she called my name, I knew she was about to ask for something.

I turned to face her. She had just come from the bathroom, a plush white hotel towel wrapped tightly around her dark hair.

She wore an oversized T-shirt with Silas’s logo on it, and a pair of fluffy pink pajama pants with penguins on them.

I couldn’t help but smile. Her presence in my life had been a bright spot from the very first day.

I remember that day clearly. She was training at the Performance Center, completely alone, because the other women were intimidated by her sheer talent.

Meanwhile, the men were too busy trying to convince her to fuck them.

It was pathetic. I don’t know what it was, or what I did that caught her attention, but out of nowhere there was nineteen-year-old Lena hiding behind my broad back as I laced my boots.

She reminded me of my youngest sister, Sarah, and in that instant, I knew if anyone wanted to fuck with Lena, they would have to go through me first.

“Yeah, kid?” I said nonchalantly as I leaned against the glass window.

She waved her hairbrush and comb in my face, an evil smirk forming. “Can you do one of your magical French braids, please?”

I rolled my eyes at her request, but Lena knew I didn’t mind the task.

Honestly, I was thankful she felt she could ask me.

She never got along with the women in the locker room, partly because they were all scared of her in-ring abilities.

And partly because, according to her, they were also jealous she was the only woman on the roster I had anything to do with.

I took the supplies from her hand and walked over to the desk chair in front of the small hotel vanity.

She followed and sat, legs crossed on the floor at my feet.

This was the part I enjoyed, the bit of relaxation that came with gently brushing out the damp tangles, but it was always short-lived.

Inevitably, she’d yell at me. A recurring complaint that I was being too rough.

A sentiment which, thanks to my sisters, I’m no stranger to.

One of the unexpected consequences of running away to a family with three daughters, was that at the ripe age of fifteen, I had perfected the art of braiding hair.

It became a type of currency my sisters used against me on more than one occasion.

If I didn’t want to be ratted on for sneaking out, getting into trouble, or skipping class, I had to pay up with intricate hairstyles before school.

“Stop moving your head,” I murmured, tapping her shoulder with the back of the brush. “It’s gonna be lopsided, and then you’ll blame me for it when the pictures come out.”

“I’m not moving!” Lena argued indignantly, though she settled back down on the floor between my knees. “You’re pulling too tight. Chill with the heavy dad-hands.”

There it was, I knew she was gonna say it. I didn’t even get far this time before she had to throw that complaint in there.

“Beauty is pain, kid. Ask my sisters. If you wanted mercy, you should have asked Silas to attempt it. I’m sure he would’ve given you a scalp massage.”

“No,” Lena snorted, shaking her head slightly. “He would have taken forever trying to figure out how to do it, and then it would still take several failed attempts before it was perfect. My scalp would be in even more pain than it is right now.”

I separated another section of her still-damp hair and smiled, because she was absolutely right about his perfectionism. Regardless of the hell I gave her for it, I appreciated the distraction from reality, though it never lasted long.

To sell this weekend’s main event, Silas and I had been put into a grueling arrangement by Creative.

A strict lockdown until the end of Heatwave weekend.

Creative was riding our asses on the importance of the lockdown, too, telling us it was to “sell” our feud and not ruin the illusion for the fans.

This weekend’s main event would culminate with me dropping the World Heavyweight title to Silas.

Ideally, management didn’t want us in the same zip code, let alone the same damn room. It pure torture for us both. We’d been sharing a hotel every night since we got back on the road for Heatwave in April. To be forced apart for a week with hardly any time together was physical agony.

I didn’t like being away from him anymore, nor did I want to be.

Waking up alone in a cold bed felt wrong.

Not buying his overpriced, ridiculously-strong coffee in the morning left a pang in my chest I’d never admit out loud.

I despised not seeing him walk around the room in my clothes, just because he wanted to be wrapped in my things.

Never mind how lonely my showers had become.

As much as I loved professional wrestling, this theatrical part of it all was what I couldn’t fucking stand.

Kayfabe is the unwritten rule we vowed to protect when we signed our lives away to this business.

Granted, the years and evolution in this industry did wonders for the ancient notion that Babyfaces and Heels couldn’t be seen together in public.

It’s not uncommon to hear of wrestlers in feuds actually being friends, Indies being tight with those from the UWF, some even dating.

But, when your feud is bringing in the most money they’ve pulled since the nineties?

They revert back to their old ways of kayfabe being the most sacred rule.

It has made me fucking insane. Because, of course, I had to go and fall head-over-goddamn-ass in love with my scripted rival and the absolute bane of my goddamn existence.

Lucky me.

It also felt dangerous. We’ve only been back together since January. Eight short months, that’s all. Eight months of absolute bliss after nearly a decade of nothing, not even a text.

We were still desperate to make up for lost time. Greedy about it, even. Every hour, every minute, every fucking second we spent apart felt like a massive risk. At least to me, anyway.

My phone buzzed once on the table next to Lena. text.

I ignored it, snapped back into focus to weave the dark strands tighter against her scalp.

It buzzed again. And again.

A picture message came through, the screen lighting up bright enough to catch my eye. I popped the back half of the comb between my lips, and the second I grabbed it, my breath hitched hard in my throat.

It was a photo of Silas. More accurately, a photo of Silas’s torso, dripping wet, taken in a mirror that was actively steaming up.

He was wearing nothing but a white hotel towel that was hanging on for dear life.

It was slung dangerously low on his hips, the deep V-lines of his pelvis on full, glorious display.

The caption was simple:

Morning view.

Wish it included you on your knees though.

I choked on my next breath.

“You okay?” Lena asked, trying to turn her head to look at me.

“Don’t move,” I commanded, holding her braid tight, my voice sounding slightly strangled. “I just…swallowed wrong.”

I stared at the phone. This was entirely new territory.

During our early hookup years, the secret phase, the “we are definitely not dating” phase, I had always been the instigator.

I was the one who pushed the boundaries, sent the suggestive texts, and used my words to fluster him into a stuttering mess.

Silas was the receiver. The one who blushed and would text back “Cal!” with absolutely nothing else.

However, since we moved in together, Silas realized us breaking up would be a far more intricate, impossible process than just calling it quits, and the fear of losing me vanished. It was replaced with a possessive, dominating, and sexy level of confidence that I’ve never seen from the man I loved.

Silas Reed’s boldness had quickly made him the biggest pain in my ass.

He had discovered the power that came with being the object of desire, and wielded it with zero responsibility. He knew exactly what a picture like that would do to me. Stuck in a room floors above him, forbidden by management from going downstairs to touch him.

You are playing a dangerous game for a man locked in a hotel room.

Put some clothes on before you catch a cold.

The reply was instantaneous.

It’s 90 degrees outside.

Make me.