18. NEW YORK CITY, NEW YORK
NEW YORK CITY, NEW YORK
Now playing: Let the Band Play - Badflower
After the chaos of the Minneapolis taping, our lives had descended into a bizarre, suffocating lull. Presley made good on his threat. I was officially off-screen, completely ghosted by the creative department, while Silas was thrust into a grueling, high-profile program with Rico Martinez.
We were still traveling together, sharing hotels and rental cars, but the second we stepped foot into an arena, the invisible walls went up.
Presley banned our rings, banned us from the main locker room, and if he could, would have banned us looking at each other.
We were being punished in the most insidious, corporate way possible: by being forced to exist in the shadows of the empire we helped build.
We had finally circled into New York, and the city that never sleeps was the perfect backdrop for the restless, caged-animal energy that had been brewing inside me for the last seven days.
Silas and I had a massive suite in a high-end hotel in Midtown where the sounds of traffic offered a steadying white noise.
Silas was in the shower getting ready. He wanted to train early this morning.
As I sat on the edge of the unmade bed, staring at my phone with a cup of lukewarm hotel coffee in my hand, the water turned off.
I had plans of my own today, plans that required me to be entirely unsupervised, which meant I needed to get out of training with Si.
I opened my messages and pulled up Evan’s contact.
Can you train with Si today? I need a few hours.
Are you kidding me? Don’t you know what it’s like training with that Golden Retriever? The man does not know what oxygen depletion is. My lungs were bleeding last week.
Suck it up, Wilder. Just run the ropes with him. Keep him occupied until 2 PM.
I demand hazard pay. And you owe me dinner at that steakhouse in Tribeca.
Deal. Don’t let him leave the ring.
I tossed my phone onto the nightstand just as the bathroom door opened. Silas stepped out with a towel slung low around his waist, his damp hair curling at the ends. The steam rolled out behind him like a backdrop, carrying the scent of the cedar hotel soap.
“You almost ready?” He walked over to his suitcase and pulled out a pair of gym shorts. “I want to get in the ring before the production crew starts testing the pyro. We can run that sequence you wanted me to tweak.”
I took a slow sip of my coffee, keeping my expression neutral. “Actually, I’m not going to be able to head over with you right now, baby.”
“What? Why? Did Presley call you?”
“No, no, nothing like that,” I lied smoothly, setting my mug down. “Tate set up a last-minute interview for me. Some wrestling podcast the PR department insists I do to maintain engagement while I’m off TV. I won’t be done for a couple of hours.”
Silas frowned, no doubt unhappy about the separation. Since the broadcast, he’d been exceptionally attached. He didn’t like being in the arenas without me, even if we were confined to a broom closet.
“I can wait for you,” he offered, “We can go together after.”
“No, go train,” I gently insisted as I walked over to him. Wrapping my arms around his bare waist, I pulled him into a hug. “Evan’s already heading over to run the ropes with you. He’s thrilled about it, by the way.”
Silas let out a soft snort, his hands coming up to rest on my shoulders. “He’s going to complain the entire time.”
“That’s why I’m buying him a steak later.” I smirked, pressing a kiss to his jaw. “I’ll be back to pick you up before you’re finished. Go sweat, have fun, and try not to break our best friend.”
The lie stung a little deeper when he didn’t question me. With another deep, lingering kiss that tasted faintly of mint toothpaste, we parted.
“Alright. Love you, husband.”
“Love you, too,” I replied.
Asher wasn’t just a tattoo artist; he was a pillar in the New York ink scene. We had grown up together, two kids who didn’t fit into the boxes the world had assigned us. While I turned to the wrestling ring to channel my anger, Asher had turned to a sketchbook and eventually a needle.
His shop was located in a pristine, high-rent district in SoHo.
It was a stark contrast to the grimy, neon-lit parlors we used to hang around in our twenties.
Walking into Iron Ink felt more like entering a luxury salon.
The walls were exposed brick, the lighting was soft, and the air smelled of expensive eucalyptus and soap.
The little bell chimed over the door, and almost immediately, Asher popped out from the back room. He was still slender, but now sported a bright blue head of hair and was covered from his jawline to his knuckles in intricate, colorful tattoos.
“Cal!” He ran over, throwing his arms around my neck in a tight hug that smelled of coffee and ink.
“Ash.” I laughed, hugging him back. The familiar presence of an old friend instantly eased the tension in my shoulders. “Look at this place, man. You’ve gone full Hollywood on me.”
“Rent is high, but the clients tip better. It’s been too long, man. You look good. Tired, but good.”
“I’m surviving. How are you? How’s Maria?”
Asher’s face lit up. “She’s incredible. Actually, we just found out...she’s pregnant.”
My eyes went wide as I clapped a strong hand onto his shoulder and pulled him into another quick embrace. “No way! Ash, that’s amazing. Congratulations, man.”
“Thanks, dude. We’re terrified, but we’re so excited. But enough about me, I’ve seen the news. How are you holding up? How’s the husband?”
I let out a heavy sigh, shoving my hands into the pockets of my jacket. “It’s been a week.”
Asher nodded sympathetically, gesturing toward his private station in the corner of the shop. The leather chair looked comfortable, surrounded by pristine, stainless-steel trays and ring lights.
“So, I know you didn’t brave Midtown traffic just to catch up. What are you in for, Cal? Are we adding to that sleeve? Finishing the chest piece?”
I smirked, shrugging off my leather jacket. “I’m finally ready to get something on my neck.”
Asher stopped dead. “The neck?” His eyebrows shot up toward his blue hairline. “You’ve avoided the neck for years, dude. Thought you said you wanted to keep it clean for the corporate shit.”
“Corporate, and everyone around them, can go fuck themselves,” I said bluntly, taking a seat in his leather chair.
“Alright.” Asher sighed, letting out a short laugh as he pulled a stool over. “I’m game. Let’s look at some ideas. A skull? A traditional rose? Maybe a mandala—”
“I don’t need ideas. I know exactly what I want.”
Asher paused, looking at me. “Okay, let’s sketch it out. Where on your neck, and what is it?”
I tilted my head to the side, exposing the unblemished skin that ran from below my ear down to my collarbone. “Right here.” I tapped my finger against the side of my neck, directly against a spot that would be visible no matter what kind of shirt I wore. “And it’s the name Silas.”
“Silas,” Asher repeated, letting out another laugh. “You want his name on your neck?”
“Yep. I’m sure about this, Ash.”
“Oh, I know you are.” He shook his head as he wheeled his stool closer to the drafting table. “You wouldn’t be here if you weren’t. I’m just pissed off.”
“Pissed off?” I raised an eyebrow.
“Well, yeah. We’ve been friends since high school. I did your first tattoo on your goddamn knuckles in my mom’s basement, and you’ve never let me meet the damn guy. Now I’m permanently etching his name onto your jugular.”
I burst out laughing. It was a genuine and deep sound that I hadn’t made in weeks. “You will eventually. I promise.”
Asher rolled his eyes as he pulled out his tablet and stylus. “Ugh, fine. But I’m charging you a bad-friend tax. What kind of font do you want?”
“Bold,” I said, my voice turning serious. “In script and heavy blackwork. I want it to be undeniable.”
When I arrived at the Barclays Center, the pre-show chaos was in full swing.
I kept my leather jacket zipped up high, the collar popped, hiding the thick white bandage currently plastered to the side of my neck.
Silas was still in the ring training with Evan, so I made a detour toward the wardrobe department.
“Rosa!” I called out softly as I entered her domain.
Looking up and pushing her glasses back into place, her face broke into a massive smile. “Cal! Mi amor! Come here!” She jumped up, wrapping her arms around me in a tight, motherly hug. Other than sewing, Rosa’s only other care was for our well-being, and I always made a point to check in.
“It’s good to see you, Rosa. How’s the chaos today?”
“Ay, don’t ask.” She waved a hand toward a rack of sequined jackets. “Rico wants his entrance vest taken in an inch, but he won’t stop eating the catering long enough for me to measure him. But enough about me. I saw the photos! Congratulations!”
I let out a soft laugh as warmth spread through my chest, knowing that she’d always rooted for us. “Thank you, Rosa. That means a lot.”
“I would love to chat some more, but I have to fix this disaster before showtime,” she said, scurrying back toward her sewing machine.
Leaving her to her work but with no match to prepare for, no script to memorize, and no locker room to sit in, I was a ghost haunting the arena.
Eventually, my feet carried me toward the Gorilla position.
I hesitated at the curtain. Through the thick fabric, I could hear the loud, reverberating smack of bodies hitting the canvas, followed by Evan’s muffled cursing.
I wasn’t about to go out and distract them, and honestly, it was nice to sit in the quiet for a moment.