Chapter 35
Mari
“Here,” I say, passing the phone to Violet. She holds the device between our ears, and I shake out my aching arm after holding it for the past thirty minutes. The speaker crackles with Clive’s deep voice, his speech cutting in and out. “I can barely hear anything,” I complain.
The only information reaped from the date so far is an unholy amount of failed pickup lines and Davina’s unamused huffs. If I’m not mistaken, she’s smiled at a couple of Clive’s flirty attempts too.
“No way Clive is that funny,” I say when Davina’s chuckle pours through the phone speakers.
We observe them for a few minutes. Our position in the bar is far enough for us to go undetected by Clive, but close enough to see them.
“I’m assuming ... steroids,” Davina says, the line still crackling and cutting out.
I widen my eyes at the mention of steroids. “What did she just say?”
Violet snatches an olive from the center of our table with a small, wooden pick. “She doesn’t beat around the bush, does she?” she says.
Davina doesn’t just beat around the bush, she uproots it with her bare hands.
“Not since Vince ... heart failure. Scare ... I don’t encourage ... monitor them carefully,” Clive says.
His response is spotty, and I can only just piece together his words. I think they mentioned Vince earlier in the past tense. He must’ve been another friend from the ’90s.
“Surprised ... open,” Davina says, smiling.
“Shit,” Violet mumbles. “I can’t even understand what they’re saying. Why is she smiling?”
“I can barely read their lips,” I say.
I usually laud Davina for her brilliant ideas. Unfortunately, this one is probably her worst.
After a few more incomprehensible words the line eventually drops, leaving Violet and I with absolutely no information.
Violet tuts. “Right as it’s getting juicy, look at them. She totally just wanted to go on a date with Clive.”
Across the room, Davina and Clive are deep into an intense discussion. Davina’s even motioning using a syringe in her hip area.
“Should we find a closer spot?” I scan the area of the bar and it’s pretty packed, getting busier with more people entering than leaving. My gaze lands on the front entrance and the next person who waltzes through has me involuntarily ducking behind my wine glass. “Shit,” I hiss, obscuring my face with the beverage when Olive looks past me.
“What? What is it?” Violet asks. She rocks side to side on her barstool, her eyes darting between large TV screens and patrons.
“Olive Ward,” I answer.
Violet’s face drops when she spots her. “Oh, this is not good. We’ve gotta get outta here.”
“That is exactly why I’m trying to hide! I can’t leave Davina.” Olive strolls through the bar with a couple of Ward’s team members that I recognize from the call where everyone started arguing. “God, she looks so strong. I can see the definition of her biceps from here,” I whisper.
Her appearance is that of a tank: broad, strong, and impenetrable. She struggles to walk in her heels, seemingly intoxicated.
“I need to pee too,” I say.
“Go and pee, I’ll keep an eye on her.”
With my purse swinging in the crook of my elbow, I shimmy my way through tables to get to the bathroom. I do my business and take a little longer to wash my hands, delaying the time it takes to return to the table. I’m checking that my mascara hasn’t flaked under my eyes when the bathroom door flies open. In walks someone with a head of bright pink hair—Olive Ward.
Please don’t recognize me, please don’t recognize me.
“Hey, I know you,” she slurs. Her thick eyelash extensions flutter and she tilts her head at me. I muster up a polite smile that feels more like a strained grin. “You were the girl messaging my man.”
Incorrect, her man was messaging me.
“Sorry, I think you have the wrong person.” I snatch up my purse from the sink.
“I tried reaching out to you. Woman to woman,” she says with a curious tilt of her head.
“Nice seeing you, Olive, I need to get back to my friend.”
“Mhm.” She gives me a strange look and then steps toward me. The hatred in her gaze forces me a step back. “I think you’re a whore.”
There’s a sickening lurch in my gut. “Excuse me?”
“I think you’re a fucking nobody, and all this attention on you and your team is the only reason men want to fuck you.”
My stomach lurches again, this time encouraging a scoff to slip out of my mouth. What a weird and nonsensical conclusion to come to.
“What the hell are you talking about?” I snap.
Sometimes when I’d go online, there would be the occasional viral video of someone getting completely irate over nothing. Public freakouts, people would call them. I never thought it would happen to me, yet here I am, stuck in a bathroom with a drunk woman frenzied over her husband messaging me.
“I saw the way you looked at Fletch when we came to the gym you’re training at.”
“What? That was weeks ago. I was looking at him like everyone else in the gym because we were surprised you guys turned up, that’s all. If you’re upset that he messaged me, maybe direct your anger at him.”
“He messaged you,” she garbles with a heavy tongue and studies me from my hair to my toes. “What does he see in you?” I want to say boobs and ass, like every other woman he’s rumored to cheat on her with, but that’d probably make her even more mad.
I begin to step around her. “I don’t know, I need to get back to my friend. Excuse me.”
Olive’s acrylic nails bite into my upper arm and force me to a halt.She has no intention of letting me pass.
“No,” she slurs.
I believe that if you’re ever in a position where your fight or flight kicks in, always choose flight. Right now, I’m ready to leave Olive in the dust the second she releases me. She has several inches on me in her heels and is about as juiced up as her husband. Even if I can hold my own against most, I don’t think I stand a chance against the woman in front of me.
“Listen, I’ve been in the same situation as you before. My ex cheated on me.” Relatability might work, right?
Olive’s eyes soften for a second before narrowing. “Oh, so you’ve experienced this and you’re still crawling after married men?”
Her nails dig even farther into the flesh of my upper arm, and it hurts so much my eyes begin to water. The bathroom door opens, and I sigh in relief when Violet steps in.
“Oh, Mari, there you are, I got worried. It got super busy so Davina ended up going to the hotel bar with ... y’know.” Violet looks cautiously at the back of Olive and focuses on the hand on my arm. “Do you want to let go of my friend?” Violet asks.
Olive’s other hand rests on her purse, and the edge of an item inside has my stomach feeling like it’s going to drop out of my ass. “Called for backup?”
“Vi, go outside,” I say, my eyes glued to the shiny black handle of a glock poking out of Olive’s purse.
“What’s going on?” she asks.
I nod my head to the purse. Violet catches on pretty quickly and smacks her hand over her mouth.
“Your friend can’t fight her own battles apparently,” Olive says.
“Violet, go outside. Now.”
Violet shuffles quietly to exit the bathroom. Olive’s nails dig even farther into my arm, and I look between her hands and her snarling face.
“Get your hands off me.”
I backhand Olive Ward and lunge for her purse. Violet—clearly without thinking—springs onto Olive’s back instead of running out of the bathroom.
I’m unable to remove the purse from her arm and instead, manage to yank out the gun and slide it across the bathroom floor. Unfortunately, my lowered position puts me in the perfect spot for Violet’s knee to whack me in the face amid her grappling, sneak attack on Olive.
“Ow, fuck!” I yelp as the hit knocks my head back against a sink.
Violet and Olive are scrapping like wild animals, and Violet manages to start choking her out. With a throbbing face, I quickly discard my purse and intercept them. I’m able to pry them apart with plenty of effort.
“You fucking bitch!” Olive yells at Violet.
Her stylish mohawk is messed up and some of the dyed pink strands hang loosely in Violet’s grip. Vi stares open-mouthed at the detached hair in her hand.
“Vi, take the gun and get help,” I pant, snapping her out of her trance.
I’m being yanked this way and that with Olive squirming in my grip. With a final frightened glance and hesitant nod, Violet picks up the gun and disappears out of the bathroom.
“She’s got a gun!” someone shouts distantly from the bar.
Screams quickly follow and chairs scrape the floor in combined panic. Two women come scrambling into the bathroom and under a sink behind me. I shove Olive back and into a dryer, denting it in the process. The huddled women don’t distract her and Olive stances up like she wants to fight.
If she wants a fight, I’ll give her a fight.
“C’mon then,” I hiss, mirroring her stance.
Warm blood trails down my cheek from Violet’s knee, and the adrenaline within me rises to levels I’ve never experienced before.
“Stay away from Fletch,” Olive grits.
All this over a lame-ass man? I hope she does try me just so I can slap some sense into her.
“Your shitty husband isn’t worth this,” I say in a last-ditch attempt at getting her to reevaluate her next move.
Olive charges at me with an animalistic shriek. I snatch the cylinder trash can near the bathroom door and throw it at her, which she catches and tosses to the side with a loud clang.
“Is that it?” she mocks, her intoxication obvious in her wobbly stance.
I kick off my heels for better balance and cringe when the sole of my foot meets the wet, sticky bathroom floor. Olive grits her perfect veneered teeth together and propels herself toward me. Her nails slice my forearms when I block my face, and she dodges my punches with matched proficiency. In the same way I occasionally train with Kas, I bet she’s learned a thing or two from Ward.
At some point during our scrap, I snatch up one of my heels and fashion it as a makeshift melee weapon. I land two solid hits to her face, alternating between my fist and the heel. Her quick recovery allows her to clock me around the chin and I counter it with a kick to her chest. She sputters, stepping back to catch her breath.
“Are you done?” I shout, my voice echoing against the tiled walls. The two women in the corner whimper at the volume.
I must’ve caught Olive above the ear at some point because she presses her hand against the buzzed side of her head.
“Fletch is going to fuck Kacper up!” Olive screams, her face scrunched in anger and distorting her features into a grotesque mask of fury.
“ Fletch is going to eat shit when Kacper wins!” I bellow.
I can’t come up with a smart-ass reply.
Olive staggers back into the same dryer she dented earlier and narrows her eyes at me.
I guess she isn’t done.
She charges at me and instead of bracing for her, I yank open a toilet stall door which she runs into with a loud bang. She teeters backward in her stilettos and leans weakly against the wall between the two dryers, sliding down it as her eyes flutter shut. The stall door gives at the top hinge, and I look in disbelief between it and Olive’s unconscious form.
I honestly did not think such a slapstick door trick would even work. It’s so cartoonish that I almost expect a halo of chittering birds to form above her head.
The rough scrape of a heel on tiled flooring has me turning toward the two women huddled under the sink. One of them has their phone out and is very obviously recording. The woman quickly lowers the device and tucks herself farther under the ceramic basin.
I don’t get the chance to demand her to delete whatever footage she’s obtained because a security guard barges into the bathroom. His eyes dart between the trash can, the girls in the corner, Olive’s collapsed form, and my bloody face. All I can offer him is a measly shrug.
“Self-defense,” I say honestly.
Sure, I egged Olive on a little, but she played a stupid game and won a stupid prize. It’s the same game her husband will be playing in the ring with Kas and, like his wife, I’m confident that he’ll win the stupidest of prizes.