5. Chapter Five
Diesel
We pull up in front of a run-down apartment building.
The decrepit siding is the shade of gray that tells me maintenance isn’t a priority around here.
I park my truck near the apartment’s entrance, next to an old Ford Fairlane up on blocks.
Balconies filled with junk and drying laundry decorate one side of the building, side by side with dingy windows in desperate need of a thorough washing.
This place is the antithesis of what my Micah deserves. He needs a space that lifts him up every day instead of pushing him down. Something that spurs his creativity.
The hard look on Micah’s face tells me he’s bracing for any derogatory comments.
That’s not happening. His back is up, and I’m not saying a word.
Keeping my expression blank, I exit the truck, doing my best not to show anything that resembles pity.
Micah’s eyes are darting about and his breath comes faster.
“Let’s get this done, then we can go home and chill,” I say, trying for reassurance. Even though I haven’t met this Jasper guy, I already dislike him. I’ve come across enough guys like him before. I know what to expect.
Micah nods, jaw tight, face stony and unforgiving. Straightening his shoulders, he marches up to the front door of the building and rips the glass door open.
The front door lock is broken, which makes me frown. That’s all kinds of unsafe. The creaky elevator takes us up to the third floor. I wrinkle my nose. Diapers and old trash, mixed with the smell of cooking food. It doesn’t even faze Micah. My chest aches at the thought that this is his normal.
Walking down the grimy hallway in silence, the tension in Micah’s back is obvious, muscles pulled tight with rigid control.
Every instinct I have wants to comfort him, but he’d never accept it.
We stop at the second to last apartment, and his knock is hesitant.
I move behind him, literally having his back.
The door opens a crack, watery blue eyes giving Micah a once-over. Turns out I was right about disliking him because I immediately want to put him in his place.
“What do you want, Micah? I told you to get the fuck out.” He goes to shut the door, but I whip my arm out, preventing it. That’s when he finally notices me behind Micah.
His eyes widen, and I step around Micah, pushing the door open with my weight and muscle.
Oh, hell no. He doesn’t get to talk like that to my Micah. Fucking bully.
“Who … are you?” his voice cracks at the end.
“We’re here to get his furniture. You got a problem with that?” My voice is rough because my rage is already building and this asshole has no idea what he could unleash.
“You can’t come in here.” Jasper stutters, trying and failing to regain his imagined authority.
“Are you saying I can’t come in and get my furniture? Now I’m wondering how the property management people would feel about your subletting activity?” Micah says in that contained way of his. Low and lethal. And it should not be as attractive as it is.
Jasper glares at him and then at me, before stepping back and letting us through the door.
I can tell the silence won’t last. Bullies can’t seem to help themselves, especially when they’re at a disadvantage.
My plan is to move all the furniture out into the hallway first, then we can work toward getting it downstairs.
I don’t want Micah spending any more time than necessary in this dump.
Micah’s cautious as he opens the door to his room.
I hate it on sight. No wonder he spends all his time in his gym corner.
It’s nicer than this dump. The dim light from the tiny window gives the room a dreary feel, and the faded off-white walls don’t help the situation.
There’s a nasty brown water stain on the ceiling right above the bed that has me clenching my teeth.
I don’t need confirmation to grasp that he was being overcharged for this dismal piece of real estate.
It’s a small comfort that he won’t be living here anymore.
It’s bad enough that he had to live here at all.
We’re about halfway done when Jasper feels the need to heckle Micah. I have no idea why he thinks that’s the right move, especially with me standing right here. I’m not one to physically intimidate people outside of the cage, but today it’s doing important work.
It begins as muttering, but soon it grows to outright insults when Micah walks by Jasper perching on the back of the sofa. His words are too low for me to hear, but Micah’s back stiffens. My rage spirals up again, simmering just below the surface, ready to erupt with the right pressure.
He doesn’t bother keeping his voice down the second time as we awkwardly maneuver Micah’s mattress through the doorway. We’ve only got his desk and the bed frame left.
“Fucking asshole. I hope you have to live in your car. You were trash when you moved in and I knew it.”
I’m stunned by the amount of venom in his voice, and it does nothing to help my rising fury. I remind myself that jail isn’t a place I want to visit, and as a trained fighter, I can’t punch him in the face, no matter how much he deserves it. But it’s a near thing.
Micah’s face pales at Jasper’s insults, shoulders hunching in that familiar way they do when he’s hurting. My entire body tenses and my jaw clamps as I grit my teeth.
We go back for the desk and when we’re maneuvering it by the couch, Jasper starts in on Micah again.
“Trash with no family. Parents probably threw you back…”
This time I can hear him, and it guts me. What the actual fuck is this guy’s issue? Micah’s wince is all it takes for me to act, because I’m done. My rage explodes, and I’m moving before I’m even aware of it.
Jasper doesn’t even get to finish his insult before I have him pinned against the wall. My hands are around his throat, not choking him, but putting him on notice.
“You better think real hard about what you say next, asshole. Because you’re on my last nerve right now.”
My fingers squeeze his throat, not enough that he can’t breathe but enough that he’s feeling the pressure.
His eyes widen and I see real fear for the first time today, and it’s in that moment he understands he’s dealing with someone he can’t bully.
I’ve never enjoyed making someone cower, but a dark satisfaction fills me, the strength of which is surprising.
I let the reality of his situation sink in before loosening my hold, but only enough that he’s able to speak. Then I let my fighter out, giving him the ruthless face I save for the cage.
The blood drains from his face and it’s far more gratifying than it should be, but I’m past caring because my fury is driving the bus now.
“Let me make this incredibly clear so even someone as stupid as you can understand. Micah is mine. Mine. You don’t look at him.
You don’t talk to him. You don’t touch him.
You don’t go near him. Ever. You even think about it and I’ll be up your ass like you read about.
He’s mine and you don’t mess with what’s mine. ”
The acidic smell of urine hits me, and there’s a wet spot on the front of Jasper’s jeans. I’m tempted to snicker, but that won’t send the right message. Humiliation is the only thing a bully truly understands, which means I let him stew.
“Nod if you understand me?”
He nods frantically, unable to move his head by much with my fingers still around his throat. When I finally let him go, he sags back against the wall, trembling.
“Maybe you should go change while we finish up,” I say, my voice full of as much derision as I can muster, before deliberately turning my back on him.
Micah’s wide green eyes meet mine as I move to grab the other side of the desk we’re currently moving.
“Ready?” I ask, as if I didn’t just threaten his former landlord.
Micah nods, his shocked look is slowly replaced by a more assessing expression.
I can almost see the wheels turning in his head.
In true Micah style, he’ll take his time processing everything before he’ll even say a word.
I let him see me. Bare of everything I’ve been keeping to myself.
Let him see it. It’s out there now. I’ve been hiding this for so long, and it’s a profound relief to let it go.
“Yes. Let’s do this,” he says finally, shooting me a soft smile before picking up his end of the desk. The smile is more than I’d hoped for, so I’ll take it.
As we maneuver the unwieldy piece of furniture into the hallway, I hear a door slam in the background. Micah’s shoulders relax despite the desk he’s holding.
Thank God that’s done.
“You okay?” I ask Micah. “That was intense.”
He looks at me, his expression unreadable.
“I wasn’t scared, Troy. Since I’ve only seen you like that during a match, I was surprised, that’s all,” he tells me, his voice calm and even.
We set the desk down in the hallway, but he looks as if he wants to say more. Knowing he takes a minute to process before he speaks, I wait, giving him what I hope is an encouraging look.
He shifts from foot to foot until his face gets that all too-familiar stubborn look, before he squares his shoulders and meets my gaze with determined eyes.
“No one’s ever stood up for me before. Not like that. Yeah … and uh I just wanted to say that … well I um,” he gulps, then says the rest quickly. “Thankyoufordoingthat.”
His voice cracks, and for just a second, I see the vulnerability in his eyes before he shuts it down. I want to wrap him in my arms so badly, I’m almost shaking with it.
“Even though I’m hella pissed that you had to witness one of the shittier moments in my life.
And, honestly, I’m not loving that you had to stand up for me, even though I appreciate it.
” And there’s my sarcastic Micah. I knew he hadn’t disappeared entirely, even if it was nice to see his softer side.
“You’re more than welcome.” There’s so much more I want to say, but now isn’t the time. If this encounter has taught me anything, it’s that Micah’s been shoring up his defenses for most of his life. It’s going to take patience to get past them, but he’s worth it.
We relocate the remainder of his furniture to the hallway as quickly as we’re able. Once his room is empty, I shut the apartment door with a finality that has us both sighing with satisfaction. Thank fuck, because he’s never coming back to this shithole again. I will make sure of it.
We move it all down and into the truck with minimal conversation.
By sheer luck, the service elevator is only two doors down from his old apartment.
Once it’s all loaded into the back of my Ford F150, we cover it with moving blankets before doing a final tie-down.
I resist the urge to say “that’s not going anywhere. ”
Micah’s always contained when he’s processing.
That’s just his way. Jasper’s comment about his parents sticks with me, and it’s making me think awfully hard about the difference in our childhoods.
The more I think about it, the more the ache in my chest throbs with the knowledge that he’s been alone.
Maybe for most of his life. Not anymore, I silently promise.
When we collapse onto the leather truck seats, both of us a bit winded in our haste to get this done, he gives me one of his small smiles.
“I’m yours now?” he asks, that sardonic twist in his voice, his eyes still wary.
“Yes. Mine.”
He has no idea how serious I am about that statement. Not yet.
But Micah doesn’t respond, and I’m left wondering if I went too far. Again.