Chapter 18 Scott - Love is a Battlefield
SCOTT: LOVE IS A BATTLEFIELD
I waited just long enough to see her disappear through the gates, but not a second more.
Putting my truck in gear, I peeled out, no longer giving a shit if I offended any rich people’s sensitive ears.
I didn’t know where I was going, only that it couldn’t be here.
Couldn’t be anywhere near her house, or those gates, or the version of her life where I didn’t fit.
A few miles into my drive, the mansions thinned out and the streetlights got friendlier. Back to my affordable zip code. Back to reality. My mood wasn’t suitable for other humans, but the thought of sitting in my apartment alone in the dark with nothing but my thoughts felt like torture.
The bell on the door chimed as I stepped inside. The place was empty except for the lanky, bored teenager behind the counter running the late shift.
“We close in ten minutes,” he said, not even bothering to look up. “If you’re not outta here by then, you’re spending the night.”
“Give me five.”
I headed straight for the new release wall.
Turned out I was far too confident. The entire section was stripped bare.
Of course it was. Friday night closing time.
Everyone in town had come through before me.
Fine. Action aisle it was. The movie didn’t need to be new.
It just needed explosions, blood, and ideally a body count high enough to drown out the night.
No luck. Every war movie, horror flick, or thriller worth a damn was gone.
Platoon, Aliens, even Commando. Was every guy in Venice Beach going through a breakup tonight?
Manhunter was there, obviously; the one sad video nobody ever touched.
And sure, it technically offered what I needed, but I wasn’t convinced I had the mental fortitude for two hours of a dude whispering every line like he’s reading Goodnight Moon to his kid.
So I kept walking. What was left? Romance.
In abundance. Entire shelves of pretty people in pastel lighting, staring into each other’s eyes like love hadn’t yet gouged their hearts out.
And then there it was. Sixteen Candles. Yeah.
Fine. I was curious about this Jake Ryan guy and what he had that I didn’t.
Tucking it under my arm, I walked to the counter, mentally preparing to be humiliated.
“That was eight minutes,” the clerk said flatly. Then he glanced up and froze. “No way! Are you the lead singer of Rabid Jackal?”
I blinked… then nodded.
“Dude, I heard the concert was raided tonight. Cops swarmed the place. Everybody’s talking about it. Didn’t the entire band get arrested?”
You know, at this point, I might as well lean into it.
I nodded grimly. “Just posted bail.”
“That’s gnarly. You’re a legend, man.”
I set the VHS on the counter. He looked at the title, and the admiration drained from his face. I had one chance to salvage this.
“My chick’s in the truck. She loves this one, if you know what I mean.” I tossed him a wink.
Respect instantly restored.
“Right on,” he said, fist-bumping me. “This one’s on the house.”
I shoved the Sixteen Candles tape into the VCR hard enough to make it squeal.
Michelle’s “type.” Jake freakin’ Ryan. Cracking open a beer, I dropped onto the couch and hit play.
Ten minutes in, I already hated the guy.
Even his problems were rich. Every scene got worse.
Jake standing around his mansion, all broody and privileged like life was so hard.
“Try making rent, buddy,” I said to the screen.
I was halfway to hitting stop when the party scene came on.
Up till then, I’d pegged him as the Michelle of the story, born with the backstage pass.
But standing there in that wreck of a house, he didn’t look rich or lucky.
He looked… like me. Just some hapless dude trying to pick up the pieces of his life.
But then Jake lost me again when he whipped out the Porsche and magically saw the girl. The same chick he’d been ignoring all movie.
“Yeah,” I grumbled, “try that with the Shaggin’ Wagon as your wingman. See how far that gets you.”
But eventually I realized it wasn’t just about his face or his car.
Michelle’s ideal man was a safe, sensitive soul, a guy designed in a lab with the brain of a girl, the body of a movie star, and the income bracket to afford a Porsche.
She was chasing a fantasy. I took a long swig, bitter settling in my stomach.
Probably better that I got out when I did.
By the time the credits rolled, I was hunched forward, elbows on my knees, staring at the blank TV.
My reflection glowed back at me—red-eyed, wiped out, and not half as tough as I pretended to be.
Michelle’s face cut through the static, and I pictured my fearless dream girl on that rollercoaster.
Again. Her laugh. Her hand on my chest. The way she’d looked at me like I was something more than I’d ever been.
God, I was gonna miss that. Miss her. Miss who I became when she was around.
There was a rustle at my side, and I looked down.
Zonk, perched beside me, was staring up at me like, Bro. Romance? Really?
“Don’t judge me,” I said. “Your love life’s not exactly thriving either.”
The VCR auto-clicked into rewind, the mechanical drone filled the room. I leaned back, eyes closing, Zonk’s warm little body against my thigh like we were two washed-up losers in a buddy movie.
“That didn’t make me feel any better,” I sighed, my eyelids heavy. “Should’ve rented Manhunter.”
I woke with a start, daylight streaming through my one window.
Was it morning already? My neck ached, and the movie case sat open, the tape still halfway inside the VCR.
For one clean second, I forgot everything.
Then it all came rushing back. Michelle.
The breakup. The fantasy guy I could never measure up to.
I rubbed my eyes. “Oh. Right. That.”
Then I heard something. A whisper? Maybe a shuffle. My brain was still turning on for the day, but then I caught the sound again. It wasn’t the TV. Someone was outside.
And then—
The bang.
Sharp, sudden, and followed by the front door blasting open. And there stood Bill Carver in full suit and tie, looking like he’d taken a wrong turn and landed in hell.
I pushed myself upright. “Don’t you knock?”
“That was the knock,” he said, stepping inside, his eyes sweeping the place with pure disgust. “Did you actually think Michelle would live in… this?”
I forced a half-smile. “Not exactly planning on moving her in today.”
He ignored that and took another step as he reached into his jacket and pulled out a checkbook. “Let’s get this over with. Five thousand dollars. You never see or speak to my daughter again.”
I laughed, assuming it was a joke. Bill didn’t crack a smile.
“Wait, you’re serious? You’re actually trying to pay me off?”
“If that’s what it takes to remove your filth from her life, yes.”
His arrogance lit my fuse. Treating Michelle like she was merchandise, and me like I had no integrity. I stood and took a step toward him.
“You think you can buy me?”
His gaze didn’t budge. “Yes, I do.”
“Well, you’re wrong.”
Bill sighed, almost bored. “Everyone has a price, Mr. McKallister.”
“Not me.”
“Ten thousand.”
My foot faltered. Ten thousand? The thought of what that money could do for me, for MGM. It could change our lives. But then I heard my mom’s warning in my head: Don’t ever trade your soul for a shortcut. And that money? That was a shortcut.
“I’m not for sale.”
“Consider what you’re giving up. You have a son, don’t you?”
My fists curled. “Leave him out of this.”
“I assume you want what’s best for your child.
And I want the same for my daughter. But you, Mr. McKallister, are not what’s best for Michelle.
” He gestured around my sad little space.
“Nor is this god-awful place. Really, after seeing this, I might as well put my checkbook away. I could wait it out. Michelle wouldn’t last a week here. ”
“Yes,” I said. “Put it away.”
He smiled, but there was nothing friendly about it. “She thinks she’s in love, but she has no idea what it is to struggle. Look at you, barely surviving. How do you plan to take care of her?”
“We’d find a way.”
Bill studied me, the faintest flicker of frustration cracking his otherwise polished mask. “You’re playing with my daughter’s future,” he said, the words slow, cold, and final. “You’re the jar. She’s the butterfly. And you’d watch her die rather than let her go.”
My lip twitched. I hated this man. I hated his words. But I feared there was some truth in them. He must’ve sensed my hesitation. He stepped forward, pulled a pen from his pocket, and wrote something quick. He tore out the check and laid it on my makeshift table. Fifteen thousand dollars.
“I highly suggest you take this. If you don’t, I have other ways to force your hand. And believe me, you don’t want to find out what those are. You really want to risk your family? Your son? And for what? Michelle will forget you by Christmas. Take the money. Walk away. Do it for your kid.”
That stopped me cold. Bill had the power to destroy me, and he knew it.
I looked at the check. At the clean black ink.
Fifteen thousand dollars. More than I could afford to refuse.
MGM’s face flashed—gap-toothed grin, trusting eyes, the way he still climbed into my lap like the world hadn’t taught him yet that dads could fail.
Bill didn’t just threaten me. He threatened the one person I’d die before letting down.
I picked it up. “Fine. You win. Now get the hell out.”
“Finally, some sense.” He turned toward the door. “Good day, Mr. McKallister.”
He stepped out, only to be replaced by a wall of muscle that ducked through the doorway.
Bill’s henchman was big. Not gym big. Construction site, break-you-in-half big.
He came at me fast. No warning or words.
One hit to the stomach doubled me over. Another cracked across my jaw and lit fireworks behind my eyes.
I swung back wild, fist connecting with pure cement.
He scoffed, amused, like I’d tickled him.
I lunged for my surfboard leaning against the wall, swung it hard—caught him square in the ribs with a satisfying crack that knocked him back a step, off balance.
For half a second, I thought maybe—then fury replaced the smirk.
He charged again, faster this time. A fist slammed my temple, ringing my skull like a bell.
The punches kept coming, relentless. I staggered, arms up too late.
The table crashed sideways; the check fluttered down like a fallen leaf.
I hit the floor hard, tasting blood and defeat.
I lay there, bloody and beaten, the world reduced to the dull hum in my ears, the sound of the door opening, footsteps leaving, and the latch clicking shut.
In a haze, I heard a familiar clicking, and I painstakingly turned my head.
Zonk, terrified and splattered in my blood, had taken refuge in the hole in the wall, his breathing shallow as he stared back at me. One click. Two. Then he was gone.
And so was I.
When I came to later, the room was quiet.
I was on the floor, one hand pressed against the linoleum, and the check lay inches from my face.
Pain throbbed in waves. My ribs felt cracked, and my jaw was swelling shut, but worse was the slow burn in my chest: the certainty I’d just proved her father right.
I couldn’t even protect myself, let alone her. Let alone us.
I reached for the check, and a drop of my blood hit the paper and spread the ink.
Fifteen thousand dollars. For silence. Everyone has a price, he’d said.
I tore the check in two.