Debt, page 25
No. I couldn’t. I could barely support Ailee, never mind myself.
A tumble of questions and regrets fill my mind.
Kyla gets up and heads to the kitchen.
I sit there for a long while, regretting, hating, wondering why life is given to some on a platter and why it has to be fought for like lions for others.
I have no answer for that.
None at all.
Only sadness. Great, lingering sadness.
It’s a debt I can never repay, what Nate did for me.
It’s a debt I will have to live with until the day I die.
Kyla appears in front of me with a fresh cup of coffee, puts it down on the table.
“Wanna talk about it?” she says.
I’m so deep into my thoughts that her words jolt me suddenly into the room. “Uhm...” I clear my throat. “Nate...passed away.”
She doesn’t respond, just sits on the armrest next to me and puts her arm around my shoulder.
“You OK?” she says.
No, I’m not. “Yeah, yeah, I’m fine.”
She rubs my shoulder, lets me sip my coffee, says nothing.
I think a half an hour goes by, not a word more said, Kyla’s hand just stroking my skin.
“Thank you,” I say.
“For what?”
“For being here.”
~Thirty~
Logan
-1-
“I still think this is a bad idea,” I say to Kyla.
“You’ll have to meet him someday, why not when we’re in New York?”
“Because when I meet him I want to have a little more to show for myself than simply a truck and a half-ready gym.”
“You’ll have those things. And even if you don’t, I’ll still love you, and he needs to know that.”
“If you were my daughter, I’d disown you if you brought a guy like me home.”
“Well, I’m not, thank God.”
Six weeks of healing, six weeks of training, six weeks of preparation. I’ve never been more ready for a fight, I’ve never been more prepared for an all-or-nothing battle.
And then Kyla asked me to meet her father, seeing as we’d be in New York anyway.
I was ready to throw in the towel.
She suggested I meet him after the fight, so that I could stay focused. I told her that was a bad idea. He’s gonna hate me already, better not add to that with a blue eye or a broken jaw or, God forbid, a permanent limp. She gave me a choice in the matter, and said I didn’t need to meet him at all if I really didn’t want to, but Kyla and I are going on four months since we first met, and I could tell this was important to her, really important. So I gave in.
My leg still hurts. Not when I walk. Not even when I jog lightly. But any heavy pressure and it starts to ache. I’m not looking forward to this bout, but I think I’d prefer the bout to meeting the Pops any day of the week.
We pull up into a driveway in front of gates so massive and a mansion so grand that it probably costs more than all the houses in East London put together. I thought I knew what fear was. I thought I had experienced all the fear I could in my life before every fight. Nothing compares to the sensation in the pit of my stomach as Kyla keys in the security code and then presses her thumbprint down on the sensor to let us in. That kind of security exists for one reason only, to keep guys like me out.
I’m further overwhelmed when we get up close to the house itself. A three-story palace that should be featured in Forbes, not welcoming a guy in jeans and a shirt, with tattoos running down his arms.
“You ready?” Kyla asks me.
“No.”
We’re greeted by whom I assume to be the loving Amelia Rodriguez, an exceptionally short lady with a face that could make even the angriest man feel welcome. She buries Kyla in a hug and then looks over at me with a suggestive grin. “So, dis is him?” she asks, looking me up and down. “My, my, my, Kyla, no wonder you are so in lohv.”
She sticks her hand out to me. “I am Amelia,” she says. “Pleasure to make your acquaintance.” Her South American accent is gentle and sweet. She doesn’t let my hand go for a long while, and I’m not oblivious to the fact that she is likely undressing me with her eyes as we stand here. She seems sweet, and from what Kyla told me about how she was practically raised by this woman, I’ll gladly let her have her eye-candy.
I hear an abrupt squeal and a shriek from atop the stone steps, and when I look up I see an older version of Jessica Simpson, but this one has larger tits. “Oh, hello there,” the blond says, looking straight at me and ignoring Kyla.
This must be Clarissa (and I’m wondering if there are any evil stepsisters somewhere as well). “Well, well, well,” says the blond, teetering down the steps in high red heels, nothing on but a bikini and a loose satin shirt. Her hand is out already, her eyes huge and ogling, as she makes her way down toward me.
She gets about three paces away, and I sidestep her, ignoring her completely, and put my arm around Kyla, pushing her in the direction of the house.
“Kyla, aren’t you going to introduce me to your new friend?” says the blond in her high-pitched voice.
“Keep walking,” I mumble at Kyla.
I turn and wave politely, merely for form’s sake. The blond looks disturbed, almost irate.
I’m reminded of the cougar in Nashville, the one who got up and got dressed and left me in that hotel room for her bigger-and-better things. Perhaps that woman lives in a house like this, perhaps she hits on her stepdaughter’s boyfriends as well. The thought makes me cringe. I’m glad those days are over for me.
I hold on to Kyla a little tighter as we make our way up the steps. Something tells me I’d better hold on to her figuratively as if my life depends on it.
When I see her father, I realize it does.
-2-
Max Hensley is a big man, tall and imposing. He’s got a professional haircut and, underneath the unavoidable weight the years bring on, it’s clear the man was once strong in his day.
He stands imperious. And the scowl he gives me the moment I walk in the door shows me clearly he doesn’t like me.
I should have worn a suit, damn it. Or at least some better pants and a dress shirt. Kyla insisted I didn’t, and that I should be myself in front of her father. He would either like me or he wouldn’t, there was no changing that. I couldn’t agree with her more.
“Daddy,” Kyla says. “This is Logan.”
Max Hensley stretches out a hand to me, his eyes narrowed. “Logan,” he says.
His shake is firm, too firm, the kind that says, I’m a man, too. And I don’t like that you’re sleeping with my daughter.
Max’s eyes stay on mine, perhaps recovering from shock.
“Pleasure to meet you, sir,” I say.
“What’s that accent?”
“English.”
“English...”
“Yes, sir.” Have I ever called a man, Sir?
“London?” he says.
“Yes.”
“Which part?”
“East.” I don’t bother naming the borough, I doubt he’s familiar with those, especially not the one I’m from.
Max stands there awhile, looking me over, not quite taking his gaze away from me, maybe thinking if he does I might bash him over the head and steal the keys to his safe. Unfortunately, in neighborhoods like this one, I’d be thinking the same thing if I was him.
His eyes flick over to his daughter. The frown grows stronger, but then something softens in him. A look of resignation, perhaps, as he comes to terms with the fact that this is the guy she just brought home, and if he doesn’t like me, it won’t change his daughter’s feelings for me. “OK, then,” he says. “I take it a man such as yourself wouldn’t mind a drink?”
A man such as myself? “It’s a bit early for me, sir—”
“Max,” he says. “Call me Max. And eleven AM isn’t early. Kyla, you too?”
“Er, yeah, sure.”
We head on over to the bar which is about as big as my entire house was when I was growing up. Max pours us each a brandy and we sit on the barstools, Max behind the bar.
Clarissa walks in, trilling, showing off her boobs and sitting in a position that allows me a full view of her bare skin.
“So, what do you do for a living, Logan?” Dad Max (hopefully not Mad Max) asks.
“Logan’s opening a gym,” Kyla starts.
“I think I asked him, honey.”
Kyla looks over at me. I stare at my drink. I’m not going to hide who I am. “Yes, I’m starting a gym,” I say. “The property is secured, the lease signed. We have to renovate it. It’ll take a few months.”
“And in the meantime?”
I swirl my drink in my hands. If it was just me and this guy, I wouldn’t care about telling him what I do. But I don’t want to make things tough for Kyla. This means a lot to her. I play the possible answers in my head. Kyla and I went over it in the car. There’s no good answer. If I hedge, he’ll think I hotwire cars on the side. If I tell him straight, he’ll give Kyla a red ear from shouting at her later.
But I don’t need to make the decision, because Kyla does it for me.
“He fights, dad. And he paid for his sister’s college tuition doing it.”
Max goes still as a statue, drink in hand. I’m not sure what is harder for him to swallow—the fighting, or the thing about Ailee.
He looks over at me. “Fight.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Like, what, mixed martial arts?”
“Something like that. There’s no fixed discipline, but most of the fighters are martial artists.”
He takes a deep swig of his drink, eyes still locked on mine. “And you...enjoy...that?”
“Actually, yes, I do.”
He puts his drink to his lips, only to realize it’s empty. He puts it down. “Why?” he asks.
“Why do I fight?”
Kyla fidgets next to me, clearly nervous by the questioning.
“Because I’m good at it,” I say.
He stares at me a little longer. Clarissa comes up and grabs the brandy bottle, fills both his and mine up. Her gargantuan breast scrapes against my arm as she does it and I feel a little repulsed. “That’s OK, Clarissa,” Max snaps at her. “Leave us be for a bit.”
“Oh, but honey, I’m enjoying—”
“Clarissa!”
“Damn it, you’re no fun, Maxxy.”
Max rolls his eyes. Maxxy? And when she’s pissed off at him, does she finish it off with Pad?
“I must apologize for my wife,” Max says to me. “She gets a little...excited...at younger men.”
I swallow. Kyla looks completely mortified.
Max’s expression turns serious, very serious. He pushes his glass forward, presses both his hands down against the bar. “OK, let’s cut the crap. Let’s be men—adults—here and get to the point. I don’t like you, but I think you expected that.” He looks at Kyla. “Of course I don’t. And I think you expected it, too.” He looks back at me. His jaw works a bit, thinking. “But that you made a point of coming to see me...” He shrugs. “...well, I don’t think you came here for my permission and, well, I guess it took some...courage to do that.” His eyes are mostly on his daughter now. “...which I can appreciate. So I’m going to do the surprising thing. I’m going to do the thing I haven’t done as a father throughout Kyla’s life. I’m just going to keep my mouth shut. I’m sure you know what I don’t like about you. And I’m sure Kyla knows. But, fuck it, it’s her life.
“What I will do, however, is get my PI to dig up some dirt on you, Logan. No doubt you’re the stronger man, so I can’t threaten you physically. But I do need to look out for my daughter. She’s chosen you. Fine. Her choice. But if you screw her over, I’m going to do everything in my financial power to destroy you. Barring that, it’s her life, and I’m just gonna keep my mouth shut.”
“I can give you all the dirt you want,” I say. “I don’t plan on breaking Kyla’s heart.”
Max straightens, smiles, grabs his glass and brings it up to his lips. “Oh, Logan, I believe you mean that. And I’ll take the dirt you give me, but I’ll do my own digging. You have your way of fighting, I have mine.” He looks around the room, raises his hands to display it. “In my ring,” he says to me, “I’m the world champion. Now, shall we have lunch?”
Max walks around the bar, gives Kyla a kiss on the cheek. “Ten minutes and we’ll be ready,” he says, strolling out.
Kyla looks at me, shocked.
I’m smiling. I like the man. I fucking do. Straight and to the point. No bullshit, no stabbing in the back. No crap. He tells it like it is, and he lays down his terms.
Like a fighter.
Kyla’s shaking. “Christ, that went...rough,” she says.
“Nah, Ky. That went fucking great. Just keep me away from the blond. She scares me.”
-3-
Lunch is easygoing. Amelia sits with us, Max is chilled, making jokes, treating me like a man. Not being over-polite, not being false. He said what he had to say. I know where he stands, I know where I stand. He wants me to do good by his daughter or he’ll destroy me.
It’s a business contract I’m willing to accept.
I start thinking that Max is the kind of guy I’d love to do business with. But he’s a big player, and for me to enter his Big Fights, I’d have to bring the gym up to something more than a little deal down in Florida. Max plays in the Pros, and I like his league.
While the courses keep coming and we stuff ourselves so badly that I think I might sleep for three days, my mind drifts into a new kind of fight, one where men wear suits and the fists are pens that sign contracts. One where the agents are lawyers and the organizers are CEO’s. I’d need someone smart to help me with that, someone who could read the contracts and tell me where the mistakes are. Most importantly, I’d need someone to make sure I wasn’t getting cheated, someone who could crunch the numbers and get me the best deal. An accountant. Like Kyla. She’s a senior now. She’ll be looking for a job when she finishes. Why start off with a crappy salary and work her way up for twenty-million years before actually earning anything? Hell, forget accountant, what about CFO?
A man at the top of that game couldn’t walk with a limp, and suddenly the world of underground fighting doesn’t seem so appealing to me.
Fighting is inside me. You can never take that out of me. But fighting is inside of Max as well. I can see it, I can feel his passion. He’s right, he’d beat me at his fight. He’d freaking annihilate me, broken shins and concussion for life.
I like that. I respect that. I want to be like that.
Kyla puts her hand on my leg, the weak leg, squeezes.
Suddenly the fear I feel at this weekend’s bout is higher than I’ve ever felt in my life. And I make a decision. This will be my last fight...in the cage. It doesn’t mean it’ll be my last fight ever. It won’t.
But I was a fool to think there’s only one type of fight in this world. I think we fight every day.
It’s not fighting that I enjoy, it’s winning.
I fight in the cage because I can win. It’s probably the only reason I do fight. Life showed me so many times that all I could do is lose, and I like to enter an arena where I know my chances are high.
But if I could win at another fight, a fight that would provide for Kyla and, fuck it, who knows, maybe even get a little Logan walking around...
I decide something at the table, and when I do, I look over at Kyla and smile.
“What?” she says.
“Thanks for bringing me here.”
She looks confused.
That’s OK.
She won’t be for long.
It’s the lion’s job to protect his realm. The lioness doesn’t need to know what he goes through to do that.
-4-
We’re all stuffed and sitting in the bar after the meal, talking shit, drinking drinks. Clarissa is a lot to stomach. Fortunately, she leaves when she finally, finally, realizes I have no interest in her. And then it’s just me and Kyla and her father.
I pick up my drink, look over at her. “Kyla, let me talk to your dad alone for a minute.”
She looks at me in shock, then over at her father.
Max doesn’t look surprised at all. He appears extremely calm.
Kyla hesitates some more, then kisses me on the lips and gets up. Pauses. Looks at her father again, then at me. “It’s fine,” I say.
She swallows, walks out.
I put my drink down, look over at Max.
He’s got a light smile on his face, a cool, collected smile. Damn it, I really do like this guy. He’s hardcore, tough, but he doesn’t jump to conclusions, and he’s willing to hear the other man’s side.
I can see how he was a crappy father. He knows the business arena, but clearly not the family one. However, even there it seems he’s trying.
“I have a proposition for you,” I tell him.
“I thought you might.”
“It came to me during lunch and is not the reason I came here.”
“Uh-huh.”
“I want you to know that. It’s important.”
“I heard you.”
“And just so you know, the only reason I’m fighting this weekend is to cover my sister’s college tuition. I want you to know that your daughter suggested I ask you for the money because I have a bad leg, but I pay my own way in life.”
“It’s a good philosophy.”
“It’s my only philosophy.”
“You had a proposition, and I’m assuming this isn’t it.”
“No, but I want to make it clear that it’s a proposition, not a favor.”
“I don’t do favors.”
Good. Then we’re on the same page. “I want you to invest in my gym.”
He doesn’t answer, which instantly makes me nervous.
“I want you to come see me fight this weekend. It’ll be the last fight I ever do. The last one. And I decided that at lunch.”
“Why?”
“Because I realized the cage is not the only arena a man can prove himself in. And because...Kyla and I will be together a long time. And even though she doesn’t ask for it, I want to give her this.” I gesture to the luxurious room.
