Renewing Their Vows

“My man is going to take care of me,” I repeat, blind. Deaf to anything but his voice. I’m overcome—this is what he does to me. This drop off from reality is my weakness and strength. It’s vital to my existence. He sets me on fire. “My man. My Daddy.”

“That’s fucking right. There you are, baby,” he rasps, dropping one big, muscular shoulder at a time until my knees are draped over their breadth, my ankles behind his neck. And he drops down his full weight, folding me in half, his hips already slapping down in quick, wicked pumps, no space between one and the next to catch my breath. “I guard what’s mine. I protect what I love. And I love you beyond fucking reason, Gracie.”

Our mouths meld together and my worries slip-slide into the ether.

I try to hold on to them, because they’re important, because I don’t want North handling our problems alone. We’re in everything together. But my absolute trust in him wins, the utter deliriousness of my pleasure eclipses my thoughts and I surrender to his will.

A will that is ironclad. Unshakeable.

And possibly even destructive.

Three

North

I’m not okay.

In our entire five years together, I’ve never lied to Grace. Not once.

Technically, I haven’t told her a lie. I fucked her so well she forgot to worry, forgot to extract a promise out of me not to approach Curtis Tennison. But I have no choice. It will be a cold day in hell when I leave the safety of my wife to chance. The fact that her well-being is even remotely in question makes me extremely not okay.

The fact that we had some tension between us this morning when we should be on cloud nine over the baby has my chest in a vise. The sooner I handle this problem, the better. I won’t sleep until I know Curtis isn’t going to retaliate by hurting Grace.

Her intervention with the police sent the career criminal to prison.

Does he know that?

Grace thinks I’m at the gym training for my first professional fight and I need to get there soon. In case she stops by. In case she calls me. Hell, she knows the background noise of the training gym by heart and I’m not sure I’d be able to lie about my location anyway. Lying to her makes me feel sick to my stomach. Omitting the truth—that I’m going to meet with Tennison this morning—is bad enough.

I’m walking down the street, not too far from where we live, but slightly off the beaten track. Before his stint in prison, Tennison spent a lot of his time in the back room of O’Keefe’s Irish Pub where he’s a partial owner and that’s where I’m heading. If he’s not there, someone might know where I can find him.

Most of the letters on the O’Keefe’s sign have worn away, the door handle slightly askew. Neon beer signs sit dusty in the window, unlit. When I walk inside, darkness greets me, followed by several heads turning at the bar. It’s not even nine o’clock in the morning and there are pints sitting in front of each man, the sound of fiddles playing quietly from an unseen speaker. Cigarettes are lit, even though it’s illegal, their smoke curling upward toward the dim pendant lights over the bar.

“You’re that fighter kid,” says the bartender, slapping a towel over his shoulder. “Aren’t you? North Whitlock, right?”

“That’s right,” I respond, my voice even.

In Southie, everyone knows everyone’s business and we have long memories. I will always be “that fighter kid” even if my life changes directions. I could become president of the Unites States in the next election and it wouldn’t mean shit in Southie. A person doesn’t overcome their first impression in this neighborhood. When I’m ninety years old, people around here will still refer to me as a boxer. A fighter. That’s who I am in this place. And in this case, I don’t mind my reputation preceding me. I’m glad they know I’m lethal.

The customers look down at my hands, which are loosely fisted at my side. As if trying to determine how well I can use them. They don’t want to find out.

No one wants to see what I’ll do if Grace is in danger of being hurt.

“My brother took me to one of your fights,” continues the man behind the bar. “Knocked the block off some fucker from Jersey. Two rounds.”

“Yeah.” I shrug. “Oddly enough, he wasn’t interested in a rematch.”

That gets a laugh out of the bar.

Smiling now, the bartender pulls a fresh beer for one of the customers. “What can I do for you, Whitlock? You drinking this fine morning?”

I don’t hesitate. “Nah, I’m here to see Curtis.”

It’s very subtle, the tremor that runs through the bartender’s hands, but I notice it. I notice the beer spill down the side of the pint glass he’s holding under the tap. His expression doesn’t change, though. “Curtis?” he says, acting perplexed. “Not sure who you mean—”