The more settled this life becomes, the less frequently I have any idea what to expect. Mason and I have our problems, but when it really matters, we’re there for each other.
We drive back into town, and Mason’s telling me about his physics class again. I don’t know what it is about the subject he finds so fascinating, but the way he’s been prattling on about it lately, I’m starting to miss the days when he wouldn’t shut up about MMA.
As we get back into town, I notice a strangely familiar car parked at the cross street of the first intersection. Mason’s going on about quarks or something, and I can’t help noticing that the man behind the driver’s seat of that car is Chris, though he’s now wearing a red baseball cap while his “cop” buddy sits in the passenger’s seat, drinking from a brown beer bottle.
It’s not the simple life. Even with the wildcard that is Mason’s brother maybe out of the way for a little while longer, there’s still a lot to contend with. What’s helped us get this far is that we’ve learned how to let things go when there’s nothing we can do to change them.
I can see Chris following us a few cars back, but I don’t know if Mason’s spotted him yet. It’s obviously a joke, otherwise I’d feel a little better about not telling him that Chris is 100% not in any trouble (yet—I mean, let’s be realistic here.)
The joke finally makes sense as we’re almost to Mason’s house and I hear the police siren starting up behind me.
“What the hell?” Mason asks.
“You really need to pay more attention to who’s behind you,” I tell him.
“Oh jeez,” Mason says, reaching into his wallet
and trying too hard to act casual. He rolls down his window, saying, “Is there a problem—oh, you’ve got to be kidding me. Wasn’t one of the charges that sent you to jail—which you just got out of by the way—pretending to be a cop?”
“I didn’t hit the siren, my buddy did,” Chris says. “By the way, we’re going to have an extra guest for a little while. I kind of owe Manny back there a favor.”
“Leave it to you to make friends with cops while you’re in jail,” Mason mutters.
“Yeah,” Chris chuckles. “‘Cops.’”
This time, there’s no way I can get between the two of them, so I just sit back and watch Mason get into his first fight in a year.
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THE FIGHT
By Claire Adams
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places and incidents are products of the writer's imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2015 Claire Adams
CHAPTER ONE
Fenton
The bells and buzzes of the slot machines reminded me of the game shows my mother used to watch. Not that she ever had time to sit and watch television. It was the soundtrack to dinner, dishes, laundry – all the things a single mother did when she got home from a double shift. There were no jackpots or double bonuses for my mother. No giant checks or sudden floods of gold coins. I thought about the charity ward at the hospital, with those same game shows on the tiny television mounted in the corner. The casino floor depressed me.
Then, as always, I thought of my father – how he could decide one day that he could walk away and never look back. He must not have had a conscience or a spine. It took hard work to have a family, harder work to keep it. Maybe they were too young when they started, too poor. All I knew was I would never be him. I'd take the punches he taught me to throw and I would fight my way to the top.
I stopped at the video poker machines and turned around. The damned casino was a maze. I was supposed to be near the entrance, not halfway to the wedding chapel. It was unreal how every row of flashing screens funneled me towards food, alcohol, or matrimony. I peered over the rows but could see no clear path, except towards the Vegas-style altar. Neon lights, stereo bells, and a worn aisle that used to be white.
I spun back the way I had come and saw a flood of powder blue and white. A wedding party in retro tuxes and wide, fluffy skirts blocked the way. They paused to have a picture taken with an Elvis impersonator, too short and swarthy. While the groom hooked his lip up and pointed to the sky, his groomsmen padlocked a fake iron ball to his ankle.
They were too young, but maybe the groom had money. Or maybe her daddy had a bank account she could access during the lean times. Or maybe I was witnessing the makings of yet another divorce statistic. She laughed, swatted away the groomsmen, and held up the ball and chain like a trophy. Cameras flashed again and the happy couple laughed. He sneaked in a quick kiss and she smiled against his lips, her bouquet of cheap carnations crushed between them.
"Oh my God! You're that fighter! The one on the poster in the elevator, and the lobby, and the giant billboard outside," the bride cried as she escaped her groom's embrace.
"The one you've been drooling all over," a bridesmaid said.