Blame It on the Pain Read online

  She takes a sip of her drink. "Noted, now can we change the subject, please."

  "Sure. What do you want to talk about?"

  She gives me a smug smile. "Let's talk about you."

  "I thought we made a deal that you wouldn't talk about your dad and I wouldn't talk about Lilly?"

  She hikes a shoulder up and takes another bite of her bagel. "Yeah. And that deal is still in full effect. However, I know for a fact that there's got to be more to you than a dead sister."

  I narrow my eyes at her. "Sorry," she whispers.

  "What do you want to know?" I grit through my teeth.

  She appears lost in thought for a second before she answers. "Well, do you have a girlfriend? Or are you just like every other macho fighter and some supper male-whore?"

  I can't help but laugh. "Wow, look who's judging now."

  She purses her lips at me and for a single moment she looks so carefree, it's beautiful. "Hey, the world does nothing but judge me all the time. You have a point, though. I'll try and refrain from making and using judgmental stereotypes in the future."

  I give her a smirk. "For your information, I'm not a male-whore."

  "So you're in a committed relationship?" She chews on her thumbnail again. "I mean, I didn't see any signs of a female living in your apartment. Is it long distance? What's her name? Will she be mad that I spent the night?"

  I roll my eyes. Yeah, news reporter. I can see it clearly now.

  "I don't have a girlfriend."

  She leans forward. "Oh. So, what about sex?"

  Nope...not going there. I can't even imagine what she would think of me if she knew how I got my rocks off.

  I remain silent while she continues probing. "You have seen yourself, right? There's no way you're still a virgin."

  So she does find me attractive after all. I polish off the rest of my plate and can't help but grin. "I'm not a virgin. Trisha Summer's took care of that when I was 15."

  "So, what do you do about sex then?" she whisper-yells.

  Since she stopped eating her food and I'm looking for a diversion from this horrible conversation. I reach over her plate and plop one of her grapes in my mouth. "I have it." I pause. "On occasion. But that's as much as you're getting out of me on the subject."

  Her nostrils begin flaring, her gaze intense. "Jackson," she says. "I've just admitted the most honest, vulnerable, and embarrassing thing about myself to you. Hell, you can even watch it if you're really curious."

  I hold up my hand. "I wouldn't. You have my word."

  And I mean it, I have absolutely no desire to watch a video that ruined her life. Something that only added to the emotional scars she's already endured. Something that forced her to put her walls up high, in order to protect herself from the world. So high, she's ensured that no one will be able to get through them.

  Why do I suddenly find myself wanting to be the one who makes them come tumbling down?

  The intensity in her eyes softens. "That's not the point. The point is, that if we're supposed to be friends...I expect the same amount of truthfulness from you that you expect from me. Now, tell me something heartbreakingly honest about yourself before I reconsider this whole entire friendship for good."

  I'm a killer. I murdered my best friend. I don't regret it and I never will.

  Instead, what comes out of my mouth is something that not even Tyrone knows about. "About once every 3 months I go to a bdsm club and have sex."

  Jesus Christ...I'm a fucking idiot for admitting that to her.

  She stares at me wide-eyed. "Like cat-o-nine's and dog collars?"

  "No. To be honest—I'm not even into any of the hardcore stuff. I just like having all the control during sex.”

  Since it's the only aspect of my life that I can still control.

  “I'm not a 'Dom' or anything like that. However, for this particular club membership, which is both really exclusive and expensive. They're good about keeping your identity hidden and you get to wear a mask if you want to...which I do."

  She crinkles her forehead. "I have a question."

  "Shoot."

  "Why go through all that? Why not just fuck Lou-Lou or some other girl who offer themselves to you?"

  I decide, to be honest with her about my other reason for using the club. "Shit like that gets messy. First off, I don't do relationships. Secondly, women in particular; have a really hard time separating feelings from sex. If I hooked up with some girl like Lou-Lou or another ring girl...well, over time they would start to get attached. Shit, poor Ricardo's having a hell of a time keeping her in line as it is. I also know from watching Tyrone go through the gauntlet with various girls over the years...that it never ends well. The girl always gets hurt...and I don't want to be responsible for doing that if I can help it. This way, I just go in. No names or faces are exchanged. We have our moment...and it's done."

  I expect her to yell at me. To tell me I'm a pig and a horrible human being. Instead, she nods her head in understanding. "Why every 3 months?"

  That's an easy question to answer at least.

  "If you don't show up at the club, once every 3 months your membership gets canceled. And once every 3 months is just enough to scratch the itch so to speak. After, I go back to focusing on training and fighting full-time."

  "That makes sense, I guess. How long has it been since you've last gone there?"

  I look up at the ceiling, hating how this conversation has shifted focus to me. "A little over a month."

  She regards me with another nod. “I don't do relationships either.”

  I feel a twinge of uneasiness with her statement and I have no idea why.

  “So, how did you get involved with an underground fight club anyway?” she asks. “Granted, I didn't see much, but from what I did manage to see you're really good. Why not go legit?”

  Oh, fuck. I have no idea how to answer this without lying to her.

  “Just sort of fell into it,” I mumble. “I love MMA fighting, I've studied the craft since I was a kid.” I swallow hard purposely dodging her question the best that I can. “Besides, it pays the bills.”

  She leans forward and presses her palms together, studying my face for a beat. “Who owns the club?”

  Her question completely catches me off guard and causes me to pause. The seconds blending into minutes.

  Why does she want to know?

  And technically, shouldn't she already know that it's DeLuca's club? From what I'm told- not just anyone can work at one of his establishments, even the fight club. You either have to know someone or he specifically scouts you out.

  But then again, it might be different for the ring girls. Maybe all it takes is good looks and a nice body to get you in the door.

  My expression must be one of concern because she coughs and says, “Never mind. Stupid question. Look at me...already breaking rule number one.”

  I run a hand along my jaw, focusing on her eyes. Even after today, I don't know much about the girl sitting in front of me, but her magnetic eyes are her tell. I can practically feel every emotion she's experiencing when I look into them.

  And right now...she looks nervous. “Are you in some kind of trouble, Alyssa?”

  She quickly shakes her head. “No. I mean, why would I be?”

  I shrug and lean back against the booth. Her response should put me at ease, but it doesn't. “I have no idea. But if you were, you know you could tell me. Right?”

  Fear crosses over her face and before I can stop her...she's hopping out of her seat and running toward the exit.

  I quickly track the waitress down and pay the bill before running after her.

  When I finally step outside, I find her leaning against the side of the brick building facing the alleyway. She's rubbing her temples and breathing frantically. My chest tightens and I'm struck with the overwhelming feeling of wanting to wrap her in my arms and protect her from the world.

  Instead, I gently reach for her arm. “Hey,” I say. “It's okay.
I won't let anything hurt you, Alyssa.”

  Her eyes spring open in both surprise and fear and she immediately pulls away from my touch. It's almost like she's a frightened animal and can't comprehend that someone would show her an ounce of kindness.

  It's utterly heartbreaking.

  She pushes off the building and begins walking down the alley. “I'm sorry, but I have to go. I have to go home, now,” she calls out.

  I stay a few strides behind her. I'm close enough that I can watch her make it to her car safely, but not so close to cause her to freak out again.

  After she reaches her car, she pauses briefly. “Thank you for lunch. I'll find a way to pay you back for it.”

  I shake my head. “Absolutely not. In fact, I'm going to make sure you get paid from Luke. He should have never let that happen to you in the first place.”

  She worries her bottom lip between her teeth. “That's not necessary,” she whispers. “I don't want you getting into any fights on my behalf, but thank you anyway.”

  She slips inside her car and puts her key in the ignition.

  I jog up to her. “When can I see you again?”

  She looks down at the steering wheel. “I don't do relationships, Jackson.” I open my mouth to protest but she stops me. “That includes friendships. I've already let you in so much more than anyone else and I haven't even known you for 24 hours.”

  I stuff my hands in my pockets. “Maybe there's a reason for that, Alyssa.”

  And there is...I just have no idea what it is yet.

  All I know is that I'm so drawn to her.

  And it's not just because she's incredibly attractive, either. It's so much more than that. I have this urge to just want to take care of her, and be there for her.

  But most of all...I recognize the pain in her soul...because I live with it every day.

  She puts the car in reverse and begins backing up. “I'll call you, Jackson,” she says before she rolls up her window.

  It's only after she's more than halfway down the block that I realize she never gave me her number...and she doesn't have mine.

  Chapter 6 (Alyssa)

  I grip the steering wheel and fight back the wave of nausea. I feel my pulse pounding in my ears and I swallow another big gulp of air.

  What the hell is the matter with me?

  I mean, besides the obvious panic attack of epic proportions that I'm going through at the moment.

  Why in the world did I just tell a guy I hardly know such personal things about myself?

  Granted, it was nothing he wouldn't have found out about me sooner or later, but still.

  Another round of tremors plague my body and with a curse, I pull over to the side of the expressway. The rain is coming down hard and big droplets splash against my windshield. I close my eyes and listen to the steady rhythm as it continues to fall.

  After I'm certain that the worst of the episode is over, I start the car and resume driving.

  I wasn't always like this.

  Once upon a time, I used to be normal, happy, even.

  And up until a few years ago, I had never experienced a true panic attack. In fact, I used to thrive and work best under pressure- something I must have inherited from my father.

  My father.

  I used to wonder if there was a specific number of tears I could shed that would bring back a missing piece of my heart.

  Now, I know, there isn't- because I'm almost positive I must have cried them all during the entire year I was 10. Not a day went by where I didn't wake up to a soggy pillow or fall asleep to one.

  Then I turned 11. That's when I learned to stop crying...because tears wouldn't bring him back. Tears were nothing but a complete waste of an emotion and they never solved anything.

  I also learned, that sometimes; children are actually the ones to take care of their parents.

  Needless to say- My mother didn't handle my father's death well.

  Not that there really is a "way" to handle the sudden death of the man you've loved since you turned 16...but I'm certain that becoming an alcoholic isn't the best way to cope.

  Especially when you have a child to raise.

  However, we made the best of it.

  She made sure to put a few bucks aside for food and bills before she blew it all on booze...and I learned to effectively lie to the concerned neighbors and teachers; like when she didn't show up to my recitals, or parent-teacher conferences.

  Or even worse- when she did show up. Looking like a million bucks, slurring her words, and making an over dramatic spectacle of herself.

  Those were the worst. Then after we went home she would apologize profusely for being a horrible mother while crying on my shoulder.

  I, of course, being a good daughter- would assure her that she wasn't horrible and that I wasn't angry with her. Then I would fix her something to eat and snuggle up with her on the couch while watching the news.

  For whatever reason, it was her favorite thing to watch and the only thing to calm her down when she became really out of sorts. Probably because she didn't have to feel so horrible about the reality of her own fucked up life while she watched other people's lives falling apart every night.

  As crazy as it sounds. I think subconsciously- the reason I wanted to become a newscaster was so that I could find a way to reach her and connect with her, in my own way.

  The day my father died destroyed our happy life.

  But the day John Travine entered our lives...demolished our shitty one.

  I was 15 when he began dating my mother. I have no idea how they met. I can only assume that it must have been at her favorite corner liquor store.

  At first, he would only come around in the middle of the night and he was always gone by early morning. It didn't take a genius to figure out the nature of their relationship.

  That went on for 2 years.

  One day when I was 17—I came home from school to find that he had moved in. Apparently, he was a married man, but he and his wife had just come to a mutual agreement to get a divorce. Either that- or his wife had finally kicked his sorry, cheating ass to the curb.

  I didn't know that he was a hotshot attorney or involved in politics when they first started seeing each other, but I soon found out when he began showering my mother with lavish gifts and taking care of all the bills around the house.

  Unfortunately, it came at a price. But I'm getting ahead of myself.

  Before my mother had to pay the piper...he made sure to get her into rehab first.

  For the briefest of moments, John Travine and I had managed to see eye to eye. I was actually grateful to him for coming into our lives back then. I thought he was the answer to all our prayers.

  I'd never seen my mother happier than during those first few months when she got out of rehab. Long before my mother became an alcoholic, she had quite expensive tastes and shopping was one of her favorite pastimes. Being with John helped fulfill her desire to live in constant luxury again, not to mention her need for constant attention.

  I'll never forget the night that all ended, though.

  I was 18 years old and I had just come home from a date with my high school boyfriend, Toby.

  There at the kitchen table, clutching a bottle of vodka was my mother.

  With a busted lip and a black eye.

  At first, I thought that maybe she had gotten drunk and had taken a bad fall.

  But then he entered the room.

  He glared at the bottle in her hand before he fixed his hard eyes on me.

  And I knew.

  She had obviously relapsed...and he had obviously felt the need to punish her brutally for it. Or, for all I know, it was the other way around.

  My stomach dropped to the floor and the first thing I did was try and get my mother to leave him...but she wouldn't.

  A huge screaming match ensued between John and I while my mother sat in that damn chair, clutching the bottle of vodka for dear life.

  I threatened to call the cops
and he laughed in my face and said they wouldn't believe a whore and a drunk. Especially when my mother would never admit to it.

  The next day, when she was sober-ish, I tried again to get her to leave. She adamantly refused, in addition to issuing her own threat that made me back down.

  Then she said something I would never forget. She said that if I didn't support their relationship, that I was free to leave.

  Yup, my very own mother had made it clear that she would choose a man who hit her...over her own daughter.

  So I did the only thing I could do. I stayed.

  My mother was the only person I had left in my life then and I couldn't bear to lose her.

  I stayed....he continued to beat her behind closed doors...and she continued to drink her pain away.

  Any time I tried to bring up leaving him to her, she would yell at me and threaten to kick me out.

  After hours of non-stop arguing, I would eventually break down and apologize, tell her I loved her, and agree to stop interfering in their relationship.

  Then the next day I would have some kind of gift from John waiting for me.

  It was a fucked up cycle that I didn't know how to stop because that would mean giving up on my mother...and I couldn't do that.

  John's biggest blackmail gift came when he agreed to pay for my tuition for NYU. I had gotten a partial scholarship but was having a hard time figuring out how to pay for my dorm room and other expenses on my part time after school job.

  At first, I declined. Unlike my mother, I didn't want any part of his money. Not to mention, I was still undecided about doorming at NYU because I didn't know what would happen to my mother if I wasn't there.

  It was when my mom literally broke down and begged me to accept his money and told me that I deserved to live my dream...that I finally caved.

  Walking out of that house was one of the hardest things I'd ever done. The pain was excruciating.

  The only exception being my father's death and the last time, I saw my mother.

  The very last time I saw my mother was after John's campaign for mayor was well underway and my sex tape had just hit the world.

  She asked me to come home that weekend. So, of course, I did.