Page 1 of Possession

ONE

Lucas

I’ve got a bad feeling about this, but I’m not sure why. Yeah, the fight that’s about to take place is obviously illegal as shit, but that’s not what’s bothering me.

It’s Frank.

My stepfather.

What the hell was I thinking coming here with him? There’s a reason—a thousand reasons—I didn’t see him for six years. Even before my mom died, Frank made it very fucking clear that he didn’t want me.

And the very day my mom was in the ground, he told me to get out of his house. I was eighteen, he reminded me, an adult, and he wasn’t my father anyway.

So why the hell, when he called me out of the blue for the first time in six years, was I such an eager fucking puppy?

I mean, fuck, I started crying when he said he wanted to “right the wrongs of the past.” I could barely breathe when he told me he was sorry about how he acted after my mom died, that he wasn’t thinking, that it was grief, etc.

Was I so desperate to hear those words that I experienced a temporary amnesia about my entire fucking childhood?

Apparently. Because I let him pick me up from my shithole apartment to take me “somewhere cool.” I actually believed him when he said he wanted to reconnect.

In a way, though, we have. We’ve reconnected to exactly what we were before: nothing. Uncomfortably, awkwardly nothing. It was painfully obvious during the entire forty-minute drive thattook us out of the city. (I did not expect that. If I’d known we were leaving the city, I’d have said no.)

So what have you been up to?That’s what he asked me in the car.

What have I beenup to? Forsix years? What I’ve been up to is trying to figure out whether my life is worth living.

But of course I said,Nothing. Working.

What do you do?

Mop floors.

I shouldn’t have looked at him when I said it. I think IthoughtI was being defiant with it. Bold, or some shit. Like it was tough of me to say that to him with his hand gripping the leather steering wheel of his Porsche. Like I was owning it.

I think Ithoughtthat when he wrinkled his nose, I would sneer back at him. Like maybe I’d say that all his money from his investment banking bullshit only made it so my mom could pop pills and look how that turned out.

Instead, I just felt like shit, and fuck was it familiar. That’s how I always felt around Frank: simultaneously invisible and in the way. Like something that just shouldn’t exist. Like if I didn’t, it would be better for everyone. For him. For Mom. Maybe for me too.

Why the hell did I think things would be any different now? I mean, seriously, what did I think was going to happen? That we’d have some heart-to-heart and I’d feel like someone gave a shit about me?

Idiot.

Really, though, whatishappening?

Is Frank really into this underground fighting scene? I’ve seen shit like this before, and it’s always ugly.

I know because I considered getting into it. I thought because I wrestled in high school, maybe I could make some money. Mopping floors at a gym doesn’t exactly pay a lot, and I didn’twant to end up back on the streets. Besides, since the gym owner lets me use the equipment, I’m in pretty good shape right now. The idea made sense in my head.

Until I saw a guy get his back broken. That changed my mind.

Of course, this operation is clearly on a different level than the parking garage fights I’ve witnessed, where the ring is formed by the shouting crowd. In places like that, I can stay pretty invisible in my ratty jeans, Converse high tops, and black hoodie.

Here, Frank actually blends in better than I do.

Though some of the milling crowd is rough, there are plenty of suits covering soft, middle-aged bodies like Frank’s. Lots of unremarkable faces like his, Botoxed back to their early forties. Lots of women in slinky dresses hanging off their arms like my mom used to hang off Frank’s. Lots of money.

The stakes must be high. I guess that’s what Frank is into. He always did like gambling.

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