Page 9 of Love Bitters

Thatcher

Sitting beside Wes on the couch, pretending to watch whatever movie he put in, I don’t bother to hide the fact that I’m eavesdropping on his one-sided conversation with our girl. None of us have spoken to Imma in three days. At this point, I’d be happy for any of us to get any kind of response from her. I wouldn’t even care if it wasn’t me.

We’ve had the past several weeks to get to know each other properly, more so than the two we spent locked away in that cabin in Tennessee together. Damn, intense doesn’t even begin to describe how shit went down in that little bit of time. At that point, I’d honest to God figured we’d all write the whole situation off as a fantastic vacation and move on with our lives. Which, of course, turned out to be the dumbest thought I’d had in a long time.

By the time we were packing and ready to head back home on that last day, it was more than obvious we’d already become attached. Our voluptuous little black-haired beauty had us wrapped around all five of her short fingers and didn’t even realize it. None of us were going anywhere. Still won’t if she’d just come back to us. A serious conversation needs to happen, but there’s no doubt in my mind we could calm her fears and work through whatever spooked her. Once or twice, she’d mentioned how religious her parents are, so it’s entirely possible that they found out about the five of us, and made her feel like she'd somehow disappointed or disgraced them.

My hand comes up to scratch at the itch on my chest while thinking back to the shit we’d heard her friend spew back at the cabin. Honesty and brutality are two different things. Even if it hadn’t been Imma or someone else I’d started having feelings for, the whole thing still wouldn’t have sat well with me. I mean, who the actual fuck tells someone that’s supposed to be their friend that they’re an attention-craving whore? If that’s the kind of shit that comes from Im’s so-called friends, it truly makes me wonder what her parents would say. Maybe I’m not too far off the mark here. I just wish there was some way I could find out for sure. If she’d text one of us back, we could ask.

Peeking back over at Wes’s phone he’s got propped on his knee, I try to hide the ache that’s been sitting in my chest for days now. His last four-word message accompanies a selfie of his pouting face that I can’t even poke fun at him for because it’s how I feel on the inside too.

Three little dots pop up underneath his message, and my stomach jumps into my throat. Wes’s sharp intake of breath lets me know I’m not the only one that’s seen it. Neither of us speak as those little dots do their rotating dance in their bubble for roughly twenty seconds before it disappears as though it was never there to begin with.

A wave a hurt hits me like a ton of bricks to my solar plexus. For the first time in years, I’m actually jealous of Wes. Not only for his phone that proves she’s not completely ignoring us, but also for the fact that he almost got a reply from her when I surely the hell haven’t.

I haven’t let a girl into my life with any kind of seriousness in a long while, and this is exactly the reason. All they’re good for is getting your hopes up for that happiness everyone is always searching for. Then when you’re good and hooked, they snip the line, leaving behind a pain that never truly heals until someone else comes along to yank the rusty hook out.

Leaning forward, I brace my elbows on my knees and run my fingers through my black hair, allowing my frustration to flow freely as I fist the strands and yank on them.

“You alright, dude?” Wes asks his voice tight with emotion.

Sure, I’m good. Just fell hard and stupid fast in love with a girl that’s tearing all of us to shreds.

This is my breaking point. To hurt me is one thing, but to have the rest of my friends being taken down with me pisses me off.

The desire to punch something is so strong, I have to fight the urge to slam my fists into anything in this room. Minus the shit in my bedroom, everything has been collectively acquired. They’re suffering enough as it is. I don’t need to add breaking their shit to that list.

Without answering Wes, I spring to my feet. Not until I’m already storming off down the hall does a plan form in my mind. Today hasn’t been a do anything kind of day, so I’ve just been lounging in my basketball shorts and a plain old t-shirt. It’s nothing to toss on a pair of socks and my running shoes before snatching my keys and wallet off my dresser.

Wes’s blond head is still hunched over his phone, but hazel eyes flick up to me at the jingling of my keys when I walk back into the room.

“Where you goin?” he asks with a nod to my hand.

I have to bite my tongue to keep from lashing out at one of my best friends for something that isn’t his fault.

“The gym,” is my reply, then I leave without waiting to see if he says anything in return. Any given day, I’d likely invite him along and wait for him to get his shit together. Not today. If I have to look at his expression for much longer, or any of the others’ for that matter, I’m going to go fucking nuclear. So, instead, I jump in my old Ford beater and book it to the only place I know will take care of at least one of my problems.

By the time I’m pulling up into the parking lot, my rage boils my blood, making my skin feel raw and exposed to the world. I’ve barely made it through the entry of the building before I’m recognized.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” Vinny growls from where he’s spotting a dude’s reps on the bench. He doesn’t even give the guy a chance to finish them before he forces the bar back into place with a loud ping and walks over to where I stand.

A smile is already pulling up his botoxed cheeks as he adds, “Thought I’d seen the last of you around here.”

Shrugging, I deadpan, “Yeah, shit changes.”

That friendly grin turns into a smirk. “That it does and they always come back. Always.”

That scarcely contained rage is demanding an outlet and having to shoot the shit with this pighead makes my breathing shallow. His stupid leer says he knows exactly what he’s doing too.

“Whatever, dude. You going to let me back in or not?” I quip, preparing to tuck tail and go off in search of someone else.

He holds his arms out to his sides as if in welcome as he replies, “You were one of my best fighters. Still hold that title too, so who am I to turn you away?”

“Thanks,” I say out loud while internally telling the asshole off. Words are just that. Words. What he means to say is who is he to turn that money away. Strolling over to the locker room where I know Vin keeps his stash of extra gear, I muse over how much money I did in fact used to make for the guy. If I had to take a guess, I’d say it’s close to six figures, probably more.

My old man, the awesome pops he is, brought me here when I was fifteen years old. He was actually the one training with Vin, but the latter saw something inside of me that I’d refused to acknowledge since the day my mom left us a couple years before that. Rage. Pure, unfiltered anger looking for an outlet, and he gave me one.

I’d fought in his underground fight club for four years, earning enough money to put myself through college. Other teenagers and grown men alike never had anything on me. My retiring record was seventy-three and one. The one fight I lost was my last one. I had that letter of acceptance from school with tuition already paid for, and what used to be my outlet morphed into something I no longer felt I needed.

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