J. Salsbury - Fighting to Forget

“Don’t know what I like better. Watching her go or watching her come.” The table of douche morons laughs, and I could’ve sworn I heard the palm slap of a high-five.

Usually I’d have some smart-ass remark that would shut that asshole up, but I’m in no mood to fight. I can’t get the visual of Rex and that girl out of my head: his huge frame towering over hers, long powerful arms swallowing her whole.

I shouldn’t care. His happiness is the most important thing. It’s the only thing I’ve ever cared about since I reappeared in his life. But why does it feel as though I’ve lost something?

Groupies hang on him all the time, but he’s never given them more than his polite attention. I’ve never seen him leave with a girl, and I’d know. I watch.

“Mac!” A familiar voice pulls my attention.

I search the direction and see Layla, a girl I met back in February, who is now living with Rex’s friend and fellow UFL fighter, Blake Daniels.

She’s wearing her usual kick-ass jeans with a heavy metal concert tee and biker boots.

“Hey.” My eyes swing to Blake, who seems to be giving a few guys at the bar dirty looks. “Blake.”

He grumbles his hello and Layla rolls her eyes. “Don’t mind him. Those guys made the mistake of looking at me. Guess they forgot that when I’m around they need to avert their eyes to the floor.” The sarcasm in her voice is thick.

“Damn right, those fuckers need to keep their eyes to the floor.” He slowly removes his glare from the poor guys who I’m sure are halfway to running the hell out of here to avoid Blake’s wrath. “You won’t wear my ring or take my name. Until that baby bump starts showing, Mouse, dudes need to know you’re taken.”

“Baby bump? Layla, are you pregnant?” My cheeks ache as I smile in response to her face-splitting grin.

She covers her mouth and nods.

“Oh my gosh, that’s amazing!” I wrap my arms around her in a hug. “Congratulations.”

“Thanks, we just found out a couple weeks ago, so it’s not public news yet.”

“Wow, ‘The Snake’ is going to be a dad.” I shake my head and grin.

“Damn right.” Blake slips his arm around her shoulders.

“I better get back to work, but we should hang out soon.”

“I’d love that.” She pulls a pen out from her purse and scribbles something on a napkin. “Here’s my number. Let’s grab coffee or a drink—”

“No drinks, Mouse. Coffee’s out too.” Blake’s eyes move around the bar as if he’s searching for his next victim. Protective much? Jeez.

“Right, well, dinner and water it is.” She twirls a lock of long hair around her finger.

I shove the napkin in my pocket. “Dinner would be fun. I’ll—”

A chord from an electric guitar blares through the speakers. I swing around to face the stage.

Rex’s deep laugh comes through the mic to my ears in a sensual caress. His laugh is something I’ve only heard since I started working here. I’ll never forget the first time.

To this day I don’t know what he was laughing at, but it was the most incredible thing I’d ever heard. I was bartending, and he was standing at the end of the bar with some friends. I stared at him. His head was thrown back, and he had that beautiful smile. I was completely memorized at how carefree he could be.

Jealousy rolls through me when I think of all the people who’ve been in the company of an untroubled Rex. That’s a side of him I’m only starting to know and only from a distance.

“Thanks for coming out tonight.” He’s still chuckling through his words, looking at the guitar player who’s also grinning.

Their good humor is contagious and I smile too.

“We’re going to change things up a bit and start with a new song we’ve been working on. So um . . .”—he plays the beginning of a song I’ve never heard, and the drums and bass join in—“don’t throw shit if I fuck it up.”

The song is fast and loud, getting the crowd riled up. I mouth to Layla and Blake that we can talk later and move to sit in the shadows at the side of the bar.

Rex presses his lips against the mic and starts singing the new song. The sound is dark, haunting, and soul penetrating. He sings about being confined and helpless. The lyrics go on to talk about being kept from the world and unable to get free. The basement. My stomach cramps violently. But it’s the chorus that has me gripping my neck and forcing myself to keep breathing.

There’s so much to say, every time we’re together.

But the fear and the pain seem to go on forever.

Every night that you come, whispered words spoken

You calm my soul, and in the moment, I’m not broken.

Is he singing about me?

Rex

“We’re gonna take off, man.” Blake is standing at the side of the stage. His arm’s slung over Layla so that she’s tucked in close. “Great show.”

We just played our last set and are breaking down our equipment. Some nights we hang out until last call, but not tonight. It’s close to midnight and I’m dead tired.

“Yeah, thanks for coming.” I put down the cords I was wrapping and walk over to them, squatting down to their eye level. “Late night, huh, Layla? Aren’t pregnant chicks supposed to go to bed early?”

“We’re having a date night. Figure we should get some alone time before the baby comes.” She tilts her head back and smiles up at Blake.

“I don’t think Blake’s ever been on a date until you.” I can guarantee he hasn’t, unless sex in a public bathroom counts.

His eyes get tight. “You should try it. Plenty of girls around, get that dick in gear—Ow!” He looks at Layla. “Why’d you pinch me?”

“Just because you’ve retired your boy-slut status doesn’t mean you need to corrupt Rex.” She swings her dark eyes to me. “I loved your new song by the way. How do you come up with those lyrics?”

My pulse jumps. I can’t tell her the truth—that I write from my dreams. The shit that haunts my sleep gets turned into lyrical form. “No clue, but thanks. Glad you liked it.”

She yawns.

“Right. I need to get my woman home and naked before she falls asleep on my ass.” Blake kisses the top of her head.

What a difference a woman makes. One minute the guy’s fuckin’ chicks and keeping secrets; now he’s playing Bon Jovi and having a kid. It’s as if he went from twenty-five to forty overnight.

I fist-bump Blake and give Layla a hug before they turn and disappear into the dwindling crowd. Ready to follow their lead and get home for some shut-eye, I finish breaking down all our stuff. Lane helps me out, but Talon and Ty have wandered off with a group of girls. Something tells me we won’t be seeing much of them for the rest of the night.

I’ve loaded up our van, settled up with the manager, and satisfied a few fans with pictures and autographs when I’m finally headed to my truck. I check my phone. Fuck. It’s two a.m.

So much for an early night.

“Mothereff!” The angry female voice comes from the other side of the alley.

I lean to see around a dumpster and find a tall dark-haired girl limping in a circle and dropping every cuss word known to man. From what I can tell, she’s pissed at the motorcycle parked just a few feet away.

Guess my early night went from late to later.

I stroll up to her, but she’s too lost in her fit to notice. “You need some help?”

She jumps and spins on me, fists raised.

I hold up my hands and try like hell not to crack up at how funny this girl looks with her feminine little hands balled up and ready to throw a punch. “Whoa . . . watch the guns there, slugger.”

She drops her hands to her sides and stares at me. “Rex”—her eyebrows drop low—“are you . . . you’re talking to me?”

Okay, maybe she’s angry and drunk.

“Yeah, I’m talking to you, unless there’s someone else in the alley who’s jumping around and yelling at a motorcycle. Wait, how do you know my name?”

Her dark pink lips part and she locks eyes with mine. There’s something familiar about her, but I can’t nail it down. Her long black hair is pulled back, but pieces have come loose and fall in waves around her heart-shaped face. The contrast of her hair against her pale skin with those dark lips . . . she looks like a doll.

I snap my fingers and point. “I know you!”

Her eyes go wide and she sucks in an audible breath. “Yes. It’s me—”

“Sorry, I know you work here, and I feel like a total dickhead for not remembering your name.”

She jerks as if my words delivered a physical blow. “Oh, uh . . . yeah. M-mac.”

“Mac. Right. Sorry, I meet so many people . . .” It’s a crappy excuse, but it’s true. I only know a few of the waitresses by name. I still feel like a dick.

She nods a few times, still staring. Silence expands between us, and her eyes don’t move from my face.

I clear my throat. “So . . . is this your man’s bike?”

Her eyes flutter and she shakes her head. “No, um . . .” She turns to the motorcycle. “It’s mine.”

“Yours?”

Her gaze swings to me, eyes narrowing.

“Sorry, it’s just girls don’t usually—”

“Ride motorcycles. I get it.” She kneels down to look at something around the front tire.

I follow her gaze to see what she’s studying. It’s then I notice the front tire is flat. Really flat. “Ah, flat tire, huh?”