Fight or Fall (28 page)

Looking away, his jaw slightly twitching, I noticed a dash of gray hairs on his side burns. He’s never had those before. Maybe he’ll be old and gray faster with all the stress he’s putting on me. Wishful thinking, Ava. He’s healthier than an ox.

“You don’t get to choose, Ava,” he declared, wiping invisible lint off his charcoal suit. You’d never catch my father wearing anything less than a suit. “Your mother took that away. Your choices. Your decisions…the minute she ran off with… Unless you have anything important to tell me, I suggest you go back to your spinning class or hair appointment or whatever it is you do to pass your time because I have important matters to attend to.”

A blatant dismissal. He has to have the final say.

To the world, I’m now officially dating Emmett.

Standing up, I spared him one last glance. “His name was Simon, father. She ran off with him because he was probably a better man than you could ever be. Goodbye.”

Reaching the lobby, my knees almost gave out, I sat on the nearest chair to regain my balance.

How am I going to explain this to Milo?

He left the front door unlocked.

He probably hadn’t heard the news yet. Or he was expecting me.

I treaded my steps lightly.

It’s like ripping a band-aid, Ava. The faster you do it, the lesser the pain.

The loud pounding coming from the gym should have warned me. Warned me not to go in. Maybe I should wait for him to calm down. Let him cool down, thaw for a bit.

“You just gonna stand there?” His voice sounded so cold, the bite seeping, chilling my already frayed nerves.

I wasn’t scared of him. Milo would never hurt me physically. That’s one thing I knew for sure.

I was, however, unsure of how he was going to take the news that I was now dating Emmett while I was his girlfriend.

What an incredible mess I’ve put myself in.

Each step I took was coupled with trepidation, uncertainty, heightened by the furious slamming of his fists against the punching bag.

His back was towards me, the copious amount of sweat pouring down his back almost drenched the dark blue gym shorts he was wearing. He has been at it for a while.

Right fist. Left fist. Right. Right. Left.

I followed the muscles in his back, bending, rotating, flexing with every punch, every slam, the raw power he released when his fists connected with the bag.

Thud!

Pop! Pop! Thud!

If there was any question that Milo was mad, angry, the answer was right there. It was in the sounds of his fury, the pack of his punches, the thunder of the kicks he threw now and again.

I sat on the leverage bench press, digging my nails into the black upholstery, my legs tucked in under the machine. Watching, waiting, silently hoping that he would understand, give me a chance to explain, and maybe, just maybe, stay with me.

Minutes, half an hour must have passed. Time was of no importance. I would wait for him. No matter how long it took for him to unleash his anger, I would wait. I sat quietly, watching him punish the object in front of him, letting him exorcise the shock and even the pain of finding out what I had done.

I would have kept waiting. I really would have.

If not for the red liquid trickling on the floor.

I stood up and closed the gap between us, standing an arms’ length behind him, I gasped at the sight.

His knuckles, void of any hand wraps that were supposed to protect his bones and tendons. His hands were completely raw, butchered, skin flapping loosely, looking like they were sliced open, gone through a food processor.

Uncaring if he was covered in sweat, I wrapped my arms around his shoulders, pleading, “Stop… Please stop…”

He tried to lift his right shoulder to land another punch in the bag, but I put all the strength I had to stop him, clamping my hand on his shoulders so he couldn’t throw the punch. The only way he’d be able to get out of my hold is if he forcefully removed my hands or if he threw a punch while dislocating my own arms.

Slowly he lowered his arms, blood dripping from his hands. I removed my hands from his shoulders and stepped in front of him. Taking off the light blue jacket I was wearing, I used the sleeves of my jacket as gauzes for his fists, wrapping them, putting pressure on them to staunch the bleeding. His sneakers had caught some of the blood as evident by the dark wet spots on his favorite running shoes. He tried to pull his hands away, but my tenacity, my determination to prevent any further damage to his body was stronger.

After completely wrapping his fists in the modified bandages, I lifted my eyes to look at him. His eyes were downcast, his jaw was set in a strong, hard line, the tension emanating from him was nuclear.

“I’m sorry.” It was the only words that mattered.

His answer was a clench, a tic on the left side of his jaw.

He still had not looked at me.

A space of a moment, a lifetime, a heartbeat, until he found his voice,
“You fucked with me, Ava.”

My throat ran dry, the air inside my lungs squeezed, the warmth in my hands left. “I never meant to hurt you.”

His eyes, red-rimmed with anger, burned through me. “In order for me to be hurt, I’d actually have to care about you in the first place.”

My breath staggered at his blatant hit. He’s doing this because he’s in pain, trying to make me feel bad by projecting his emotions.

My fingers trailed the hardness of his jaw, his neck, his chest, covered in sweat. He pushes himself too hard, as in any sport that he’s been in, but this, right now, was not about any sport… It was about pushing himself to exorcise the hurt he was feeling, the assumptions floating in his mind, the inexcusable actions that he was holding me accountable for.

For a few moments, we just stood there. Not saying anything. If I left now, he’d assume the worst. Him not pulling away from me, not pushing me outside the door, it was something he was giving me, a leeway, an opportunity to explain.

I pulled on his arm, trying to get him out of the gym. The lines in his face hadn’t relaxed, his shoulders were bunched up, coiled in anger, but he followed my strides as I led us out to the kitchen.

Sitting on the black and saddle-brown dining room chair, he hung his head low, stretching his legs apart, completely aware of every single thing I did.

I took out a small metal basin from underneath the sink, turning the faucet on just enough to slowly fill it, and walked to the bathroom connected to his bedroom. I grabbed the first aid kit and walked back to the kitchen. I soaked two small towels in the cool water, and brought the basin by his feet.

My dress had ridden up and some of the water had splashed on the cream ruched Estelle Swanson-designer dress, but I didn’t care. Milo was leaning down, his hands falling in between his legs; lowering myself on the floor, I slipped into the space between and slowly unwrapped his hands from my jacket/makeshift gauze, the basin laying on top of my lap.

Tending to his wounds, I cringed at the opened skin, the blood caking up between his knuckles. I washed the blood off slowly, wiping it away with the fresh gauze packet from the first aid kit. He didn’t flinch or make a sound as I cleaned the wounds.

Midway through the application of the antibiotic ointment, his voice came out hushed, “Leif told me… I was actually gonna go out to the store when I got his text. At first I thought it was like one of those hoaxes. I mean you’re with me almost every day. But when I saw the pictures of you and him…” He clenched his fists, no doubt soaking the newly applied bandages with blood. I looked up straight into his black-green eyes as he continued, “I don’t expect much, Ava. I know we have to keep this thing between us a secret because of your old man. For some reason, he doesn’t want you involved with me. But he’s okay with preppy Emmett? Is it because of his pedigree, because he’s the son of a senator? Because he’s an Ivy Leaguer? Because he’s rich? His shit comes out the same way mine does.”

He hung his head low, shaking; his voice was pained yet reticent. “In a few months, I’ll be done with fighting. Your father is not gonna have a noose hanging around my neck and I wanna tell the world you’re my girl. Well maybe not the world. But since your face is everywhere and shit, it might as well be. Do you know what it’s like, Ava?” Without waiting for an answer, he continued as I stayed in place, not daring to make a move, listening to him pour out his thoughts. “Do you know what it feels like? When I saw those pictures of you and Emmett, all I could think of was pounding in his head and beating the shit out of him. You’re my woman. Fucking mine. But no one knows you’re mine except for a few.”

Lifting his hands, he awkwardly rubs his palms against my hair, his hands restrained by the gauze bandages I’ve taped over and around his knuckles. “I’ve been betrayed once, twice, made to be a fool by Dia. My own sister has hidden her relationship with my rival from me. Betrayal isn’t my strongest suit, it can wear me down.” He clenched his jaw tighter, lifting his shoulders up, straightening his back. “I don’t care what your father thinks of me. I don’t give a fuck of what he’s going to say. What matters to me is you. Contrary to what I said earlier, I do care, Ava. I care how you are, what you do, who you’re with, and whose bed you sleep in at night. I will never share you. Right here, right now, you better decide. You gonna continue dating future Kennedy in public or you with me?’”

I stood up on shaky legs, the enormity of what my answer, what our future was going to be – he was laying it all out for me. Making me choose, handing me the final say, go or no-go, aye or naye,
oui, aucun.

With him or without him.

“If it’s taking you this long to decide,” his voice hard, his eyes hooded, his handsome features twisting in a snarl, “It’s better if you leave now.”

Tears started pouring from my eyes, the liquid burning as it made its way down to my mouth, my words tangled in a battle of telling him the truth, but wanting to protect him as well. If my father learned of my relationship with Milo, who’s to say that he’s not going to ruin Milo’s chances of winning future fights? My father played dirty. After all, he grew up in the slums of Paris. He may be clothed in the finest wool now, but his past would always follow him, especially if he thought he was losing control. I couldn’t drag Milo into my war with my father and certainly, I couldn’t engage him in a battle when the only guarantee was that my father would have his way.

“I can’t…” I heaved, the top of my dress completely soaked by the free fall of tears, my heart’s way of mourning the loss. “I just can’t.”

Standing to his full height, he ripped the bandages that I’d carefully wrapped around his bruised knuckles off and walked closer, his mouth a hair’s breadth away from mine. All too quickly he grabbed my head and plunged my mouth with his.

His tongue swirled around my lips, his breath hot, heady, the force of his kiss was spell-binding, desperate, angry, forceful.

Milo…he’s my love.

But my mom…she’s my life.

In his kiss, he poured out every emotion, every
thing
he was feeling – desperation, longing, need, anger. I felt the onslaught, the raging walls of his control crumbling. He wrapped an arm around my waist, pulling me in closer, harder to his battered soul. And I let him take over me. Over every single cell in my body. In another time, another world, I’d be free to love him; I wouldn’t be causing him pain, but bringing him the elusive happiness that he so richly deserved.

In the wide expanse of space around us, the only sound that could be heard was our mouths meeting, our bodies molding to each other, the past and the present colliding. Without saying another word, I had doomed us before our relationship could even get a fair chance and I’d left us torn, ragged, the remains bloodier than the towels I’d cleaned his wounds with.

I trusted Milo with all my heart, my soul, and I’d protect him until the last breath left my body.

The minute he removed his lips from mine, a lone word escaped his lips, lips I’ve come to know as my own. “Goodbye.”

Without sparing me another glance, he turned his body around and walked away.

Small droplets of blood trailed his steps as he made his way to his bedroom. Slamming his door loudly, I heard a gut-wrenching roar, the sound of a wounded, battered animal, from the room he’d just gone into.

It’s the exact sound of my heart breaking, shattering into a million pieces, never to be whole again.