Chapter 11

CHAPTER

ELEVEN

RUST

I jog through the park in the middle of the night, wearing a hoodie with the hood pulled up, dark pants, and dark sneakers. Nobody knows it's Rust Hadley, whose billboard is plastered all over the state. Nobody cares about the big man running through the dark. Even those who creep out at night know to stay away from me. It's in my posture, my gait.

Today's training was a write-off, too—a goddamn write-off. My footsteps pound against the concrete. It was MMA sparring, usually what I'm best at, mixing it all together. It's about minimizing the time between the techniques, fluidity, and muscle memory. Somehow, I feel changed, struggling to focus and think . Or to not think. The problem isn't physical. It's in my head and my heart. It's Mary. Fuck. I want to see her so badly.

I keep running, three, four miles now. I'm running too much, as if I can outpace the demons trailing me, mocking me, telling me I'm a terrible friend. I run through the park toward the bad part of the city. I moved here for the gym, one of the best in the world. I live in a nice part of town. There's no reason to be here, but sometimes, I want to remind myself who I am. The dirt I came from. I was once part of the criminal life, the son of a drug dealer: an abuser, a monster, a self-pitying creep.

When I reach the bridge, I stop beneath a busted streetlamp. Another one flickers a few yards away, causing a puddle to flash brightly, then vanish on repeat. I breathe slowly. My cardio is good as usual, but Mary is stealing parts of me. No, I'm giving them to her.

My cell phone rings, breaking my thoughts. Who's calling me this late? I take it out and check the screen. It's just what I need—Dad. I usually ignore him. For years, at this point. The only reason I haven't blocked his number is because he threatened to hurt himself. I shouldn't care. I don't. I just don't need that hassle.

"What?" I snap, answering the phone.

"Rust?"

"You called my fucking phone, didn't you? What do you want?"

"I…" Jesus, he's doing the shudder voice thing, like this is such a big moment for him, and I should be impressed. "It's good to hear your voice."

"Are you on crack?" I growl, no idea where this is coming from, a fountain of rage and fire surging through me. "It's good to hear my voice? Are you deranged, old man? The old Ambrose would've laughed at the way you're acting."

"I'm not that man anymore."

"That doesn't help Mom." I've got my fist clenched, ready to hit something, some one . "If you were here, I'd cave your goddamn teeth in."

"Rust…" He sounds oh-so shocked that I'd dare to get angry at him, the asshole.

"Remember the last time I hit you, Dad? I was sixteen—the last and the first. You fell like a lump of shit, and then Mom started screaming at me , calling me a bully. You were both fucked up."

"Rust—"

"Shut the fuck up," I roar. "I don't need to hear about your twelve steps and finding the goddamn Lord and repenting or any of that crap. You abused my mom. You drove her to an early grave. You pimped her the fuck out."

"I've made many mistakes in my life."

"No, no, no," I say, my chest tight, my head swimming. It's so bad that it's almost good, this new rush of chemicals. "You didn't make mistakes . You were a manipulative bully. That's all this is. Except you're using your weakness because you're pathetic now, Ambrose, a real lowlife. I could tie one hand behind my back and choke you out, you loser. You were pathetic. You always were."

"You shut your fucking mouth!" Dad explodes, and I laugh, and it feels so good. I don't know why.

"Ah, Dad, nice to talk to you again."

"I-I…" Dad sputters. "I'm trying here, son."

"I listened to you break my mother's teeth," I tell him. "And if I could go back, I'd kill you in your sleep. I mean that. I'd slit your throat."

I hang up, rubbing my eyes. My eyes . There are fucking tears in them. I'm not crying, not sobbing, but they're there. I've never let myself care about Dad before. It doesn't matter. Let him think he's redeemed or suddenly some good guy, but ever since Mary…

What the hell did she do to me? It's like we're in some fucked-up fairy tale, and spending one night with her has melted the ice around my heart. I never saw it as ice before. Just nothing. A black hole. She's ignited the darkness, lighting it up with her smile, body, laugh, soul, everything.

That night…

I drag my mind away from there, jogging across the bridge, past a dumpster with several men huddled around it, a fire lit. The nights are beginning to cool. None of them acknowledge me as I keep running, focusing on the movements, nothing else, not the look in Mary's eyes when she realized how good it felt. Not the pain that separated us after I inked her skin and then left.

A storm, but she never has to be afraid again. I keep running until I hear it. A woman lets out a scream. How many times did I hear Mom scream like that? How many times did I have to listen to her comforting him after he hurt her? Fuck this. Fuck the world.

I run toward the screaming. Another one. A man's voice. "Shut up, you whore."

Turning a corner, I see a very drunk woman walking away from a dingy bar, looking like she's going to fall over in her heels any moment. A few men stand outside the bar, wearing leather jackets and smoking cigarettes. A man chases after the woman. Tall. Big. Damn, he's a giant, even taller than me. He wears a leather vest with his arms showing and clumsy tattoos all over his thick limbs.

The woman comes to a stop when she sees me. She's got blood on her nose, and her eyes are hazy and drugged up. The man looks about forty. She looks about twenty. I find myself shocked at the age gap, and then I remember. Jesus Christ.

Even in her drugged-up state, the woman looks like she recognizes me, but she's not sure where from.

"Evening, fella," the man says, reaching for the woman's wrist. She has a placated stare, just like Mom used to have. She knew deep down there was nothing she could ever do to stop it.

"Touch her, and I'll snap your arm in half."

The man glares at me. He's not an idiot. He's six-six. I'm six-four. He's not used to men my size standing up to him like I am. Then his arrogance gets the better of him. He sneers at me and wraps his hand around her wrist.

I hit him with a clean, quick jab to the nose, wishing it was Dad, feeling his bones crumple. He yelps like a shocked amateur and stumbles back, not even trying to keep a fighting stance. I trip his leg and then scan the bar's exterior. Nobody is moving yet. They're too shocked. As I mount the creep, the men start to move toward me.

I spin around, going for an armbar like I promised the prick, but it would take too long. Quickly, I stand up, hands raised, dancing backward in a fighting stance. Two of them are rushing me. Instinct makes me slip the clumsy hook and fire an uppercut into the first man's jaw, then another. I spin, catch the second man with an elbow, and dance away at an angle.

Nobody wants to fight anymore. They stand in an awkward, injured circle. I keep my head on a swivel, as I always have during street fights. The last thing I need is some scumbag friend catching me unawares.

"Are you fucking done?" I snap.

"This is none of your business, man," the first one says, reaching for his pocket.

"If you pull out a weapon, I will murder you," I say coldly. "There's only ten feet between us. You won't be able to stop me. Put your hand in that pocket, and I will execute you."

The man tries to laugh, but nobody's ever spoken to him like this before. This has always given me a sense of relief, of putting the world into its proper order, making men like this squirm.

"You're crazy," he says.

"You don't lay your hand on a woman."

"I barely touched her."

"You don't do it," I growl, thinking of this scenario but with Mary in that woman's place. I would use him as a goddamn grappling dummy and twist him into pieces.

I turn to see if the woman is okay. She's aiming her camera at me. "Can you believe this? Rust Hadley just saved me. Don't even try anything, Carlos! You're live."

"Fuck this." The big man walks toward the bar, calling after him. "You can keep the whore."

His friends follow. I approach the woman. She's got the flash on, glaring right into my eyes. I've always hated the cameras and the pomp that comes with it.

"What are you doing?" I say.

"Thank you so much."

"Can you stop recording me?"

"I'm not recording, Rust. You're live to two hundred and fifty-six viewers and counting. Say hi!"

I almost snatch the phone out of her hand. I just fought to save her ass, and this is what I get. Mary would never pull something like this. She'd be understanding. She'd rest her perfect head against my chest, feeling my heartbeat, hard, alive, just for her.

"I'm an influencer," she says. "Maddie Maddox, the Matron of Mayhem? Have you heard of me?"

"No," I say. "I'm calling you a cab, and then I'm leaving."

"Don't worry. I've got a ride coming." She reaches out as if to touch me. "Thank you."

I move away from her hand. There's something grotesque about her pale arm snaking out from behind the flash. Honestly, there's something grotesque about the idea of being with anybody who isn't Mary.

"Why are you here?" I snap. "If you're an influencer ."

"I do a series where I go to rough parts of town to party."

"That seems incredibly stupid."

She moves closer with the camera. "Oh, are you trying to say that women should be scared of certain parts of the city?"

"Don't try your clickbait bullshit with me," I snap, pissed it's taken this turn. I thought I was doing a good thing. But, just like with Mom, it never means anything. "I heard a woman screaming. I came to help. If you don't need help, I'll be on my way."

I turn, put my hood up, and jog away. Maybe that's low of me. Perhaps I should hang around to make sure the men don't return, but it just feels so sick that she'd spin it around into some modern media crap.

After running for a while, my cell phone starts ringing. It's Marquis. I stop, glancing up and down the street, making sure nobody's followed me. "What in the name of all that is unholy was that, my friend? Hmm? Please explain what this is. This link many people have sent me. A street fight , Rust?"

"That was fast. It just happened ten minutes ago."

"It's blowing up already. What happened?"

"It's simple. I was jogging and heard screaming. A man put his hand on a woman, so we got into it. Other men got involved, and I got into it with them, too. I didn't know she was a goddamn influencer."

"The video starts with the first man already falling backward. He threw the first punch, Rust, didn't he? Yes? Rust?"

I grind my teeth, my head aching. Too many lies lately, but I'm not about to go to jail for a scumbag who'd lay his hands on a lady. "Yeah, Marquis, of course."

"Hmm. Maybe this could help the fight, then. More drama. More money. Remember, you're getting a cut of the pay-per-view on this one, and I get a nice tiny cut of that."

"Don't whine about your wages, or I'll find someone else."

"You wound me, No Rust," he says, laughing. "Let's hope you don't get arrested before the big fight."