Chapter Twenty One

Chapter Twenty One

I’m sitting next to Cam in a cab that’s taking us to our Vegas hotel. I think the panic attack started on the flight and kind of escalated to this point. I’m sweating like a pig, and my clammy hands strangle my canvas bag like I’m trying to choke it to death. What the hell am I doing? If Ty wanted me here, he would have said so. He is perfectly capable of getting what he wants—when he wants it—and now I’m just going to barge into the most important night of his life uninvited. The last time I surprised him, it ended up with tears and a breakup. I can’t believe Cam has talked me into this.

"I may be out of line here...okay, I’m definitely way out of line here, but for whatever reason, I just can’t seem to picture you and Wilder together? You don’t seem to have a lot in common." Cam is filling the silence with his words.

"And why’s that?" The assumption that we are too different to be together is pissing me off, and I’m not even sure why.

"Well, you don’t have much in common. Like, you and I for instance, we share some cultural background I guess. We go to the same gigs, watch the same movies, go out to the same bars. You know, we’re alike."

I send a sweet smile his way. "I don’t want someone like me. I want someone who will drag me out of my comfort zone and introduce me to new things. Different things."

"I completely agree.” Cameron is not stupid. He knows he crossed a line and is now backpedaling his way into my good graces. “I also like a challenge.”

Ty is not a challenge, but I don’t want to pick a fight with my boss in the middle of this trip, so I let it go and nod, looking out the window.

When the cab driver drops us off at the hotel, I’m literally shaking. Cam offers to do the check-in while I clutch my suitcase, looking around the lobby and trying to keep my emotions in check. The place is packed and buzzing with laughter and excitement. Judging by the amount of people who wear credentials around their necks, most sports journalists have already arrived and are now mingling with each other.

The lobby is spacious and dazzling, with ornate crystal and golden hand-carved marble chandeliers. Cam disappears somewhere between the masses of people waiting in line at the reception desk, and I mess with my phone, trying not to think about Ty.

Don’t think about him.

Don’t think about him.

Don’t...

I hear screaming and clapping, peppered with low whistles and some gasps. I raise my head and watch as an entourage of about ten men slices through the crowd. I recognize Jesse instantly. He is tall and muscular and enjoying the attention. Dawson is walking next to him, and between them and a few more men I don’t recognize is Ty.

Fuck, I’ve missed him.

There’s a lot of commotion around the group, and I’m rooted to the ground, completely mesmerized by my gorgeous ex, who is looking healthy and happy as freaking ever, by the way.

My eyes follow the entourage. Ty is chewing gum and not making eye contact with his fans or the reporters, his face partly hidden under a baseball cap. I may be imagining this, but seconds before he disappears, he clutches the left side of his shirt, where he tatted my name, with his fist.

Just then, a gloriously stupid idea pops into my mind. It’s so stupid I can’t afford to think about it, because I know I’ll change my mind. I turn around and race outside to the street, and head in the direction of the spot where Shane and I drank our Coco Loco and talked about Ty.

This is going to be so gloriously stupid.

***

"Dude, I’m sorry, but I’m not doing it."

Her name is Nash, and she is seriously hot. She’s got thick bangs, a septum piercing and the sweetest, most innocent face a twenty-something-year-old could have. And she refuses to take my money and just do what I tell her, which is driving me mad. This is America, woman.

"Listen, I’m not going to regret it," I say with conviction, pressing both my palms together as I beg her to tattoo me. I know that if she won’t, others will, but for some reason, I really like her. Plus, the place is packed and if it weren’t for the early hour, she probably wouldn’t even have time for a walk-in customer like me.

"Dude, check out my ten commandments. I pinned them to my wall." Nash points at the wall behind her, chuckling to herself. Sure enough, she wrote ten rules she sticks by when she gives tattoos:

1. No drunk-tatting. Come sober or don’t come at all.

2. A tattoo is not a pet. It lasts forever. I do not ink clichés. If you’re into the shape of infinity or an anchor on your wrist, go somewhere else.

3. I am not a translator. If you want something in Chinese, Arabic, Hebrew or any other foreign language, check your spelling.

4. You will suffer for your art. Try not to fidget and move too much. I do not tattoo movers. Sorry.

5. No tattoos of the names of boyfriends/girlfriends. You will thank me for it some day.

I don’t bother reading number six. Instead, I swivel back to Nash, smiling as I spot a loophole. "He is not my boyfriend. I just want to ink his name, regardless. So there you have it."

"Nope," she says.

"Yes," I respond. "Because I swear, even if I never get back with him, I’ll still love it."

"So let me get this straight." Nash folds her arms, leaning over the counter, squinting as she tries to read me. She is all sass, yet not a pretender. I’m pretty sure that if I were playing for the other team, I’d totally be crushing all over her. "You want me to tattoo the name of your ex-boyfriend. On your body."

"That’s right," I nod.

"And you’re not drunk?"

I shake my head, bouncing on my feet excitedly. "Please, Nash. I know what I’m doing."

Nash is laughing hard, trying to regulate her breathing. She looks at me like I’m the craziest person she’s ever come across, which is pretty worrying, considering the fact she works in a freaking Vegas tattoo parlor. She looks around her, checking that no other tattoo artist or co-worker is watching as she bends her own rules for me.

Damn, I knew our chemistry was on fire. Shane is about to get dumped in favor of a new BFF.

"This is sick, girl. But I’m totally on board with that if you let me pick the size and the place.”

I hesitate, because in my vision, Ty will be inked across my heart, just like he did for me. But when I actually lie beneath Nash, and she has her black elastic gloves on, she curls her finger in my direction, signaling for me to flip onto my stomach.

"Tie your hair up. Like, really up," she instructs.

I do as she tells me, my heart drumming wildly. Nash picks a place right underneath my left ear and applies the stencil transfer she’s made for the tattoo.

"Chest tats are very in if you’re a jailbird,” she says, turning on the machine, “but I think this spot makes far more sense."

The buzzing is making my head spin but I keep it together.

"You chose a tiny tattoo," I argue.

"My castle, my rules, baby." She laughs. "It’s going to hurt, so take a deep breath, and remember that love hurts."

It certainly does, Nash. It most certainly does.

***

The massive Las Vegas arena is jammed and full of people. Nobody even bothers to sit down, Everyone’s standing, and the air throbs with a deafening roar of chanting and cheers. The atmosphere is buzzing with excitement mingled with the oppressive smell of beer, hotdogs and BO.

There are a lot of types of crowds, and they’re all different. A football crowd is not the same as basketball crowd; a hockey crowd is different from a soccer crowd. And the MMA crowd? It’s freaking nuts. The fans here have such raw, unrestrained passion.

Cam pushes through the masses, leading the way to the press area, which is literally only fifteen feet from the ring. I can barely hear myself think, which is great, because thinking is not my strong point at the moment.

It’s too hot in the arena, so I take my jacket off once we find our seats. I’m wearing a cool, blue vintage dress, one of the few I own, paired with my denim chucks. There are still echoes of pain from doing the tattoo this morning, and Nash promised it’s going to itch like a bitch once it starts healing, but I don’t mind that at all.

"I’ll go get us something to drink,” Cam shouts in my ear. Then he takes a step back and stares. My new tattoo hasn’t escaped him. He frowns slightly, but doesn’t say anything, just pivots to the other side and walks away.

I plop down on my seat and take in everything around me. I’m pretty sure I saw Dawson walking around outside the ring, and I definitely saw Jesse sitting across the ring, on the opposite side, with a few other XWL fighters who came to see the show. There’s an announcer who entertains the crowd every once in awhile, but I don’t bother listening to what he has to say.

The reporter on my right accidentally elbows my ribs. "Oops, sorry."

I nod.

"Hey, do I know you?" He turns around.

“Not likely.” I shake my head. “Diablo Hill magazine?” I try.

He frowns. "I’m from MMA Madness. Chris," he introduces himself and we shake hands. He is still frowning, still looking at me, and as the pieces fall together, I blush and turn away from him, desperate to avoid his next question. But I can actually hear Chris smiling behind me when he says. "Hey, you’re Wilder’s old girlfriend. I saw you on TMZ when I was doing research."

Well, ain’t that just grand.I turn back toward him. I’m hoping to convey annoyance, but I’m way too agitated to control my facial expressions. "I’m sorry, Chris. I can’t seem to hear you with all the background noise. Enjoy the fight."

I’m relieved when Cam takes the seat to my right. He’s brought bottles of water, and I sip from mine, pressing the cold bottle against my forehead.

Vasquez is the first to emerge from the tunnel. He’s probably as tall as Ty and built like a gladiator. Ty has been doing this for four years professionally, but Vasquez is older, thirty-two, and more experienced. He’s already won three championship belts, and he’s considered a Brazilian Jiu Jitsu master. The Brazilian crowd cheers him on loudly, while some of the Americans boo him. Vasquez doesn’t seem to mind, though. He’s fought enough bouts to look past the booing.

And that’s what I’m afraid of.

When the announcer introduces Ty and it’s his turn to walk out of the tunnel, my heart thumps with anticipation. I have goose bumps all over my body as the crowd goes wild, chanting his name and throwing cups in the air. He walks out to his usual angry grunge tune and winks coolly to one of the video cameras following him, flashing his black mouth guard. When he gets to the edge of the ring, he lifts his arms sideways and allows one of the referees to pat him down all over.

"I never really got why they do that," I tell Cam.

But it’s Chris who answers from my other side. "Being fondled by another man tends to put you in a bad mood and makes for a more exciting fight."

I turn my head, cocking it to the side and narrowing my eyes at him.

"I’m kidding,” Chris says. “It’s to check the fighters haven’t greased themselves to death to avoid being grappled by their opponents."

The ref squeezes Ty’s shoulder, as if to say you’re good to go.

I think I’m going to be sick. The idea of Ty getting in there, of him getting hurt (and lets face it, there’s a one hundred percent chance he’ll get hurt) is driving me nuts.

Dawson arrives at Ty’s side, along with two more of his trainers, and applies a layer of petroleum jelly to his face to prevent cuts. Dawson is constantly speaking, as Ty stares into the raised cage and nods, looking like his mind is far away from everything and everyone else here.

Then he climbs the steps, pauses at the gate to the cage and does this thing again, where he touches the tattoo with my name and looks up to the sky.

I love you too, baby, I want to scream.

The lock clicks, Ty and Vasquez bump fists with their gloved hands and the fight begins.

My heart is about to jump out of my chest even before they touch each other. In fact, they spend the first few seconds jumping around in circles. I decide to look away, not wanting to see how this one plays out. I still think the XWL is human cockfighting. I feel Cam fidgeting beside me and hear a loud Awwww from the crowd. It echoes in the arena and it makes me want to faint and wake up when it’s all over.

"You want to see this," Cam tells me. "Open your eyes."

I slowly open my eyes and watch Ty sitting on top of Vasquez, pounding on him for what seems to be at least two minutes straight. There’s blood everywhere. I’m fighting the scream that’s stuck in my throat, because blood makes me want to vomit. I get dizzy before blood tests, so this is definitely not my scene. To top that off, in a matter of seconds, Vasquez manages to flip Ty over, and now he’s on top of him.

Through the wire, Dawson yells up to Ty, "Lock your foot down! Push your hip! Ty! Ty! I’m talking to you!" He is frantic, screaming loud enough to be heard even with all the chaos and noise around us. That’s when the first round is over and I take a deep breath.

Four more rounds to go.

I don’t bother opening my eyes even once during the next twenty minutes of fighting. I don’t respond to any of the ahhhs and the ohhhs. I don’t open my eyes during the rest periods between rounds. I wait patiently even when the place explodes with cheers and people scream their assess off at the end of the fifth round. That’s when I hear the announcer officially crown Ty Wilder the XWL welterweight champion. He’s won by a decision.

I open my eyes and watch the president of the XWL walk straight into the cage and hand Ty his new belt. The belt he’s worked so hard for. The belt that broke us apart in a way.

"This is your cue to go try and ask him if he’ll talk to us before they whisk him off for the official TV interviews."

At first, I can’t seem to move, but when Cam literally shoves me out of my chair, I run toward the cage and hook my fingers into the net.

I wouldn’t be able to get so close to the ring if it weren’t for my super-great seat, but since I have a journalist tag, I can get away with a lot of things.

Ty looks exhausted, sweaty as hell, and there are fresh bruises and blood on him. Also, he’s panting like crazy, the adrenaline pumping. He notices me after a few seconds and turns around to face me.

Heart stops beating. Brain shuts down. Hormones are raging.

He is coming over. Squatting down, he doesn’t smile, just kind of wrinkles his forehead as if he’s trying to figure out whether he is imagining this or not. He makes me feel home again. I missed this. I missed him.

"You deserve this," I mouth, tilting my head in the direction of the gigantic gold and silver belt. "Champ."

He leans into the net, and I lose sight of everything around us, but I’m pretty sure people are wondering who the hell I am and why is he paying attention to me, instead of celebrating his victory.

"Yrrr wamaminvivoo?" he asks.

"What?"

He spits his mouthpiece into his hand, this time asking clearly. "You want an interview, huh?"

I shake my head. "I’d love one, but I want you more."

His eyes soften immediately.

"You can start by giving me your number. You haven’t done that in...well, never." He is slurring his words slightly, but I’m sure he’ll be okay. He turns his back to me and before I know it Jesse appears by my side with Ty’s phone, handing it to me. He’s opened a new contact. I enter the number with a grin.

Jesse bites his upper lip, obviously worried by Ty’s behavior. "He grew his virginity back while you were gone, just so you know."

I can’t help but grin even wider. My eyes cling to Ty as he talks to an attractive female TV reporter inside the cage. I don’t care about her. I’m just so freaking proud. At the end, he won. And he did it all by himself.

Ty twists his head and points at me with this crooked smirk of his. There’s a shitload of noise in the arena, but I’m close enough to hear when he shouts, "When you get that interview, don’t forget, I’ve got ammo on you."

"What ammo?" My brows shoot up in surprise.

"First date? Your cell phone playlist. Ring any bells?" He sticks his tongue out at me.

Damn! He said he was going to use Phil Collins against me when I become a journalist.

And I did, partly because of him.