Tyed(50)

“What the f*ck, man,” I hear Ty say. “He almost flattened that cat.”’

If the driver was driving like a human being, and not like a NASCAR driver on steroids, Ty might have spotted me, but the distraction gives me time to dart from the Hummer to behind the truck in the next parking space.

I crouch down behind the huge tires of the jacked-up Ram truck. For once, reckless driving is not a liability.

NASCAR Wannabe’s car door slams. I peer under the Hummer and see a pair of shiny snakeskin boots. “Gentlemen! Good to see you, Ty. I wanted to talk to you.”

By the guy’s voice, I’m guessing he’s at least in his forties. He’s got a slight Southern drawl. I peek between the truck and the Hummer and see him hitching up his pants, walking toward Ty, his legs spread, like his balls are made of titanium.

I don’t recognize him, yet I find myself disliking him immediately.

"Cut to the chase, Ray. I'm busy." Ty steps into his face.

"A little birdie told me you're a little hard up for cash with all the money you've spent getting yourself ready to fight. I figured you might appreciate a side gig, maybe a little encore for old time's sake. Dina's in town, you know."

Ty, who usually reeks of blasé, Ty, who would probably roll his eyes in boredom at the announcement of the zombie apocalypse is letting out an exasperated growl.

Ray shuffles back to Jesse and flicks something. I smell the stink of a cigar.

"Seriously, Ray?” Ty barks, tone annoyed. “I told you I was done. It's been months. Stop bringing this shit up now,"

“Jesse, how about you give us a minute,” Ray says. “Run along now. Shoo.”

I’m expecting to hear Jesse’s fist hitting bone. I’m stunned when I realize he’s just walked away.

"So Ty, what’d you say?” Ray says. “One last gig, plenty of cash. Dina's always been your biggest fan."

My blood freezes in my veins. Please, don't tell me it's true.

"Ray, man, you're just not getting it, are you?” Ty sounds frustrated. “I'm done. I was done six months ago. I won't get back into this, ever. For any money, anytime, anywhere. I hated every second of it. I did it because I had to. I had to because I was getting shit fights and couldn't afford the freaking gym membership when I first started."

Oh, damn. This went on for a while, then. Ty started fighting for XWL four years ago.

"Last fight was the last time, and that’s final,” Ty spits. “Tell Dina I'm sorry...you know what? Don't. Don't apologize. Paying for sex is sick, whether it's a man or a woman."

I want to hug him so bad right now. I press my palms against the hot asphalt to resist the urge. Ty’s doing the right thing, and there isn’t a trace of doubt in his voice.

And yet, I know that he's ruined for me. Shane was right. He is not a bad boy...he is just bad. For me.

“I pulled a lot of favors to make you happen,” Ray says. “You can’t just brush me off with a no thank you."

"Watch me." Ty’s takes a few steps toward the gym.

“Don’t walk away from me.” Ray slams a fist on the hood of the Hummer. "Goddammit, what makes you think you're better than you were six months ago? You're not. Same guy, same thing. You've slept with hundreds of women but you can't even do this one favor for me?"

"I was young and f*cking stupid. I'm older now and would like to think of myself as slightly less of an idiot. I’m done. Sorry, Ray, I'm forever out.

And that's it. Ty’s feet disappears, and a minute later I hear back door of the gym slam. I shut my eyes, waiting until Ray's engine roars. Once he finally drives away, I stand and fish my phone out of my pocket.

Should I call him?

Should I confront him?

Should I spare myself the drama and just slink away to wallow in my pain? Because there's seriously no way I'll ever get over this in this lifetime.

I smash my phone against his Hummer and watch as the hardware flies to all directions. Much like my soul, there’s nothing left of the phone.

Now he can't contact me either.

Shit, I realize that his favorite song—the freaking ringtone I put him under on my phone—was a song called “My Soul is Empty and Full of White Girls.” The writing wasn't only on the wall, it was on a giant billboard in Times Square.

God, this hurts.

Izzy doesn’t ask me how it went. She takes one look at me and gets the full picture. My face tripled its size in a matter of minutes. I’m not just crying, I’m shooting fluids from every hole in my face. My eyes are streaming tears, my nose is leaking gooey snot, and my mouth is dripping drool. This is the ugliest of the ugly-crying faces known to mankind.

“What a prick,” Izzy declares, not even knowing what he’s done. She reaches for her bag in the backseat and hands me some tissue.

I blow my nose loudly and pat my damp eyes with the same wet tissue. "Take me back to the hotel, please.”

My sister is driving as fast as Ray, weaving through traffic with no thoughts of caution. She is not asking any questions, though, which I’m grateful for. When we pass a giant accident, with two very smashed cars and three ambulances lining on the shoulder of the road, she shoves more tissues at me and says, “And you thought you were having a bad day, huh?”