The Song of David(67)

The music was thumping—something guttural and earthy, and Amelie was in the octagon, twirling and swaying around the tall pole, a determined smile pinned to her face. But unlike the first time I’d seen her dance, and every time I’d watched her dance since, her eyes were open, and her movements seemed stiff. She clearly wasn’t enjoying herself.

“I’m not liking what I see!” a voice bellowed out. “Are you liking what you see, princess?” Laughter. “Get Danielle back out here!”

The other patrons had stopped watching Amelie and were peering, hands over their eyes in the direction of the corner booth. The dim lighting made it hard to make him out, and the loud bass camouflaged his taunts, but Morgan was doing his best to be heard, and the charged atmosphere in the room had nothing to do with sexual tension or the scantily clad dancer performing a seductive routine under a spotlight.

He was so intent on heckling Amelie, he didn’t see me coming. So when I reached over the back of the booth and grabbed him around the ears and yanked upward, he came to his feet with a yelp of pain and surprise.

Lady Gaga was singing about having a poker face and Amelie was trying to take her advice, dancing like a wind-up doll, unable to see the cause of the drama unfolding in front of her. I was extremely grateful for that. Lisa squealed and Morgan roared as I dragged him across his table, sending empty bottles crashing and upending two chairs at another, thankfully unoccupied, table.

A few customers clapped and whistled as I locked my arm around Morgan’s head and headed for the emergency exit. I pushed through the door as the final bars of Amelie’s number played out. I didn’t hang around to see the spotlight on the cage dim to black or the lounge lights softly rise, which was customary as a new dancer took her place in the cage. I wanted Morgan out of sight and out of ear-shot before I beat the hell out of him. But as we barreled through the doors and out into the cold night, both breathing hard, both angry, Morgan, off balance and clinging to my forearm around his neck with one hand, swung at me with his other. It was a Hail Mary, a desperation shot, but there happened to be a beer bottle in his hand, and that beer bottle connected with my forehead with a resounding crack.

The blow stunned me, and I went down to one knee, pulling Morgan with me. Blood filled my eyes, and rage filled my head.

“You gonna tell me what that was about, Morg? You gonna tell me why you decided to come back?”

I swiped at the blood on my forehead with one arm and ground Morgan’s head into the ground with the other.

“I want my job . . . I want my job back,” he wailed, pushing on my hand. “I just thought I’d have a drink or two first, to get my courage up to ask for it back. I watched Danielle and Crysti dance. Then I had a few more. Then she came out. It just made me mad that she still had a job and I didn’t. Where’s your loyalty, Tag? I don’t get it, man.”

My vision was starting to swim and my head had started to pound like Morg had taken Thor’s hammer to it, instead of a bottle of Bud. Someone burst through the exit doors and I stood, releasing Morgan and swaying on my feet. I wasn’t going to go down. Losing consciousness meant a concussion in the fight world. Concussion meant mandatory down time and testing. I didn’t have time for that. Vince and Leo were suddenly at my sides, looking down at Morgan who still lay on the ground in front of me, as if he didn’t know what to do with himself. His eyes were wide as he took in the blood pouring from the wound he’d inflicted. I pulled off my black T-shirt, mopped the blood from my eyes, and pressed it to the gash in my head. It felt like the Grand Canyon beneath my fingers and my stomach roiled and shifted.

“Don’t come back, Morg. I’m all about second chances. But that? In there? That was it. That was your second chance, and you repeated all your mistakes. You’ve shown your colors, and I don’t like the way you look in them. I don’t want you around.”

A trip to the ER was just where I wanted to spend my evening. They had to dig glass fragments out of my forehead, and that hurt worse than the actual blow to my head. The shot of Novocain wasn’t a picnic either. But I kept my eyes open and my mouth moving as the emergency room doctor stitched me up.

“You’re going to look a little like Frankenstein,” the doctor said good-naturedly. “You’ve got thirty stitches holding your forehead together. It’s right at your hairline though, and I’m guessing the scar will be pretty well hidden. I’m more worried about concussion. Your head is extremely swollen, your pupils still haven’t returned to normal, and I know you think you’re fooling me, but your speech is wobbly and so are your knees. I think we need to order an MRI just to be safe. In fact, I’m going to insist on it.”