Jaxon

2018

My hands tighten around the bar and I lift my knees, jacking them up to my chest while pushing out and up with my arms. The bar explodes from its slot to land in the one above it.

I do it again.

And again.

Again.

Again.

Until I’m at the top of the salmon ladder, hanging ten feet in the air. I can feel the scar slashed across my lower abdomen. The still-mending muscle underneath it starts to pull under my considerable weight.

I ignore it.

If my surgeon knew what I was doing, she’d shit a brick, but whatever. It’s been 3 months. I’m tired of sitting around. To be honest, I got tired of sitting around two and a half months ago.

What she doesn’t know won’t hurt her.

I’ve got goals, and they don’t include letting myself go soft.

“Phone,” Simon says behind me. I had no idea he was standing there. If I had, I probably wouldn’t have pushed it so hard. He’s a worrier, like my mom.

Giving the ladder a final lunge, I unseat the bar, taking it with me as I make the ten-foot drop. I’m 6’7, so it’s not nearly as impressive as it sounds. Slamming the bar back into the bottom rung, I turn to find Simon watching me.

He’s a quiet kid, and it’s been awkward between us since I got back. Five years ago, he was five-years-old and my little shadow. Everywhere I went, he wanted to be. If he wasn’t sleeping or eating, he was perched on my shoulders. Sometimes even when he was eating or sleeping. Now he looks at me like I’m a total stranger.

Which I guess I am.

Scrubbing at my sweaty chest with a towel, I cross the space between us, fixing an easy smile on my face. “Thanks, kid.” I take the phone from him and reach out with my other hand to ruffle his hair the way I used to. He ducks out the door before I get the chance.

Guess he’s still mad at me.

Letting my free hand drop, I lift the phone to my ear. “Bennett.” I bark it, tossing the sweaty towel into the washing machine shoved into the corner of the detached garage. With the weight bench, salmon ladder, and punching bag it’s more gym than laundry room. I keep my ride off-site. Parking in Chicago costs a fucking fortune, but it’s worth it for the added security.

“Hey—got a job for you.” It’s Joe. He thinks salutations are a waste of time. When it comes to him, I agree. “Guy needs a driver, last minute.”

“For?” Last minute jobs are usually shit—which is a coincidence because so are my Saturday nights. Off weekends usually consist of me trying to awkwardly connect with Simon until he gets tired of me pestering him and disappears into his room for the rest of the night. Then I usually end up back out here, seeing how far I can push myself before my scar busts open.

Good times.

“Bachelorette party.” I hear his desk chair creak as he leans back to prop his feet on his desk.

Bachelorette party?

Yup. Total and complete shit.

“No way,” I say shaking my head. I’d rather bleed out on the mats than spend a Saturday night wrangling drunk chicks and mopping puke out of the back of my ride. “You know that’s not my thing. Get Mullens or Graham to do it.”

“Come on, man.” He starts to wheedle, using a tone that instantly sets my teeth on edge. “The ladies love you.”

Yeah. They love me. Because I’m under thirty and actually give a shit about keeping myself in fighting shape. Regardless, I don’t work out and stay sharp because I enjoy getting groped by drunk bridesmaids.

Instead of arguing I repeat myself. “Get Mullens or Graham to do it.” I’m freelance, not a regular employee. That means I can pick and choose my assignments. I don’t have to take his shit jobs, and he knows it.

“Can’t.” Joe blows out a sigh. “Got both of ‘em working.”

I don’t say anything. He wants me on this, he’s gonna have to work for it.

“Come on, man.” He says it like he’s coaxing a shy virgin out of her panties. “I gotta have you on this one—you know you’re my guy.”

“Don’t stroke me, man,” I laugh. “It doesn’t feel half as good as you think it does.”

“Look—I’ll pay you rate and a quarter.” I hear his chair squeak again. He’s sitting up straight. Ready to get down to business. “How’s that sound?”

Desperate, that’s how it sounds. “Double.” Unlike the other clowns he has driving for him, I have my own ride—a 2017 black Chrysler stretch. I don’t need him. If I had the time to build a clientele, I’d tell this fucker to jump in the Chicago River. And he knows it.

“Fuck—you’re pretty but not that pretty, Bennett.” He laughs. “I can drive it myself.”

Joe looks like Danny DeVito, only half as tall and twice as ugly. “Have fun, princess. Remember, the gas pedal is on the right.” I hang up and toss the phone on top of the dryer so I can start a load of towels. It starts rattling and buzzing before I even have a chance to add the soap.

“Bennett.”

“Rate and a half.”

I hang up. Measure out some laundry soap and pour it into the machine. The phone starts its rattle and buzz routine again.

“Bennet.”

“Double,” he huffs into the phone. “Guy requested you special. I can’t put anyone else on it.”

His admission piques my interest almost as much as it pisses me off. I get a bonus if I’m requested by name. A bonus he had no intention of giving me. I put that away for later. “What guy? I thought you said it was a bachelorette.”

“I dunno—some rich fucker out in the burbs. It’s his daughter getting married. Reservation came through online—some doctor type’s credit card paid the bill in full. That’s all I know.” He’s getting antsy. “You takin’ the double or what?”

“No—but I’ll take triple.” I don’t like being fucked with, and I hate being lied to. “And my bonus.”

Silence. Probably running the math in his head. When he comes to the same conclusion I did—that not only is he going to make a goddamned dime off me, but that my bonus is going to come out of his ass—he sighs. “Fine, asshole,” he breathes into the phone. “Triple.”

“And?” I slam the lid and spin the dial.

He curses under his breath. “And your bonus.”

“Pleasure doing business with you, Joe.” I cut the call and toss the phone before he can start bitching.