There’s a man standing beside a grave site.
Do you see him? Is he invisible? I guarantee you today, he wants to be invisible. Look closer. He’s the one with hunched shoulders and a look of disbelief behind shattered eyes.
How could she do this? How could she leave me thinking I somehow played a role in all this?
Didn’t I?
Of course I did. We all did.
You know by now, I’m a numbers guy. Like I said before, when I’m performing, I’m judged on my ability to put on a show and given a score in return. A number determines where I finish.
Today, I’ll give you some more numbers. Pay close attention to them.
Four. The number of times Rhya got herself knocked up and had abortions.
Three. The number of times I paid for them because I didn’t know what else to do for her.
Two. The number of times I sent her to rehab.
Six. The number of times she landed me in jail.
Seven. The number of people at her funeral.
Sometimes I think she killed herself for the attention. Didn’t she? Wouldn’t she?
As I stand here staring at her casket, I’m reminded how today I’m letting go when for so long I held on selfishly. The only selfish part of suicide is the aftermath. The survivors thinking it’s their fault. In someone’s case, it’s their fault. Maybe. Not all of it, but they certainly played a role.
Rhya destroyed me in more ways than one. She lied, cheated, stole. . . anything to make me believe she had the intention of staying clean. She never did.
She tore me apart until there was no repairing the damage and then removed herself from my life just as quickly as she forced herself into it.
Where does this leave me now? I don’t know the answer just yet. I’ll get back to you on that one.
Standing next to me, Auden blows out a breath, a set frown gracing his face. We’re the only ones left at the cemetery. I should leave, but I haven’t. Our shoulders brush. “I wasn’t sure when to give this to you.”
I don’t look at him. I’m strangely focused on the fresh mound of dirt covering her grave wondering what this means now. Who am I if I’m not the person saving Rhya Morgan from herself? “Give me what?”
He reaches into his suit pocket and hands me a note.
My heart clenches. I know what it is. She left a fucking note? For a girl of very few words she left a note?
“It has your name on it.”
I take it from him, but I don’t look at it. “She mailed it to me the day before she killed herself,” he tells me after clearing his throat. “I got it the day after.”
My fist clenches around the paper. I wad it up and toss it on the dirt. Then I walk away.
Fuck her and her stupid fucking reasons.
I know what you’re thinking. At least I can assume you'd think this. Jerk move, right? I should read it.
No. I shouldn’t. I don’t give a shit what her excuse was. Why should I? She didn’t stop to consider us before she pulled the trigger. Why should I take the time to consider her why?
TWO. THE NUMBER of months that have passed since Rhya killed herself.
Notice how I skipped some time? It’s all irrelevant.
Am I over her death? Is that even a question you ask anyone who’s ever lost someone close to them?
If you want an answer, do you see that guy walking inside the Amway Center? The one already sweating from the unbearable humidity in Florida, wearing sunglasses and walking with an arrogant gait he’s perfected? Don’t let the badass look fool you. He’s on self-destruct and a mess. There’s the fucking answer you wanted.
I might also be a tad drunk still from last night.
Let’s take a look at the signs of self-destruction. You probably know the basic ones. Making unwise decisions or even impulsiveness. What about the one where you believe someone is deserving of punishment?
Let’s focus on that one. I’ll come back to him.
Are you asking yourself why I’m acting this way?
I ask myself that a lot these days. I don’t have a direct answer or even one that makes much sense. Maybe you do. Maybe you’re shaking your head at me, but it comes down to this right here. I want to blame everyone for what happened with Rhya, including myself, yet I refuse to take responsibility for something I had no control over.
I never had control over Rhya.
Reaching for the stadium doors, I pull them open. A blast of cool air slaps me in the face.
My phone beeps just as I make my way inside.
Willa: BEHAVE.
All caps. Hmmm. It’s like she doesn’t trust me anymore.
You’re wondering what I’m doing in Orlando.
I’m competing with the Nuclear Cowboyz tonight. Let me tell you, it’s the last place I want to be.
Here’s why.
Jamie Neeley. He joined the cast yesterday, set to compete in the next ten shows. I’m fucking thrilled to be around him every day, can’t you tell? It’s about to get ugly.
Do you remember the name?
Do you know why I hate him?
You should.
Are we friends?
I’ll let you decide here in a minute. Watch what happens when I walk inside.
“Hey, man, good to see you, kid.” Jaime gives me a head nod as he throws a leg over his bike, reaching under his helmet to fasten the buckle.
Out of twenty-some riders around me, he’s the first to greet me. My lucky day, huh?
My jaw clenches at the sound of his deep voice, my heart kicking up a beat.
Do you see that guy with the tensed shoulders? The one gripping his helmet in his fist and the white knuckles? Do you still think he’s friends with Jaime?
I’m not looking at him, in fact, he’s behind me. I tell myself, Don’t turn around.
Don’t.
I lift my sunglasses. Tiller approaches on his bike, the distinct pitch of his 2-stroke echoing off the stadium walls, a heavy contrast to the DMX blaring through the venue.
“Hey, I’m talking to you,” Jaime says, nudging my calf with the front wheel of his bike.
Jaime’s never been one to enjoy being ignored. He hates it.
I’ll let you make your own assumptions about Jaime here in a minute. But let me give you another number.
Thirteen. Rhya’s age that night in Glen Helen.
Here’s another number.
Eighteen. Jaime’s age that night.
What’s your take on him now?
Let me guess, pile of shit?
At least we’re on the same page.
I still don’t turn around to face Jaime. At this point, I want to piss him off. “You know, it’s funny, but I can’t say it is good to see you,” I mumble, running my hands through my sweat-soaked hair.
Tiller stops in front of me, grinning, as he exaggeratedly grabs a hand full of front brake. His back wheel rises off the concrete as he slides to a stop on the front wheel.
Lately, Tiller finds my interactions with people fascinating, and I think that’s the only reason he comes over. Probably because I’m more like him and less like the carefree kid I once was. The one who’d do anything to get a rise out of people and had fun on a bike. I don’t know that guy anymore.
I give Tiller a head nod. Jaime gets nothing. I’m being cocky, but you don’t see the internal reaction I’m having. Like the way my stomach clenches, anger and adrenaline rushing through me at the thoughts of what he did to Rhya.
Out of my peripheral vision, I see Jaime fold his arms over his chest, his eyes burning into mine, willing me to react. “Pretty boy’s got a chip on his shoulders these days, huh?” His chin lifts and he gives me a head nod.
I want to knock his motherfucking teeth in.
My head swims with thoughts and memories of that night at Glen Helen. It’s locked on Rhya’s eyes when she told me what actually happened. I remembered walking inside Jaime’s trailer an hour before that and catching him with a girl. I didn’t think anything of it. Had I known at the time that girl was Rhya underneath him, I would have done anything I could have to stop him.
But I didn’t know it was her. I do now, and Jaime needs to know that. At least I think he does. I could be wrong here, though. It’s happened like one other time. Me being wrong that is.
I think, and don’t put too much weight on my theory here, but he’s trying to piss me off. You know what, I’m the fucking bait and step toward him. “Why are you here?”
Jaime chuckles under his breath and revs his bike, holding his head to the side of his helmet like he can’t hear me over the scream of the 2-stroke.
Now what do you think of him?
As pissed as I am, I find a little humor in his actions. A little. I’m not even sure what part. Maybe all of it? Maybe the fact that I’m going to have to deal with the fuckface more often than I want to.
While Tiller remains on his bike, arms crossed over his chest, Roan approaches me, a big-brother warning in his stance and eyes. He knows where I’m about to go.
He holds up a hand to stop me. As if he can. Deep down he’s dealt with me enough to know trying to stop me is pointless. “Drop it.”
Not likely I’m going to drop this one.
Have you ever been bitten by a fire ant? Tiller has. I once pushed him into a mound of them. Some say that’s what’s wrong with him now. He spent three days in the hospital. Turns out, he’s allergic to them.
Who knew.
Do you know how fire ants bite? They bite only to get a grip on you and then sting from their abdomen and inject a toxic venom. It fucking stings, believe me. It’s similar to well, getting burned. Hence the name fire ant. They’re aggressive, but you know what’s fascinating about these ants?
Their ability to survive extreme conditions. Hell, they can even form a raft with their bodies.
My point?
They attack aggressively when disturbed. If provoked, they swarm the intruder, anchor themselves by biting the skin and then sting. Repeatedly.
The biting, then the sting, that’s grieving a loss of someone in your life. It doesn’t just stop overnight. It comes in waves, so they say. Or stings if you ask me.
Do you think knowing this I can simply drop it as Roan suggests?
Nope.
In the distance, I can hear the bikes revving while airborne over jumps. I brush past Roan knocking his shoulder with my own and stand in front of Jaime’s bike, looking at him for the first time in years. He looks the same. Older, a dark scruff to his hair but he has the same blazing blue eyes that practically look clear as the sky outside. “I asked you a fuckin’ question, Jaime.”
This time he shuts his bike off and takes his helmet off. Look at that. He’s mad I questioned his talent. Casually, he takes a drink of water from the water bottle beside him, then points at me. “I’ve been doin’ tricks longer than you, Shade. I think you know why I’m here.”
Placing one hand on the handle bars and the other on his seat, I lean into him, my eyes cold as ice.
Are you watching his face? You should be.
Silence falls in the arena, heavy and loud, or maybe it’s all in my head. “I fuckin’ know what you did.” I draw back. I want to see his reaction.
Don’t you?
Do you see the way the color drains from his face? Did you notice the way my mouth twists into a smile?
Jaime’s face goes completely blank, masking his emotions pretty fucking well. He slides his eyes over my face contemplating his next move. “What are you talking about?”
He’s asking for it, isn’t he? He knows. Oh yeah, he fucking knows.
“I know what you did,” I repeat, this time paying closer attention to the reactions.
Reece steps toward us, eyeing Jaime, then me. I hadn’t realized it but we’re surrounded by guys now. About ten of them. “What’s the problem here?”
Did you know these two are best friends?
Fucked up, right?
I shrug, a sly smile playing on my lips. I look at Jaime. “No problem.” Then I shove him, knocking him off his bike. “You better stay away from me.”
Are you disappointed I didn’t hit him?
That makes two of us.
Do you notice he stays on the ground?
I do. While he’s down there trying to piece together how I know what happened between him and Rhya, I take in his every mannerism. From the shock on his face that I pushed him off his bike, the eyebrows collapsing into a frown to the realization I won’t back down until he admits what he did to Rhya. What it will mean to Reece.
He looks from Reece to me, then back to Reece, but says absolutely nothing. He won’t. The last thing he wants to admit to Reece is he raped his little sister.
Want to know the fucked up part about this? His brother is just as bad.
Do you remember who Jaime’s brother is? I might not have told you.
Gage Neeley.
I bet you remember that name, don’t you? I’ll come back to him here soon. Just wait.
With a sold-out crowd of over twenty thousand fans packing the stadium, I put down a flawless run with my unique style, but it’s not enough in the final match-up of the night against Reece. He takes the win.
Do you know why I didn’t win?
Because my mind isn’t on my job. It’s on her.