First class of Tuesday morning is just as awful as yesterday’s—Business Communication. Even the class description on the synopsis has me snoring. The study of principles, practices, and mechanics of writing in modern business. See? Snore. The only decent thing about this class is the fact Emmett is stuck here right along with me, and we’re sitting far in the back of a lecture hall full of people.
“Our fathers hate us,” Emmett mutters, sliding further down in his seat. “That’s the only explanation for why we’re in a class about business writing at nine in the morning.” He sounds like he’s had little-to-no sleep, and I wonder if he and Livvie are fighting again since she hasn’t been around as much lately.
His griping makes me chuckle. “I don’t think this class is the reason they hate us. It’s that they want us to take over for them someday. Talk about torture.” CFO of a major corporation? Honestly, who would ever trust me to be in charge of a company’s finances? Dad and Uncle Scott were best friends as kids who started what is now a multi-million dollar construction company with offices in downtown Nashville. It’s come a long way from the two of them trying to get jobs building anything once they went out on their own. Uncle Scott always says Dad is the brains of the company as CEO, but he’s the brawn, in charge of all the foremen they employ.
It’s great that our dads get to do something they enjoy for work, but I wish they’d let us do the same. Wyatt’s the suit and tie type, and maybe Emmett is too, but I’m definitely not. Then again, I’m not the dirty jeans and work boots type either. I was the child growing up who drove my parents crazy, never able to sit down for more than five minutes, unable to concentrate on one thing for very long, unless it was something I loved, like football. Diagnosed with ADHD at a young age, I’ve been on multiple forms of medication, enough that I wasn’t able to join the military after high school like I wanted to. I always wanted to be a Marine, from the time I was young. I even took JROTC in high school, though it was Navy not Marine, but found out when I was a junior that the medication I’d been on for years would hinder my acceptance.
It turned me into a very bitter guy. I’m still supposed to be taking the meds, but I don’t. Mom fills them, but they sit in my underwear drawer ignored. I don’t need them, I refuse to use a crutch, and that’s what they are to me. Besides, my focus problems aren’t as bad in the fall with football season. I’m so exhausted from practice, games, and workouts I don’t have trouble sleeping like I used to. Not to mention, not being on meds means I’m actually hungry, so I eat the way I should. But, now that football is over, I’m going to have to find something else to occupy my time and help get rid of all the excess energy.
A hard shove brings my wandering attention back, and I turn to glare at Emmett. “What the fuck, butt nugget?”
“You’re lucky it’s the first day dick whistle. Class is over,” he tells me, pointing to the front where the professor is packing his things. Crap. I just spaced for an entire two-hour class. Something I can’t afford to do in a class like this. I’m going to have a hard enough time concentrating on a subject I couldn’t care less about.
We follow the rest of the throng out into the hallway and head for our next classes. We won’t share this one with me in International Finance and him in Business Ethics, but at least the good news is this will be my last class of the day. Hooray for short days, and thank God it’s my last semester. We part with a fist bump at his class, and I head up the stairs to my own, seeing my stupid brother walking towards me with a forlorn expression on his face.
“Hey nut licker,” I greet him, before punching him in the shoulder when he doesn’t acknowledge me.
Max looks up, surprised to see me. “Oh, hey,” he says distractedly. What the hell?
“Are you even awake? Need a coffee? Or a blowjob? Oh, wait … you got that yesterday, right? Hell, I hope you got a blowjob out of that deal. If not, we really need to discuss how to get more than a two minute bang session.” I expect him to tell me to screw myself, but he just nods. “Dude, dafuq is your deal this morning?”
He pinches the bridge of his nose like he feels a headache coming on. “Kat’s not answering my texts or any of the hundred phone calls I’ve made. I don’t get it. She’s never been pissed at me this long, not even last year when I went apeshit on her.”
“Please,” I beg him, “tell me you aren’t spazzing out over a chick who doesn’t even let you pet her.” Well, actually she would if he gave even the slightest indication he’s be into it. He still doesn’t relax and I groan, cuffing him around the back of his neck and pulling him with me back in the direction he came from. “C’mon, Max, chill the fuck out. Kitty Kat will get over her hissy fit.” I want to pat myself on the back for the amount of pussy references I just made in one conversation. It’s a talent.
Max jerks out of my grip and whips around to glare at me. “Dammit Clay, is sex all you think about?”
I think for a second, looking up at the ceiling, before telling him, “No, it’s not all … maybe ninety or ninety-five percent at the most.” I grin at him, and he huffs out an annoyed breath before spinning around and walking away from me, shaking his head. “Oh come on, shit sack.” He raises his middle finger in the air, but that’s the only acknowledgment I get. I can’t get any respect. Tearing my eyes away from where my brother is being swallowed by the crowd, I make a mad dash to class before I’m late. I’ve heard this professor will single you out, and I don’t need to get on anyone’s bad side.
My phone vibrates incessantly during the lecture, and with as much of a hard ass as the professor is, I don’t dare chance taking a look to see who is blowing up my texts. As soon as he’s finished, I pull my phone out of my pocket and scroll through all the texts. They’re all from one person: Marcus. He’s still trying to get me to come talk to him about fighting, but I’ve ignored every text and sent both calls to voicemail. He’s getting more persistent, and I can’t help but wonder why.
When I get back to the apartment, the bulky figure leaning against the wall at the bottom of the stairs, an orange glow coming from the cigarette held loosely between his lips, has e cursing under my breath. I should have known this would happen. Marcus hates being ignored. I knew he was going to show up sooner or later, but I was hoping for way, way later.
He pushes away from the wall when I walk up to him, eyes narrowed as he walks over to meet me. Crushing the remainder of his cigarette under his boot, since he knows I hate the smell, he reaches over to clap a hand on my shoulder and squeezes, hard.
“Clay,” he grits out, his voice gravely from too many years smoking. “You don’t call; you don’t write.”
I pull out of his grasp and curb the urge to massage the lingering sting of his fingers pressing into my skin. “Hey Marcus. What’s up?” I keep my voice light, like seeing him is a good surprise instead of the opposite.
Marcus waves off the pleasantries. “Save that let’s be friends shit for someone who’ll believe it.” His beady eyes narrow on me, and he cracks his knuckles. “You’ve been ignorin’ me. Wanna tell me why?”
I run a hand through my hair, uncomfortable with the pissed-off vibes coming off him. “Just been busy with the new semester starting.” It’s not a lie either. I have been busy. Between the new classes, the pressure to finish school and start working—even though it’s pressure I’ve put on myself—not to mention the crap going on with my brother and my project partner, I’m being pulled in plenty of different directions.
He scoffs. “Bullshit.” Taking a step closer, he lowers his voice. “Look, I need someone who knows their way around a ring.” I start to protest, but he cuts me off. “Yeah, yeah. I know you haven’t had any actual training, but you’re strong, you’re fast, and you aren’t going to go down without a fight. That’s the type of guy I need in the ring. Not these pussy-ass motherfuckers who keep showin’ up wantin’ me to train them.” He shakes his head in exasperation. “Those idiots watch pro fights and think they have what it takes. They fuckin’ don’t. This fighting? It ain’t nothing like that shit they show on cable.”
I blink, not sure I’ve ever heard Marcus say so much at one time. “Marcus,” I start, not wanting to piss him off since clearly he’s already wound way up.
Holding up a hand, he shakes his head, knowing I’m about to turn him down. “Just think about it, yeah? Don’t decide right now. You know me, man. I can give you whatever you want—girls, money, a scary fuckin’ rep. It’d be a good deal, ya know?”
“Yeah, all right. I’ll think about it, but you know fighting—even if it’s just to blow off steam—isn’t my thing.”
Again, he waves off my words. “You’ll come around. There’s a fight the third Saturday in February. Come watch it at least, see what goes on. Make your decision after that.” Knowing it will get him out of here, I agree. Going to watch a fight won’t suck, but it’s not going to change my mind.