“That bitch!” he spits in furious desperation. “Don’t listen to that bitch! She’s a fuc—”
I kick him square in the jaw, silencing words I have no interest in hearing. He doesn’t deserve to speak them.
“Enough of that, asshole,” I say, dumping the remaining gas on his head, making sure he’s soaked from head to ass. When he’s coming to, already whimpering like a little school-boy bitch, I put a hand in my pocket and walk off, whistling as I swing the gas can.
Back at the parking lot, I pick up my phone. I’ve got fourteen missed calls and two messages. I don’t bother to listen to them. I want Senator Sims to sweat. I just type in a text to my buddies that reads one simple word: Ready.
FORTY-THREE
Katie
I’m drifting in that hazy place between sleep and wakefulness. My mind won’t let me rest completely, so I’ve been lying here for hours, thinking. Drifting. Wanting.
The television is playing softly, the bluish light flickering against my closed lids. I’m not concentrating on the words, but the name gets my attention.
I raise my head and glance down at the flat screen. There’s a small corner picture of Senator Sims, and a red banner at the bottom of the screen that reads BREAKING NEWS. Just below that are the words SENATOR AND SON FOUND DEAD IN WRECKAGE OF PLANE CRASH.
I sit up, fully awake now, my eyes wide and my pulse thudding. Am I dreaming? Am I hallucinating?
I stare at the screen, watching for more details. None come. Just that flash of news. Important news. News that could very well change my life.
People all over the country might be mourning their passing. I’m not one of those people. I feel only a sense of intense relief. And vindication. And freedom. I’m finally free. And so is Rogan.
The next thing to flash along the ticker tape at the bottom of the screen is a statement on the crowd’s anticipation of a mixed martial arts fight being held in Vegas tomorrow.
It’s Rogan.
On the one hand, I know I shouldn’t go. Shouldn’t even want to. But on the other hand, I desperately want to see him, to talk to him. To hear him say those three little words again. I want them to change everything.
But is that realistic? Is it possible? Is it possible for me to put the last few years behind me and move forward as yet another different version of myself? Or am I tough enough to embrace all the different parts and live as just me? Scarred yet whole. Free.
There’s only one way to find out, of course. And to do it, I’ll have to be brave. Tough. Tough enough to live, not just survive.
For the first time in what feels like a lifetime, I feel like I might be ready for that. Finally ready. Finally strong. Finally tough enough.
FORTY-FOUR
Rogan
I feel different. As Johns slides my gloves on, I know in my gut this will be a night like no other.
I focus on the music that I’ve heard before every fight since day one. I let it bring me to the present, where it’s only me and my opponent. The pump of blood to my muscles and the burst of adrenaline through my veins. This time, my opponent is internal, though, and winning against him is more important than ever.
Above the music, I hear the pop pop pop of umbrellas opening all around me. I reach deep for my “The Rain” persona and I tap my fists together, throwing my hands up and dancing from foot to foot as I turn a circle and wordlessly thank my fans for showing up.
As my eyes scan the sea of mostly black umbrellas, I do a double take of the upper level of one section, my eyes stuttering over and then returning to a pink and white polka-dot umbrella. I stop and stare, trying to see past the bright lights to the face in the shadow, but I can’t. Surely it’s Katie. Isn’t it?
But then I think that, after all the commotion when I spotted her and acknowledged her at the charity fight, the new thing might be for women to bring a polka-dot umbrella. How the hell should I know?
But still, the fact that it might be starts to eat at my stomach.
I enter the cage and listen as the announcer goes through his usual spiel. I resist glancing up into the crowd again.
I walk to the center of the ring, as I’ve done dozens of time. I listen while the ref gives us our instructions, as I’ve done dozens of time. But when it comes times to tap gloves with my competitor, I don’t move. I don’t touch them; I only stare at him. I asked for this fight. People will expect a show. Maybe this will be show enough for them.
I think of how I’m going to phrase what I’m about to say. Nothing eloquent or elaborate. I’ll say the only thing I need to say. And the person who needs to understand it will understand.
The ref eyes me, as does my opponent, when I motion toward the ceiling for the drop-down mic. There’s a hushed kind of chatter that spreads through the crowd. I try to ignore it, which is much easier this time. My focus is on one person, whether she’s here or not.