leaked out of my eyes when Kip Moore’s ‘Hey Pretty Girl’ came on and Cane murmured all the words in my ear as we danced. How on earth did I get so lucky? My feet hurt so much, and Cane and I kissed until our lips were numb under all the glitter and lights. I couldn’t have asked for a better night.
“God, Mags, you’re gorgeous,” he growled as we headed to the hotel room he booked for us. Aster and Jim were meeting us there for our own private after-party.
“You’re not so bad yourself, Mr. Ash,” I giggled. He rested one hand on my thigh and brushed his thumb back and forth. It drove me insane with want. Cane didn’t know but tonight I had plans of my own. I fully intended on giving myself to him. It might seem a cliché but to me, it would be the perfect ending to a perfect, romantic night. “I can’t wait to get out of these shoes,” I grumbled as he pulled into the hotel parking lot.
I woke up from my nap in the worst mood and with tears streaming down my face. Prom. Jesus, I’d had the night of my life, well up until I’d passed out at the hotel. Not exactly how I’d planned it but still, I wouldn’t have traded the memory for anything. Unfortunately for me, dreaming sets me back a step. It hinders my ability to live a normal, or almost normal, life. Normal for me is hate, biding time, and training with a healthy dose of fear at what awaits me.
“Dip! Slip! Punch! Come on, Mags, get your head in the game!” Brock yells at me as I twist under and around the rope strung across the ring. I momentarily squeeze my eyes shut to try and refocus. It doesn't work. I have no past , I remind myself. My rhythm is off today. My head’s not in the game. I stop moving and pop up to the left of the rope.
“I’m done, B.” I wipe the sweat from my brow with my forearm and squeeze between the ropes before jumping down onto the floor. “I can't focus.”
“That’s not like you. You’re my warrior. What’s up?” He looks genuinely concerned. I shrug at him.
“Don’t know. Just off today, I guess,” I offer. He twirls the towel into a tight rope before whipping it at me. The crack of the towel snap and the sting of the whip make me smile. I deserve it, for one, but Brock doesn't know that. He just thinks I’m smiling because it’s all in good fun. He doesn't know I like feeling pain because it means I’m feeling something, anything, in the present. I need it to keep me grounded. I run my fingers slowly over the pink welt on my side and feel normal for a moment.
“I’ll be better tomorrow, B, I promise,” I toss over my shoulder as I head for the locker room.
“I wouldn't want you to lose your willpower,” he chuckles at me.
“That’s okay. I’m not very good at controlling it anyways,” I laugh.
I started boxing and mixed martial arts when running just wasn't cutting it for me anymore. I couldn't lose myself running anymore and I really needed to lose myself. Brock mentioned one night at work that he went to a boxer’s gym around the corner from work and that I could tag along sometime. He was hitting on me then. He wanted me to think he was big and bad and ripped while I watched him move around the ring. He wanted to impress me by showing me how to hit a bag or wrap a hand. The shock he wore on his face when I already knew all those things, when I showed I clearly knew my way around this kind of gym, was hilarious to me at the time. Needless to say, instead of becoming a couple we became friends, sort of, and now he’s my training partner. I never thought I’d set foot in a boxer’s gym again, but I also never thought I'd purposefully choose to call myself Mags either. Working out this way allows me to feel pain. I like it. I crave it. It helps keep the guilt at bay, and drinking does the rest. I want so desperately to escape him but my need to hold onto him is greater.
On my way home I swing into a nearby nursery to pick up some plants. The sun is shining, it’s warm out
“God, Mags, you’re gorgeous,” he growled as we headed to the hotel room he booked for us. Aster and Jim were meeting us there for our own private after-party.
“You’re not so bad yourself, Mr. Ash,” I giggled. He rested one hand on my thigh and brushed his thumb back and forth. It drove me insane with want. Cane didn’t know but tonight I had plans of my own. I fully intended on giving myself to him. It might seem a cliché but to me, it would be the perfect ending to a perfect, romantic night. “I can’t wait to get out of these shoes,” I grumbled as he pulled into the hotel parking lot.
I woke up from my nap in the worst mood and with tears streaming down my face. Prom. Jesus, I’d had the night of my life, well up until I’d passed out at the hotel. Not exactly how I’d planned it but still, I wouldn’t have traded the memory for anything. Unfortunately for me, dreaming sets me back a step. It hinders my ability to live a normal, or almost normal, life. Normal for me is hate, biding time, and training with a healthy dose of fear at what awaits me.
“Dip! Slip! Punch! Come on, Mags, get your head in the game!” Brock yells at me as I twist under and around the rope strung across the ring. I momentarily squeeze my eyes shut to try and refocus. It doesn't work. I have no past , I remind myself. My rhythm is off today. My head’s not in the game. I stop moving and pop up to the left of the rope.
“I’m done, B.” I wipe the sweat from my brow with my forearm and squeeze between the ropes before jumping down onto the floor. “I can't focus.”
“That’s not like you. You’re my warrior. What’s up?” He looks genuinely concerned. I shrug at him.
“Don’t know. Just off today, I guess,” I offer. He twirls the towel into a tight rope before whipping it at me. The crack of the towel snap and the sting of the whip make me smile. I deserve it, for one, but Brock doesn't know that. He just thinks I’m smiling because it’s all in good fun. He doesn't know I like feeling pain because it means I’m feeling something, anything, in the present. I need it to keep me grounded. I run my fingers slowly over the pink welt on my side and feel normal for a moment.
“I’ll be better tomorrow, B, I promise,” I toss over my shoulder as I head for the locker room.
“I wouldn't want you to lose your willpower,” he chuckles at me.
“That’s okay. I’m not very good at controlling it anyways,” I laugh.
I started boxing and mixed martial arts when running just wasn't cutting it for me anymore. I couldn't lose myself running anymore and I really needed to lose myself. Brock mentioned one night at work that he went to a boxer’s gym around the corner from work and that I could tag along sometime. He was hitting on me then. He wanted me to think he was big and bad and ripped while I watched him move around the ring. He wanted to impress me by showing me how to hit a bag or wrap a hand. The shock he wore on his face when I already knew all those things, when I showed I clearly knew my way around this kind of gym, was hilarious to me at the time. Needless to say, instead of becoming a couple we became friends, sort of, and now he’s my training partner. I never thought I’d set foot in a boxer’s gym again, but I also never thought I'd purposefully choose to call myself Mags either. Working out this way allows me to feel pain. I like it. I crave it. It helps keep the guilt at bay, and drinking does the rest. I want so desperately to escape him but my need to hold onto him is greater.
On my way home I swing into a nearby nursery to pick up some plants. The sun is shining, it’s warm out
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