Shane is looking at me with eyes full of misery. It's a should-I-tell-her-or-should-I-not look, and I hate it. Brain is dying to know what else he heard, but Heart wants to punch the idea in the throat. What on earth is wrong with me? The last gossip I heard about Ty from Shane strained our relationship. Why would I put myself through that again?
He was wrong the first time, Heart yells at me, stomping its foot.
Yeah, dumbass, Brain retorts, but Ty has a secret, and Shane's accusation had a seed of truth.
I feel the bile climbing up my throat. Beads of cold sweat are running down my spine.
"Help me out here, B. I don't want to screw things up for you, but I don't want to keep you in the dark either. The only guy I do know that knows Ty well—Josh—has been saying some pretty serious stuff about him that I thought you should know."
I exhale sharply, shaking my head no. I'll be betraying Ty if I'll ask Shane for this information.
But Ty has been keeping me in the dark for weeks now, and I don't know what to think anymore.
Screw this. I need the truth.
"Just say it, dude." I throw my head back in defeat, rubbing my eyes with my fists.
“He’s a male prostitute. And I don’t mean it in a screw-around-for-fun way. He is bribing the assistant to the XWL chairman, Ray Holloway, by giving sex services to women who pay a lot of dough for him. They split the charge, fifty/fifty, but what he really gets from it, according to my source...is great fights. They hook him up with the toughest guys in his division. That's why he managed to climb up to where he is in only four years.”
I turn to the planter behind me and throw up in the middle of the bushes. Shane jumps from where he stands to avoid the stream of vomit, and I rest my hands on my legs to support myself from falling. My head is spinning and my arms are shaking. I look at everything I’ve eaten in the last sixteen hours. Mac ’n cheese. Veggie soup. Diet Coke. They all float underneath my chucks. Shane flattens his palm on my back, his other hand running through his hair.
“Fuck, sorry, B,” he whispers.
I raise my head slowly, smiling weakly through my bloodshot eyes and the rancid taste of bile. “Not your fault. Are you sure this is legit?"
But I know it's legit. The writing was on the wall.
Is that why Ty flinched when my grandmother taunted him about STDs? Because goddammit, he slept with me. We used protection, but yeah, I don't want to take a chance. It all adds up.
This is the dark secret he told me about.
The dark secret Dawson was talking about.
Stupid. I'm just stupid, stupid, stupid.
***
The journey back to the room is the worst. I don’t want to be with Shane, so I'm more than happy to leave him to make a phone call outside the hotel, but I don’t want to be by myself either. I hate to be alone with all the thoughts swirling in my head. People pass me by, drinking, laughing and talking.
“Hey gorgeous, you dropped your smile, want me to pick it up for ya’?” A guy winks as he walks past me. My head is spinning and I feel faint.
Ty’s known for fighting dirty. He always pushes people’s buttons, and he can be an arrogant prick. But a male prostitute? That’s difficult to swallow.
I drag myself to my room and find Izzy still in her lingerie, sitting in front of the mirror, staring at herself thoughtfully.
When she spots me, her mouth opens in shock. “Holy hell, Blaire. You look like you went down on that giant from Harry Potter. What happened to you?”
After an emergency sisterly meeting, Izzy and I decide to give Ty a chance to explain himself. Izzy gives me the brief about how rumors can sometimes be just that—rumors. She knows it first hand, since her name has been linked in the tabloids to half the males on the planet.
I fight my instincts, which tell me that every word that came out of Shane’s mouth this time was true, and call Ty a few times, but he doesn’t pick up. I pace the room, taking big gulps of the water Izzy has handed me.
“He’s probably training at The Heat,” I venture.
“Honey, this is Las Vegas, he won’t be training in the cold.” Izzy gives me a concerned look.
I roll my eyes. “The Heat is an MMA gym. His training camp in Vegas is there. He'll be there all day.”
“So go see him.”
I stop dead, mid-pace. Am I capable of crashing his training camp? I’ve never showed up anywhere uninvited. Hell, I’ve never even had the courage to come as someone’s plus one. That’s how socially insecure I am. And the place is going to be packed with fans, fighters and trainers. I planned on surprising Ty, yes, after the fight. When he is not on edge. When he is ready for a distraction. Crashing his training camp the evening before his fight, however, is the mother of all distractions.
Izzy levels her gaze on me, clasps both my shoulders and instructs, “Listen to me, sissy. We’re going to The Heat. You’ll talk to him, confront him, and drag your ass to Nana Marty and Simon’s wedding without this shitty cloud over your cute head. Got it?”
Whether I get it or not, by the time I scrape up the energy to protest, I’m already inside a rental car, sitting next to Izzy, who thankfully dressed for the occasion in more than a piece of silk to hide her ass crack. I’m going to chase the truth on the streets of Las Vegas.
I have to admit, this is one hell of a surprise that I've set up for Ty. Not the one I wanted to pull, but surprising nonetheless. Have I already mentioned that I hate surprises?
Chapter Thirteen
There’s a saying that when you’re dead, you don’t know that you’re dead.
It’s the same way when you’re acting stupid.
Right now, I feel both dead and stupid.
Dead, because the idea that my relationship with Ty may be a major mistake makes me feel cold all over. Stupid because my gut tells me that I’m in for a terrible surprise, and my gut is never wrong.
Izzy is babbling to distract me so I don’t overthink. My sister, despite disguising her own problems with superficiality, is actually one of the most compassionate human beings I’ve ever met. She doesn’t want me to think about Ty when I’m sad. She’ll never kick me when I’m down.
“I was like, I can’t believe I’m eating carbs after six! But Blaire, you had to see the catering in that place…”
I watch her talking with her dramatic hand gestures. She has tons of rings and bracelets on both hands and she mimics other voices as she tells a story about Singapore.
I mumble responses at her on auto-pilot as we slide into the huge parking lot of The Heat. The lot is at the side of the peeling yellow-stucco building and is packed with cars. Why, I don’t know. The gym is as depressing as being cornered by your oversharing aunt at an open-bar wedding. Decaying walls, half-torn fences and garbage baking in open dumpsters.
Nothing good is going to come out of a place like this.
Izzy has stopped talking, and she now has my hand in hers. I didn’t even feel her taking it, but I’m grateful for the human touch. If it’s true and Ty really is a male prostitute, whatever reason he may have (I know he isn't driven by money, but he is one hundred percent addicted to his job), I will need a lot more than a hand to get me through this.
I dread the idea of walking into what fate has in store for me, but I'm also eager to step out of the dark.
I squeeze Izzy's hand with a grateful nod and slide out of the car, weaving through the parking lot to find the nearest entrance. I decide to try the back, hoping to sneak in, unnoticed until I gather my nerve. I suddenly feel like I’m spying on Ty, which, of course, is totally untrue, because spying is mysterious and sexy, and I’m sweating my pants off here. I’m guessing throwing up my guts earlier today didn’t actually send me on a brisk walk down Hotsville either.
As I get ready to turn the corner to the rear of the gym, I look over my shoulder and see Izzy sitting in the idling car, AC on full blast no doubt, as she messes with her phone. She’s my getaway ride if things go south. I’m completely sha
ken by the prospect things will go south.
I hurry toward the entrance, constantly glancing sideways to see if Ty is among the fighters practicing in the venue. Then I spot his Jeep. His unmistakable ride. Even though I knew he was here, my heart beats wildly in my chest. My eyes are trained on his vehicle when I take more and more steps toward the door. Then I hear someone pushing the door open and a dark, muscular man steps out, laughing and sucking on a protein shaker.
Jesse.
I crouch down immediately, surprised by my own instincts, and crawl underneath Ty's Hummer. Thankfully, it is huge. Wait, thankfully? Why am I even hiding? Ty is the one who has some explaining to do, yet I'm the one tucked underneath his car.
Shane is right, I'm way different whenever Ty is around.
“Shit, man, Doherty’s going down!” I hear Jesse’s hearty laugh. Then I hear Ty's throaty chuckle. He is out here, too. They both sound so close to me, too close to me.
I try to breathe as silently as I can. Shhhhh, Blaire. Oxygen is overrated.
“Let’s see these bad boys in action.” Jesse is jumping up and down beside the Hummer, like he is warming up.
I shrink lower and peer under the car, praying they'd walk away.
“Guy’s as good as dead,” Ty says, laughing.
God, I've missed his laugh.
They seem in good spirit, and I find myself easing a little. He didn’t answer my calls because he was practicing. There are no girls here. No funny business. Just work.
“I saw him with his trainer earlier,” Jesse says. “He looks jittery, unfocused. You’ve got this, bro.”
My heart is beating like a motherfucker. It’s not like I can’t just stand up now and yell surprise!
Damn. I can’t get caught. Eavesdropping is a complete breach of faith, and although slashing my best friend’s tires and keying his Mustang doesn’t precisely scream boyfriend material, I know Ty has more style than to hide and listen to my conversations. I have no way to explain this situation. And I already demonstrated a healthy dose of nuttiness in front of Ty without adding stalker to my list of personality faults.
I hear a car squeal into the parking lot. It’s obviously being driven by someone with a ballistic missile shoved up their ass. A stray cat shoots in my direction before the car—Mercedes actually, I now see—screeches to a stop in front of the Hummer.
“What the fuck, man,” I hear Ty say. “He almost flattened that cat.”’
If the driver was driving like a human being, and not like a NASCAR driver on steroids, Ty might have spotted me, but the distraction gives me time to dart from the Hummer to behind the truck in the next parking space.
I crouch down behind the huge tires of the jacked-up Ram truck. For once, reckless driving is not a liability.
NASCAR Wannabe’s car door slams. I peer under the Hummer and see a pair of shiny snakeskin boots. “Gentlemen! Good to see you, Ty. I wanted to talk to you.”
By the guy’s voice, I’m guessing he’s at least in his forties. He’s got a slight Southern drawl. I peek between the truck and the Hummer and see him hitching up his pants, walking toward Ty, his legs spread, like his balls are made of titanium.
I don’t recognize him, yet I find myself disliking him immediately.
"Cut to the chase, Ray. I'm busy." Ty steps into his face.
"A little birdie told me you're a little hard up for cash with all the money you've spent getting yourself ready to fight. I figured you might appreciate a side gig, maybe a little encore for old time's sake. Dina's in town, you know."
Ty, who usually reeks of blasé, Ty, who would probably roll his eyes in boredom at the announcement of the zombie apocalypse is letting out an exasperated growl.
Ray shuffles back to Jesse and flicks something. I smell the stink of a cigar.
"Seriously, Ray?” Ty barks, tone annoyed. “I told you I was done. It's been months. Stop bringing this shit up now,"
“Jesse, how about you give us a minute,” Ray says. “Run along now. Shoo.”
I’m expecting to hear Jesse’s fist hitting bone. I’m stunned when I realize he’s just walked away.
"So Ty, what’d you say?” Ray says. “One last gig, plenty of cash. Dina's always been your biggest fan."
My blood freezes in my veins. Please, don't tell me it's true.
"Ray, man, you're just not getting it, are you?” Ty sounds frustrated. “I'm done. I was done six months ago. I won't get back into this, ever. For any money, anytime, anywhere. I hated every second of it. I did it because I had to. I had to because I was getting shit fights and couldn't afford the freaking gym membership when I first started."
Oh, damn. This went on for a while, then. Ty started fighting for XWL four years ago.
"Last fight was the last time, and that’s final,” Ty spits. “Tell Dina I'm sorry...you know what? Don't. Don't apologize. Paying for sex is sick, whether it's a man or a woman."
I want to hug him so bad right now. I press my palms against the hot asphalt to resist the urge. Ty’s doing the right thing, and there isn’t a trace of doubt in his voice.
And yet, I know that he's ruined for me. Shane was right. He is not a bad boy...he is just bad. For me.
“I pulled a lot of favors to make you happen,” Ray says. “You can’t just brush me off with a no thank you."
"Watch me." Ty’s takes a few steps toward the gym.
“Don’t walk away from me.” Ray slams a fist on the hood of the Hummer. "Goddammit, what makes you think you're better than you were six months ago? You're not. Same guy, same thing. You've slept with hundreds of women but you can't even do this one favor for me?"
"I was young and fucking stupid. I'm older now and would like to think of myself as slightly less of an idiot. I’m done. Sorry, Ray, I'm forever out."
And that's it. Ty’s feet disappear, and a minute later I hear the back door of the gym slam. I shut my eyes, waiting until Ray's engine roars. Once he finally drives away, I stand and fish my phone out of my pocket.
Should I call him?
Should I confront him?
Should I spare myself the drama and just slink away to wallow in my pain? Because there's seriously no way I'll ever get over this in this lifetime.
I smash my phone against his Hummer and watch as the hardware flies to all directions. Much like my soul, there’s nothing left of the phone.
Now he can't contact me either.
Shit, I realize that his favorite song—the freaking ringtone I put him under on my phone—was a song called “My Soul is Empty and Full of White Girls.” The writing wasn't only on the wall, it was on a giant billboard in Times Square.
God, this hurts.
Izzy doesn’t ask me how it went. She takes one look at me and gets the full picture. My face tripled its size in a matter of minutes. I’m not just crying, I’m shooting fluids from every hole in my face. My eyes are streaming tears, my nose is leaking gooey snot, and my mouth is dripping drool. This is the ugliest of the ugly-crying faces known to mankind.
“What a prick,” Izzy declares, not even knowing what he’s done. She reaches for her bag in the backseat and hands me some tissue.
I blow my nose loudly and pat my damp eyes with the same wet tissue. "Take me back to the hotel, please.”
My sister is driving as fast as Ray, weaving through traffic with no thoughts of caution. She is not asking any questions, though, which I’m grateful for. When we pass a giant accident, with two very smashed cars and three ambulances lining on the shoulder of the road, she shoves more tissues at me and says, “And you thought you were having a bad day, huh?”
As weird as it sounds, she is right. I’ve just found out my boyfriend was a man-whore for a few years and that he has only recently stopped after screwing hundreds of girls. Brain reminds me I’m still alive. Still in one piece. It’s Heart that’s in pain.
We get back to the hotel and Izzy throws the rental car keys to the valet. I unfasten my seatbelt as she opens the door for me and offers he
r hand.
“Come on, sissy. Let’s get minibar-drunk and hate on Ty in detail.”
I let her swoop me out of the car, nuzzling into her hair so no one will see just how messed up my face is. I hear Izzy’s cell pinging with a text, followed by another one.
Then another. Now it rings—and we’re not even halfway to the foyer. Izzy stops to inspect the number flashing on her screen with a frown.
“Should I answer?”
“Don’t answer any unknown numbers until we leave Vegas,” I plead quietly.
“Bitch, I’m a supermodel. I don’t do unknown numbers, in or outside of Vegas.”
I force my lips into a smile and let my twin usher me to the elevators.
“Nana Marty, brace yourself. The Stern sisters are coming to your wedding.” She presses her lips into my ear, her arm hooked around my shoulders. “And we’re going to be oh so drunk.”
***
Dearly beloved, we’re gathered here today to pay our final tribute of respect to my deceased Heart. Heart started off as a casual dude not ready for commitment. It was often bullied by Hormones and pushed aside by Brain. But once Ty took over it, I knew we were both fucked.
A flashback of Ty standing in the empty XWL classroom, telling me he’s not going to hit me, but still going to hurt me, gives me goose bumps.
I drain another plastic cup of whatever-the-heck alcohol Izzy has placed in my hand. Nana Marty is getting married tomorrow evening, and I’m getting shitfaced in my hotel room, crying uncontrollably like I just found out my family died in a grotesque plane crash.
Izzy tries to lift my spirits by playing wedding dress-up. She puts me into a vintage Valentino peacock-green dress, with a sweetheart neckline top and matching, emerald heels, and arranges my hair in a French twist. I should feel like Beyonce, but instead, I feel like St. Paddy’s Day.
“How many messages and missed calls?” I sniff afterward, lying on the king-size bed in my Valentino and clutching my empty Solo cup, teary-eyed. Ty is wondering what the hell is up, and he's been calling Izzy pretty much nonstop since he realized my phone is dead. Though seeing as I smashed it against his precious car, I'm guessing he already knows I'm here, and that I am clearly ten shades of pissed off with him.