Page 3 of Falcon

“Candy.” She uses her fingernail to trace an outline around the tattoo on my arm.

Of course, her name is Candy.

“Tell me, Candy, can your warm flesh and blood fix the fact I have to retire from the only career I’ve ever known because my body simply won’t cooperate anymore? Or will your warm flesh and blood change the fact I have no fucking idea what I’m going to do with my life when I’m told I absolutely cannot fight anymore? Or how about the fact I’m driving cross-country as we speak to go see my baby sister who has agreed to marry a cop I haven’t even met yet? Haven’t even sized him up or put the fear of God in him yet, and he thinks he’s going to marry Nora?” I tip my glass back against my lips and take a large gulp. “Nah. I need to scare him first. See if he’s man enough for her,” I mutter, almost to myself.

“Well, I…” She bites her plump lower lip, clearly unsure how to proceed since she is coming to terms with the fact I won’t be fucking her later.

“That’s what I thought. Now, I appreciate the fact you took it upon yourself to come to me, and make the first move, and while, yes, I wish taking you back to my room and fucking you six ways from Sunday would make me forget all of the bullshit circling in my head right now, it won’t. So, I’m not in the goddamn mood.”

“Jesus, forgive a girl for trying to make a man happy for the night.” She rolls her eyes and goes back to the other side of the bar with the other coeds.

I finish my drink and tap the glass on the bar twice. “Jesse…another round.”

I guess Who the Fuck Knows, Texas is my home for the night.

***

Whoever decided to put blackout curtains in this hotel room deserves a fucking award. My brain feels as if it’s trying to pound its way out of my skull so painfully that I’m seeing spots before my eyes.

I push myself to sit up, trying in vain to ignore the high-pitched ringing in my ears. I tilt my head back and forth to stretch out my neck. I didn’t have that much to drink last night, so I know this isn’t alcohol induced. At least that is what I tell myself, because I’m not ready to acknowledge what else could be causing this, but if nearly a year of this tells me anything, it’s nothing a hot shower and some ibuprofen can’t fix.

Two hours later, the haze of the migraine weighs heavily on my head when I straddle my bike to get back on the road. It’s lessening, but it’s still present.

Just another two days, and I’ll be gracing Savannah, Georgia with my presence.

I haven’t seen my sister since she left and went back to Savannah last year to be with her best friend and her new boyfriend…well…fiancé now, I guess.

To say I miss her is an understatement. I’m not used to her being gone when I come home from a fight on the road. This is the longest we’ve ever gone without seeing one another.

By placing my foot on the kick-starter and thrusting downward, the motorcycle roars to life and I peel out of the parking lot of the hotel and keep making my trek east.

I’m not even on the road for half an hour when I feel my cell phone vibrating in my pocket. I don’t even have to look to know who, it’s Joe, my manager.

He’s called nonstop, every single day since I left his office a few days ago, after he told me the trainers and doctors are saying I’ve taken one too many shots to the body and head, and it’s time to start prepping for retirement.

Fuck that. I’m not stopping. Not yet.

I walked out of his office, packed a single bag, and hit the road.

To escape. To think. To process.

I’ll answer his call eventually. Just not yet. I’m not ready. When my insides stop churning and my mind is clear; then I’ll answer.

Mississippi passes in a blur. Alabama just the same.

Before I even realize it, I’m passing by the “Welcome to Georgia” sign.

I’ve only stopped to take a leak, to grab food, and to sleep. I’ve kept focused on the goal. Getting to the coast.

The farther I get from California, the better I feel.

Almost as if there is a weight on my chest and with every mile I move east, the weight drops a pound.

Faith

“I’m fine, Mom. I promise.” I cradle my cell between my shoulder and my ear as I stir the pasta I’m making.

“You say that all the time, but I’m your mother. I worry. It’s my job to worry.”

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