Page 13 of Dismantle & Prevail
Tears cascade down my face and I make no point to hide them as I cradle my wrist against my chest.
My head falls against the bag, my entire body falling into the hunk of leather.
I feel useless. I feel unworthy of the second chance at life that Aries gave me. He brought me here with a skill set and now I’m sidelined, unable to do the one thing I’m good at.
Why couldn’t he have just trusted me an ounce more to go with him? If he had, I can sure as hell say that I wouldn’t have let them take him. Or at least gone down without sending a distress signal.
Why am I so damn worried about a man that I know is always more annoyed than happy to see me? Why am I breaking down over a man who constantly looks down on me?
Because you care and he saved your life.
Tears fall at the rate of a flash flood, threatening to wash away the concrete walls that I’ve been enforcing for years on end. I try to stop them and focus on the throbbing in my hand, but it’s useless because every time I take my head off the bag, I see the word, survivor, tattooed in script on my forearm. I got the tattoo on my first week at the compound. It was the first of an addiction that now covers my entire body. Despite Ari’s constant judgmental eye, he would always find me in the middle of a session and find something to discuss with me as a tactic of distraction.
I will never forget his words the day he saw me walking out of Zoro, the Clubhouse’s tattoo artist's office, and saw the tiny script on my arm. We hadn’t spoken much, as he was still furious with me. I expected him to ignore me or make a passive-aggressive comment, but he didn’t. He looked at me with those dark chocolate eyes and said,“You are far more than a survivor, Taylor. And if you need a tattoo to remind yourself of that, you might as well get Warrior and Savior too, because that’s what you did for all those girls.”
His words play over and over in my head as if he were here.
“Damn you, Aries!”
My words sound as if I am underwater and I curse myself for letting my emotions get the best of me.
Get it together, Taylor!
“Blaming someone that isn’t here? That’s a new one.”
My head snaps up at the unexpected voice, and I see Tucker and Reagan standing in the doorway.
Tucker is shirtless, of course, and Reagan is in scrubs. Her purple and black hair falling down her shirt in twin braids.
They both move at the same time as I drop to the mat, Reagan’s hands immediately moving to my wrist. “Dammit Tay. Where are your guards? And why is your glove soaking wet?”
I shrug and try my hardest to get my shit together. I’ve come a long way in two years and it’s thanks to the hard work of my therapist, but I still struggle with letting people see me at my lowest moments.
“Tuck. Help me out. This is going to hurt like hell and knowing her, her reflex will be to deck me with her good hand.”
“You got it. Don’t let Tay get you with her left hook,” Tuck says, carefully taking the glove off my non injured hand before grasping it in his.
My teeth grit and I try to not scream in pain as Reagan removes the glove.
Fuck. Why did I let my emotions get the best of me?
“Tay. I told you, if you were going to blast music to shut the door, Indy is on night—”
Boone’s words fall flat as he steps into the doorway and sees the scene in front of him. In one fluid motion, he signals the music to stop and walks over to us.
“What did you do?”
“It’s nothing.”
He doesn’t bother asking me again. Instead, he turns to Tucker. “Tuck. What did she do?”
“What makes you think I’ll rat out my best friend to someone who kicked me out of his office yesterday for asking a simple question?”
Boone’s eyes narrow at Tucker. Anyone else would fold under his gaze, but not Tucker. As if Boone knows, he turns his attention to Reagan.
“She won’t tell me. Her glove was wet, and she wasn’t wearing her guards, so putting two and two together, her glove slipped and her wrist met the bag.” Her attention turns to me for confirmation.
I know damn well I’m going to get questioned a million times over, so I sigh and say, “I didn’t notice my punch was off because I was going so fast. The pain didn’t register until the second hit, which was my fucked up wrist hitting the bag instead of my fist.”
