Chapter Nine (Sick. Love. [sic])

Tired. So Tired. 3:38 AM

Missy checked her phone, the light from the screen highlighting her sleepy face. Two hours since he'd sent that, and since she didn't feel the heat of him at her back she sent him a reply.

can't sing, but I'll tell you a story

She yawned, jaw cracking and rude just before he came in. She had that sleepy sort of sexy look after coming down from the stretch that had come with it, hair tousled around her shoulders and a flush of color on her skin. Those dark eyes of hers that he loved so much focused on him and he looked rough – still achingly sexy to Missy, but now after the things they'd said there was an ache in her chest to see him that wrung. She was torn for a moment between just holding her arms out to him or what she finally settled on, patting her lap as she urged him with a soft murmur. "Come here, Boss...lay your head in my lap and let me just..." Missy paused, biting her lip before releasing it slowly. "Just let me."

He moved like he'd overdone his workout (again) but she didn't comment on that as he kicked off his shoes and then barefoot padded over to the bed before joining her on it, his weight making the mattress dip slightly as he did what she asked. Her hand lifted, for a moment almost hesitant and she glared at fingers that shook just that tiny bit but that shaking vanished as soon as her fingertips touched his hair. It was such a nice sensation to run her fingers through the short length of it, nails barely brushing his scalp in a motion intended to soothe. Her voice was low, barely above a murmur as it was. "Ever wonder why I have 'sick' and 'love' tattooed on my hands?" Missy paused, there was a strange surreal feeling to this that made her wonder – Did I fall asleep waiting on him? Am I dreaming, or is this real?

He made a soft sound but said nothing, his eyes closing because the feel of her hands in his hair felt so good he couldn't have said anything if he'd tried.

"I took extra courses when I decided what I wanted to do. No half measures, you know how I get...and I was set to graduate early, before New Year's Eve instead of Spring like nearly everyone else. I didn't care so much for that, there were a few people I got along with fine but no one I really felt close to. Knew them enough to do shooters on game nights but not well enough that any of them knew what had happened to me." A smirk touched her lips. "I don't think any of them would ever thought that I was going into the military for one. I'm pretty sure the roommate I had thought I was an orphan. No family up to visit on 'big' days, and I stayed on campus for holidays." She sighed gently, fingers now tracing some random design as she stroked his hair. She hoped he liked it, but he certainly wasn't telling her to stop.

"Then I got my certificates, my little stupid pieces of paper that would let me legally work in my profession." There was a longer pause, and she finally started up again after staring off into space longer than she would have been comfortable knowing she had. "I realized I had no idea what I was supposed to do next. I was proud, you know – telling myself I was awesome. That I didn't have this urge to call my Dad and…" She trailed off again, moving just enough to press her lips to his temple, whispering something suspiciously like...this next part sucks. Her fingers worked to massage his scalp as she sat back up, her voice trying for soothing despite the catches that only Jackson might get.

"So my roommate, she caught me getting packed to leave and she was all chirping about this party I had to go to, who cared that I'd be hung-over the next day moving out. I was going to say no thanks, but she took me by the wrist and hell I let her. Sorta pissed at it now, but hey. Soon as I went through that door I had a dozen frat brats trying to hand me red Solo cups but don't worry, I wasn't that stumblefuck stupid, ever. I didn't want any roofies or to fuck some guy who'd barely been old enough that his balls actually dropped." A tiny hint of a smirk, then her eyes darkened. "No I had enough alcohol all on my own, did some dancing but never stuck with one person, telling myself I wasn't that drunk." Her voice got soft, far away. "Ever seen a thunderstorm where it was snow too? Not hail, or sleet ...snow, with thunder and lightning?" A sigh, and then she shook her head. "So I was super fucking drunk, it was getting near midnight and a bunch of us thought 'oh how cool let's get up on the roof and watch this shit'. Freezing fucking cold, windy, snow lit up with lightning."

Missy's hands stilled, and she shifted one to rest on Jackson's chest over his heart. "Somebody did a countdown, I remember that. I remember someone else playing music on their phone, and I remember pissing off a pretty big guy when I wouldn't kiss him at midnight. And I shouted at him, like he'd done something awful, told him I didn't need love and it was… anyway, super drunk. My roommate pulled me away, tried to get me in a better mood, snow all in her lashes – isn't it weird, I'd remember that?"

There was a long pause again, then her voice started up sounding hesitant. "Everyone else started leaving, you know… to go hook up, get higher, whatever. I stayed up, and I thought it was a great idea to start dancing. And before I knew it I was up on the ledge, getting whipped with that snow and wind, laughing and I didn't care that I could slip... until of course, I fucking slipped." Missy's heartbeat sped up, a shot of adrenaline making her pulse race and she closed her eyes. "Obviously I fell on the roof and not down to splat on the sidewalk. Scared the fucking hell out of me, I was almost stone cold sober by the time I could pull myself up off the roof and go back down the stairs. The next day, those words came to me. So I got them to remind myself. Because baby..." Her voice so low that he actually sat up to look at her, and she took his hands in hers and then crossed them at the wrists with hers on top... and now it read: Love Sick.

"I wanted what I didn't think I could have, and I knew how fucking hopeless that felt. I didn't… it wasn't on purpose but fucking still. I won't though, not ever even think about it." Her thumbs brushed over his gentle. "I actually have something to live for."



When I first sat down to write this, it was a few hours after I got back from Baltimore the last time, a few hours after I found out that the next name penciled in beside my own was yours, Pixie. See, I was all set to pour out another steaming cup of derision, spiced with vitriol but you flipped the tables. You, Alexandra Kelly, the current Ultraviolent Champion... you've got no reason to throw me a bone, even with the 3-0 I've got rolling right now. Undefeated is so goddamned passé these days, especially for a guy like me and this stop/start revolving door industry. Held two top belts this year. Hell the last one was twice, in Uncensored before it all went dark and the sketchy guy in charge vanished off the face of the earth. But that means I lost at least two big ones, right? At least. So you don't owe me anything, least of all this – you know that, right? I'd hate to think this is some sort of pity thing because you're too nice to give me the shit I probably deserve (insert Gallic shrug here).

I'm going to draw you a little picture, Pixie Lee. Honestly, have no idea why I keep typing that for your name, but that's what I keep calling you in my head and I'm sick of editing it out every time so fuck it. I remember the first time I saw you, and to be fair, I really wasn't paying a whole lot of attention the night I faced CJ. When WaR was announced, I saw two chicks booked in for the UV title and yeah, I rolled my eyes. Of course I did – not going to blow smoke up your skirt – and really, do you blame me? On paper, from a purely superficial and pretty fucking misogynistic standpoint, you don't really look the type. To be fair, I spent the first eight years or so of my career mucking around in the hardcore and garbage wrestling divisions of the companies I worked in. In 1997, I wrestled a drunk fucknut who botched the shit out of a snap suplex and tossed me off scaffolding. I went through the broadcast table and spent almost two years fighting to even regain 100% of my mobility, let alone get past the yips that hit the second I walked into a gym and saw those ropes slung around the ring. Yeah.

All tangents aside, when I saw two scrawny chicks were gonna be fighting over that belt, I was amused. Twenty seconds into that match, I wasn't laughing anymore. Ten minutes and I was glued to the monitor – edge of my seat shit. I guess what I'm trying to say is that I had you pegged as another candy floss poser.

I owe you a huge apology for that.

Funny how that goes, isn't it?

But I know you're not laughing at me. You're not rolling your eyes. You're not running your mouth, talking about broken addicts or horses fit for the glue factory or any of that other stupid bullshit. I appreciate that, I do.

And tonight, I wonder where you are. There's this broken brawler sitting in this shitty apartment above the gym he owns, blaring music that used to make him feel better and now just makes him feel fucking old. This guy's sitting in silence, typing this shit, trying to maintain some semblance of coherent angst while he's got the most unexpected angel in the universe rubbing his tense neck and shoulders, pretending she's not reading this. The angel's laughing and it's probably because that guy is sitting in his underwear, typing and deleting in some vain attempt to put himself across without coming off like an asshole.

This guy, picture him, Pixie Lee. He's feeling the ache in his wrists, feeling time breathing down his back. He's trying not to think about the grim reaper chasing him, even though that's reality (and a pretty damn hilarious photo op). He's trying to remind himself that another year of sobriety is about to roll over on the calendar soon because that's the best damn thing to keep the monkey from climbing up and digging those claws in again. The guy writing this is running hot tonight. Always seems to be these days and it's really that he's been too warm for too long and has no fucking clue of what it means to cool down. Running hot. Running angry and violent and afraid. He vainly tries to forget himself and all the things that have happened in his life but the scars are there every time he looks in the mirror. He owns them, he counts them before bed sometimes, keeping a tally. He stopped being outraged at how quickly life turned on him and left him broken and alone because you know what the fucked up part is? He always expected it in the back of his mind. At first it was incredible, every day felt like crawling out of that car wreck and staggering through the smoke past a small group of strange onlookers. Reliving the horror every night got old pretty goddamned fast – if the angel hadn't come along when she had, if Kyra hadn't tossed him a line when she did, he wouldn't be here. I know that.

I am that guy. I am the broken motherfucker in that room, the guy who knows that the end is near and I'm raging against the dying of that light with every motion while you climb the ladder as effortlessly as I used to. Sure, I'm envious. I am, because you're GOOD. One of these things is not like the other. I'm never gonna be good and I accepted that years ago.

Existence is defined by far more than hash marks on the walls – some kind of counting days in the hole when you're ticking off all the wins and losses.

You don't belong in this ring with me. Not out of some misplaced ego. You don't belong there because I don't. This is hell. I've been judged, and this is my punishment. Fighting for scraps like a dog, working in some backwater shithole out of Miami – wrestling in a tattoo parlor's parking lot, for fuck's sake. You know I used to headline places like Madison Square Garden?

Fuck.

You know what, though? I chose this. I washed out of Sin City when a seven-foot tall monster almost snapped me like a twig and I realized without the crutches, I can't walk that walk anymore. So this is my lot. Mine. You don't belong here, Pixie Lee.

You're better. I hope you realize that. Won't be personal.

--Jax.