008: Riding the Storm Out [UNLEASHED]

Max Ironside was supposed to be on a flight to Tennessee for a match on Friday for Defiant Wrestling. The original booking had given him a layover in New York. That's where he'd gotten the idea. He could just drive here. He could fly from LaGuardia and save a few dollars. From there he was off to Las Vegas to take part in a hardcore tournament sponsored by a company named Fucking Awesome Wrestling. Right now, neither held much appeal. The fact that the fight overseas had been pushed back a week should have given him a small sense of relief. At least he had time to recuperate. Time was something he had far too much of these days. Too much time on his hands was what had been pulling him down into the dark.

Trixie's words kept echoing in his ears, the irony of how effortlessly she'd pegged his current state of mind making him want to laugh hysterically until he couldn't make a sound ever again. Somehow that worthless, glorified whore had managed to hit the nail on the head and even though she'd been bragging about her own in-ring prowess, the words resonated. Rankled, too, if he was being honest.

Everyone can only take so many kicks before they fall down and stay down.

He knew a few who'd had STAY DOWN tattooed on their knuckles – in Cleveland, Chicago, it had been a sort of mantra in reverse. Say it to your opponent. Get in their head. Give them the best sort of ultimatum: stay down or the punishment gets more severe. He'd always seen it as another thing to overcome. Now it was another straw added to the pile. The camel's back had never been meant to take the weight and he was so damned sick of getting back up.

Facing Trixie held no appeal – another match against a worthless waste of skin that felt like a retread of every garbage opponent he'd ever had in his less-than-stellar career. Instead he was sitting behind the wheel of the Kia Forte he'd bought last month. The blue glow of the radio's display kept winking off the oiled steel as he kept absently spinning the cylinder of the old Colt pistol. A single bullet sat on the dash in that little divot where tollbooth change was meant to be. This wasn't new. The depression was the same. The numbness was the same. The pain, ever a constant. The anger, however, was new. Utterly self-directed. He sat there, staring down at the cold steel, thinking about all that had come and gone in his life recently.

"Fuck her." He ground out the words, taking off his glasses because they were fogging up from the heat of his skin – he was dripping sweat despite the air conditioning, even though the temperature showed it was at 19 degrees Celsius. The damned car was stuck on metric and he couldn't get it to change back. He dropped them on the passenger seat.

This brilliant idea hadn't panned out. None of them had. He'd tried, though. He'd tried so hard to get Kasey to talk to him, to undo the damage he'd done with his idiotic declaration of love. He'd gone to Toronto, watched her compete for Empire even though he should have known better. Curt had taught him years ago that the only loyalty, the only love you could really count on in the wrestling business was family – because they have no choice. His right hand ached, index finger rigid and pointing while he forced the rest to give the cylinder another spin like he was a wild west gunslinger. He'd bought the thing at a pawn shop in North Dakota. It was considered an antique – no paperwork then. He'd completely forgotten about it until his old car had broken down and he'd found it buried under a pile of trash in the glove box. Finding it now felt right – serendipitous, really. Eventually, he'd put the bullet in the chamber. He'd push it up into that hollow under his chin. He'd pull the trigger. Maybe tonight, on this deserted street outside of the tattoo parlour that was very obviously closed, he wouldn't be punished with that taunting and wholly insincere CLICK – please play again.

The windows were dark. There was a gate across the door that looked like it had been there for a century or more, rust flaking off on his hand when he touched it. Florence Fallon was nowhere to be found. Another missed connection. He didn't know where she'd gone. She'd all but vanished from social media. The texts he sent never seemed to be viewed, let alone replied to. It had been stormy for weeks and his thunder buddy was nowhere to be found.

He could smell himself, that stale gymnasium reek of sweat and day-old clothes. His face glistened in the wash of oncoming headlights, covered in a greasy sheen of sweat as he met his eyes in the rear-view. His shirt was damp, clinging to his chest but he set the pistol next to his glasses, lifting it to wipe his face.

Should've stayed in Ohio, that voice in the back of his head whispered. Put in more work. There's that title that they said anybody can challenge for. Any. Body. You could have gold. You could be the next best thing to Aidan Carlisle. They'd respect you then. Anybody can challenge for it.

"Not me," he grunted, shifting position as he raked his good hand through his thinning hair. His blue eyes flashed as he looked up, pain reflected in their bloodshot depths as he peered into the gloom – did you hear that? He held his breath. He waited. A car drove by in the other lane again, not even slowing down. He pulled off the shirt, mopping his face and hair with it before tossing it into the backseat. A sardonic smirk curved his lips as he picked up the gun again, turning it over in his hands. He reached for the bullet, his eyes closing for a moment as he dragged in a deep breath, holding it. Without looking, he was about to push it home when there was a sharp rap on the window. His eyes flew open, startled, the bullet falling to the floor and rolling under the seat.

He'd expected a cop, some authority figure – someone accusing him of loitering even though he was legally parked behind the wheel of his car. Instead he found himself looking into a familiar pair of eyes – this time of night they were devoid of the flawless cat's eye makeup she usually wore. They were softer somehow, holding a measure of kindness that was usually absent. "Fl-"

She tapped on the glass again, a little more impatiently this time, reminding him of that barrier. She had stayed away, not because she wanted to but because she'd needed to fix herself. A gut feeling had brought her out for this walk tonight – an urge she couldn't really explain. She'd never really believed in fate or things like that but now she wasn't so sure. "Why are you here?" Although the scene was cruel, her voice was soft, holding no judgement. "What are you doing to yourself, Max?"

So many excuses were there on the tip of his tongue, that guilty kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar. In his household, that was where his junkie mother had stashed her drug money - he would have been killed for even daring to touch that. "I was..." how much had she seen?

He swallowed hard again, looking up at Florence, blinking, not even realizing at first that he was still holding the gun. "I was looking for you. I thought maybe I'd catch you before...." the words came spilling out, "but then you weren't here. The lights were all off and I thought maybe you'd gone back to India...."

She reached in through the window, taking the gun without any comment. Her heart was racing madly, but she didn't show it. She dropped it, kicking it under the car before stepping closer. Opening the door, she leaned in and wrapped her arms around him tightly. "You should have called me. You know I would have come without thinking, without asking." Florence kissed the side of his head, still holding him as tightly as she could. "A gun," now she made a sound of disappointment, "what made you go so far?"

He didn't tell her that it wasn't new. He couldn't bring himself to admit that.

"Max," her voice was softer, "I'm listening. I'm here. Tell me what you came all this way to say?"

"Are you kidding?" He laughed, the sound bitter, "I've got no delusions about who I am... what I am. What's the point in all this? What am I doing here?" He sounded exhausted as he leaned against her, smelling her perfume. "It's easier. She called me pathetic. Said she hated me... wasted time on me. I can't..." he lifted his good hand, rubbing at his face, trying to hide the tears that were filling his eyes.

"Sweetie, you of all people should know I'm no stranger to this pain. He chose his career over me. He was my first... for everything." She swallowed hard, "yes, it hurts. It tears you apart but the truth is, they aren't worth our time. We can do better than that and the end of the world is far, far away." She covered his bad hand with her own, causing him to look up. Flo rubbed it softly, easing the tension from his fingers.

Was she clinging to him or was he to her? He wasn't sure anymore.

"I'm sick of climbing the mountain over and over and over only to get kicked back down to the bottom. I'm sick of human garbage cans like Trixie and Coral Rose picking me apart, as if they understand the first thing about me. I'm..." he bit his lip, realizing that Florence had never seen this side of him before. Usually he was intense – sarcastic, of course – never this strangely introspective. He always had that wry smile, that self-deprecating humor to put others at ease. "Don't get me wrong. I love wrestling. I love the travel. I love working myself to the point of exhaustion. I just..." he looked down her hand on his. "God, I'm so fucking lonely."

He didn't even have to say it. She could see it, feel it in the way he devoted every moment to training as if his life held no other meaning. She knew that intimately since her life had become the same sort of automated routine, day in and day out. She looked at him a little longer. "I know. God, I knew it when we first met. But you didn't seem to wanna talk about it. Max," his eyes skittered away from hers. Once more she forced him to look at her. "Let's move together."

"What..." he stared at her like she was speaking a foreign language. "Together?" Max blinked, knowing he must have misheard her, focusing in on what she said before that. "You don't talk about your problems." He exhaled sharply, looking past her at the empty street and the closed shop behind her. "Well I don't. I don't want pity. I don't want anyone to look at me like that, Flossy..." he rarely called her that, the pet name never really having gained any sort of traction because it felt forced. Now it just came rolling off the tip of his tongue. "This won't last forever. Glory fades," his voice came out soft, "and when it all goes to shit, I want to have someone there to build a life with. I want..." he sighed, "no. I need someone so when the success, when the glory's nothing more than a fading echo, I'll have something to fill my days with."

"Do you think I offer this lightly? I don't wanna be alone anymore. I don't know where all of this might go, but I am set on having a chance at life." She poked his ribs softly. "I mean what speaks against it? We are tight, we are there for each other. So why not move our shit together? Then it gets easier. We can be lonely together." She gave him a soft smile.

"I think..." Max hesitated for a fraction of a second, wondering if he'd actually pulled the trigger and if this was all some random firing of neurons in some bizarre death rattle. "You need to pinch me. Is this really happening?" He blinked through tears, resting his forehead against her shoulder. He'd come here looking for answers, hoping that she would pull him back from the edge.

She poked his stomach again. Playfully. "Good enough? This is no joke, Max. I've got a huge apartment above my studio," she cocked her head at the building across the street, the one he'd been so convinced was completely deserted. "I have the space. I want you to move in." Once more she kissed his head, rubbing his cheek. "Unless you've got a better offer."

"I..." his voice caught, close to the verge of breaking down completely. He'd been so close to ending it all, to letting his head slip under the water without a fight. He'd obviously been drawn here for the same reason she'd been tonight. "I don't. I will. I mean, I'd like to." He let her pull him from the car, waiting while she took the keys from the cup holder and picked up his glasses from the seat, handing them to him. He settled them over his eyes, a watery smile on his face as he met Florence's gaze, pulling her into a hug in the middle of the road. "Thank you. I don't know what I would have done if you weren't."

"But I was," she said softly, "thunder buddies for life, remember? Look," she tilted her head back, pointing up at the break in the clouds where stars shone through. "Now that we have found each other again, the storm is moving on now to trouble someone else."

He wanted so badly to believe that any port in a storm would do.