Post by Deleted on Jul 23, 2017 19:31:22 GMT -5
Winnetka, Illinois
Tuesday
Tuesday
“Zahra recovers quickly, so don't expect her to go down after the first shot.” Madison's thoughts echoed in her head like her strikes on the heavy bag echoed from the walls of the otherwise empty gym. “She'll come back fast, make every shot count. Take it to her repeatedly. What she has in that quick comeback, she lacks in the long-term game.
“That's where you're stronger. She's lighter, doesn't have the same power behind her shots you do, and you've got the body mass to absorb what she can throw. You're just enough bigger to give you that, but not enough to slow you down; you're faster too. So strike like a fucking cobra; in and out before she knows what hit her.
“You've also got the conditioning to keep going longer than she can keep throwing. She'll want to end things quick, so don't let her. Drag the match out until she's gassed and struggling. Her ability to recover doesn't hold up against your endurance and stamina. Keep your mind on the plan, don't take your eyes off of her. She's smart, but you're patient and focused.”
The back of her tanktop had become its own abstract watercolor where rivulets of sweat, tinted with the purple and blue of her hair, had soaked into the fabric. “Don't worry about the briefcase. You'll get it back after you have the satisfaction of watching someone kick the shit out of Logan to take it from him. In the meantime... maybe you can give Trixie that kick in the face you should have given her to begin with.”
The the mismatched handwraps—coordinated with her hair, if not with each other—were a blue and purple blur in front of her. Her eyes were focused on the bag, or rather, the mental image of Zahra Phoenix in place of the bag. “Just remember; Zahra first, briefcase second. You've got the chance to make up for that first match and show everyone she isn't shit when she doesn't have someone to come to her rescue.”
“You're never gonna be everyone's hero. And I don't care.” Her strikes intensified. “So-Cal fans aren't going to think I'm the best thing since sliced bread after this, whatever. They're still gonna like watching me knock the vacant expression right off her face. They'll cheer because I'm kicking the shit out of her and they hate her, not because they love me.
“That's fine. I'm not doing it for them. I'm doing it for me. I hate her flat, overrated ass. I'm going to expose her for the D-List talent in B-List makeup she is. I'm going to show everyone what they already know inside; she's nothing by herself, only a whiny child trying to suck the tit of the spotlight of everyone around her. I'm gonna do it by tearing her apart piece by piece. She'll be my bitch on the other end of that strap, and she'd better count her fucking stars if I don't hang her with it at the end.”
Steadying the bag after one last, hard strike, she leaned her forehead against the cracking vinyl. The match at World War was hers for the taking, and she was going to put it in a fucking stranglehold.
“Yeah, wrestling school.” Madison could tell by her father's tone that he was still unsure about the whole thing. “But her boyfriend paid for it. Suppose I can't complain.”
She tried not to look in Bobby's direction, but she felt his eyes on her. “That was mighty generous of him. At least you know there's something there, Royce.”
“He's a good kid,” her father agreed. “Has a head for business. I might even like him.”
Once upon a time Maddie had almost liked the smell of cigars. The sweet scent of the rolled tobacco had always reminded her of her father. Now the acrid smoke only reminded her of Bobby, and she hated it. It wasn't so bad out on the patio where they all sat now. Bobby had been there when she arrived, and she couldn't turn around and leave without arousing suspicion.
“So, is she any good?”
Royce shrugged. “I don't know, I haven't watched.”
That was probably for the better, given her performance so far. It wasn't unlike gymnastics, the cello, or dancing, where she'd been disappointed she couldn't find her father in the audience, only to ultimately be relieved he didn't see when she performed poorly in a big recital or competition. That was past, prologue, she wasn't that naive anymore. Wrestling was different.
Taking the opportunity at a lull in conversation, Madison rose from her seat. “I'll be right back.”
Escaping into the house from the smoke and Bobby's skin-crawling presence was an immediate improvement. Though her father's large estate wasn't her childhood home, she'd been there often enough that she knew it like the back of her hand and wandered directly upstairs to the big bathroom on the second floor. It was no small relief that she hadn't put on much makeup that morning as she splashed the icy water over her face.
The relief, though, was short-lived when she heard the door latch behind her. She spun around and dropped the towel she had been using in the same motion. She wasn't surprised, not really, to see Bobby standing there. “Following me into the bathroom is creeper territory, Bobby,” she declared with more confidence than she felt.
“We needed to have a little talk,” he shrugged, showing off all the ways his suit jacket wasn't properly tailored.
Madison shook her head, but it felt empty. “No, we don't. There's nothing to talk about. We're done.” Striding forward, she tried to shove past him to the door.
“We're done,” he snarled as his fingers closed unexpectedly on her throat, “when I say we're done.” He was stronger than he looked. There was more beneath that ill-fitted jacket and age-softened exterior than met the eye.
“I've paid you back!” she gasped past his grip, trying to pry his hand away. “Every bit of it, and you know it!” She'd kept a ledger, buried under the boring panties in her drawer where Brax would never look, and it was impeccable.
Bobby laughed, and for a second she stopped clawing at his fingers. “This is business, Maddie, and I know you know what interest is.”
She could physically feel herself go pale. “...Interest...”
“It was a loan,” he said slowly, like he was explaining to a child. “Every loan comes with interest. I know your daddy taught you that.”
“Then give me a number,” she squeaked. “Tell me and I'll give it to you.”
Each condescending click of his tongue was infuriating. “Don't worry about numbers,” he chided. “Royce always said you weren't any good at them anyway. Worry about wrestling, and worry about getting your pretty little ass where I tell you when I say I have a fucking package for you to deliver.”
The towel rack, pedestal sink, edge of the bathtub, and floor all hurt about equally when he shoved her away from him and her heels slipped on the marble tile.