J. Salsbury - Fighting to Forgive

He laughs. “No, nothing like that. Do you have time today to come down to the station? There’re a few things I need to talk to you about.”

Dropping my head back to my pillow, I groan. “I don’t know, man. Last time you and I talked at the station, I ended up behind bars.”

“Good point. Meet me for a beer?”

“Now you’re talking.”

“Great. Armadillo’s at five.”

“See ya then.”

At five o’clock on the nose, I’m walking through the front door of Armadillo’s. It’s a dive bar for locals and boasts the coldest beer in town. One of those places you walk in and it takes ten minutes for your eyes to adjust from the bright sun to the dark room. I welcome the sound of pool balls smacking together and crappy country music. It’s a great distraction from the chaos whirling in my head.

As I move through the room towards the bar, eyes follow my every step. The pool balls fall silent, and the chatter turns to whispers. I drop my face and rub my forehead in a pathetic attempt to hide. Should’ve known being out in public would be uncomfortable. After all, these people think I’m a cheater who’s dirtied Las Vegas’s most profitable sport. Maybe meeting at the station would’ve been a better idea.

Dave’s sitting at the end of the bar, beer in hand. He waves me over.

Squeezing past a couple of bikers who don’t make it easy it on me, I’m grateful to make it to my barstool. “You’re early.” I motion to Dave’s half-empty pint glass.

“It’s been a crazy day.” He motions to the bartender for another. “What’re you drinking?”

I order a Sierra Nevada and notice activity in the room has gone back to normal. “What’s up?” No use avoiding the issue. He’s obviously got something he needs to say, and I don’t want to spend any more time here than I have to.

“We made some headway in your case.” The bartender puts our beers down, and Dave nods his thank you.

“That’s great news. You find the prick doctor who dosed me?” I grip my beer bottle so tight my fingers go numb.

“No.”

“Fuck.” My bicep jumps, and I want to hurl my beer across the room, but without the drugs in my system, I control the wild urge with ease.

“There’s been a development. Something that was brought to our attention by an eyewitness—”

“Dave man, cut the shit. I’ve lost everything. My career, my woman, and her kid. If you’ve got some good news, just fuckin’ tell me.”

“Fair enough.” He turns his stool toward me. “Stewart Moorehead set up his wife. He’s the one responsible for what happened to you. But he didn’t act alone. He had a partner to pull it off.” He leans in. “Taylor Gibbs.”

I shove back from the bar, my pulse drumming in my ears. My muscles contract with the urge to break something. “You’re fucking with me.”

He shakes his head and then goes onto explain how Stewart got Layla the job with the UFL, promising Gibbs the publicity he was looking for.

Unable to sit back down, I take a moment to register this new information. It doesn’t surprise me the lengths that Stew went to in order to ruin Layla. She even mentioned that he’d let her go too easily.

But Gibbs. I knew he was a media whore of the worst kind, but to discredit the sport for a headline is some fucked up shit. And throwing out one of his fighters is unfathomable. He’s not only killed my career, but he’s tainted the UFL name, and taken a shit on mixed martial arts while flippin’ it a big fat “fuck you”.

“We’ve arrested Mr. Moorehead, and we’re in the process of getting Gibbs. That’s where you come in. The LVPD’s going to need your help in getting a confession. If not, it’s his word against Stewart’s.”

“I’ll do it. Whatever it is, I’m game. As long as it means he goes down hard.”

“I was hoping you’d say that.” He nods to my barstool. “Have a seat.”

I’m so hyped up on adrenaline it’s hard to sit still, but I pull my shit together and hear him out. He explains the plan, and for the first time in a while, I feel hopeful.

“You think it’ll work? Getting the recorded confession?” I take a long drag off my beer.

“It worked beautifully today.” He smiles and tries to cover it with a cough.

“What’re you talking about? And why are you grinning like a girl?”

“How do you think we got that information out of Stewart? We mic’d Layla and sent her in.”

My stomach drops, and the mention of Layla and Stewart in the same sentence makes my flesh crawl. But overriding my irritation is anger. “Why would you do that? Guilting Layla into coming face to face with the man who had her gang raped? Who lied to her about being the father of—”

“Calm down, Blake.” He holds up his hands. “She came to us. It was her idea.”

“Her idea.”

“She had suspicions about Doctor Xavier. Your positive blood test sent her on a mission to prove her theory. She came to me with the idea and said she’d get the confession.”

I’m dizzy, my mind spinning. I brace myself against the bar to keep upright, my head in my hands.

She did all that. For me?

The guy who choked her in her living room? In front of her kid?

I swallow past the lump forming in my throat. “She did that?”

He has the decency to keep his gaze forward, allowing me my privacy as I process all he’s shared. “She wouldn’t take no for an answer.”

She’s a single mom with a mouth to feed. Her job is her lifeline away from Stewart. And yet, she risks it to save my reputation. After everything I’ve done, she throws herself up to shield me?

That is what’s going on here, right? It has to be. But one question nags me to ask. If she cares about me, why haven’t I heard from her? Where was she when I was in jail, and why didn’t she answer my call? Maybe this is her parting gift. Her way of saying thanks for the good time, sorry it didn’t work out.

I groan and rub my temples. This is all so damn confusing. One thing at a time. First Gibbs.

“I’ll get Gibbs to confess. You name the time and place. I’m there.” Even off duty and in his civilian clothes, I decide not to share my plan to break Gibbs’s nose for conspiring with Stewart against Layla. I’ll wait until after he confesses, but it will happen.

“Meet me at the station at oh-six-hundred. We’ll go from there.”

I push my beer bottle away and stand to leave. “Thanks for the drink.”

My mind is miles ahead of my body, envisioning my confrontation with Taylor, planning my speech to perfection.

This is the final obstacle to getting my life back. Saving my career is an added bonus, but not the prize.

I want my woman back. And Gibbs is going to make that happen. I won’t accept anything less.

Stepping foot into the training center feels like strutting down Las Vegas Boulevard naked with a propeller strapped to my johnson. And it has shit-all to do with the mic stuck to my chest. Everyone here, from front desk to fighters, is staring. And these stares aren’t giving me the warm and fuzzies. It’s all death glares and whispers. Not that I blame them. They’re convinced I’ve shamed the UFL. I’d do the same thing if our roles were reversed.

I drop my head and play the part. It’ll help if they believe I’m guilty.

I’m halfway through the sparring floor when I hear my name. I quicken my pace.

“Wait up, dude.” Rex jogs to me, and unless I want to run off like a pussy, I have to stop.

“What’s up?” I flick a glance toward the hallway that leads to the executive offices. “I’m kind of in a hurry.”

Breathing heavy, he pulls off his gloves. “I heard about what happened. Tried calling a few times, but got your voicemail. You okay?”