"Go out there and show me how you do things! Show me how you live! Show me how you fight! Show me who you are!"

My coach motivates me by placing both hands on my bloody face and cupping it.

"You've got more in you, kid."

The downtown Charleston crowd was electric tonight, especially on a night like this.

"We're not through yet, son. There's a huge world outside the ring."

The wrinkles on the middle-aged man's face deepen, revealing the wise years he had lived.

"I'm growing tired of people talking to me as if I'm dead. I'm going to fight again, Kev."

I'll be honest.

"No, you're not, kid."

He touches my face softly while applying alcoholic rub on my injured eye.

It's when you're in the ring that those doubts begin to creep in.

You may be wondering why you fight or for whom you fight.

Your excitement is pumping as you scan the crowd for answers.

The audience in front of us tonight had forced me to fight for my life in the ring.

Kevin instructed me to fight for what was outside the ring, but I fought for what needed to be demolished right here in this ring.

My father had an emotional manipulative chain around my neck, urging me to wake up every day and work for what I believed in.

He was the reason I fought.

I had to bring a little part of my world into the ring.

It wasn't only the shackled look in my father's eyes, but what he did to me, that drove me to bring our battle into this ring.

Every punch I was able to absorb felt like I was letting go of everything I had been holding onto for so long.

I was looped into this world of emotional damage, which was to my own expense.

Each blow I fired at my opponent was motivated by my fear of becoming the same as him one day.

Abusive and unexpected behavior. I wanted to avoid what had brought me up.

My life is plagued by the underlying issue of abuse.

A manipulated and bereaved childhood.

I was the only one who could be held accountable for who I would become later in life.

I couldn't remain imprisoned by my own demons, battling for a way out.

All I had to do was confront my demons with such passion that I would be able to destroy my past.

I shall be in command of my own life.

All I had left was the will to fight.

That was all I had.

All I had was what my father had given me, and that was pain.

He caused me suffering, but it was the only thing that saved me from destroying him.

He was a delusional man who had delved much too deeply into what his own father was to him.

He chose the course that his father had pushed him to take.

He didn't fight for what he believed in.

So, he is now experiencing the life he wishes he had had through me.

But little does he realize that his deception has grown so ingrained in him that he is unaware of the father he has become.

My father never did any of the things that the fathers of my friends did to them.

We never threw a football or watched a game together.

'I don't have time—maybe later,' he'd often say, yet he always had time to lounge about and get drunk.

My father was a foodie and a slacker.

Perhaps a link between delicious food and terrible fathers was formed early on, in the deepest recesses of my mind, where we make so many decisions about our parents.

I knew he was observing me from the crowd.

It was the only time we were ever apart, and we were on each other's side.

"Yes. She's filling your brain with terror, while I'm pumping you up with power. Because we're a team, and I'm confident you've got what it takes. I know you're a fucking star, which is why I'm here. I'm your support, son."

He was continually trying to make me reject my mother.

The one who gave birth to me, who gave me life, and who saw more in me than my father ever did.

My mother was his rock, yet he did everything he could to push her away.

He was afraid to look in the mirror and see who he actually was.

He was too afraid to admit that he was a terrible father.

A father who pushed his son so hard that throwing him in a ring was what made him feel better about himself.

He reasoned that if he could train me, I'd take the blows for him.

I'd lose, and he'd win.

Every day, despite the discomfort, I persisted.

Every blow was a learning experience for me.

A lesson to never be like my father.

I used his words, which pierced my soul, to penetrate his soul, and one day he'd realize that the man I become would be nothing like the man he was.

When the bell rings, I re-enter the battlefield.

With each step I took, the aching in my abdomen intensified, teasing me to give up.

My honesty would be obstructed by the arrogant flow of ideas, forcing me to go on.

I caved to the reputation that hung in the air.

The fact that there was a crowd surrounding me indicated that I had a name other than my father's.

"Make a good impression on me, kid."

His words echoed in my head, leaving a path of horror in their wake.

I believed in redemption because of the words that permeated his spirit.

His demeanor would destroy my feelings for him.

So far down the rabbit hole, there was always a chance for someone.

That's why I never gave up; I kept fighting with him in my corner.

I hoped he'd view me as his son one day.

"How do you think it feels to have my son pay me?"

That night in our 100-square-foot apartment, the shadows from the other room would dance about in the cramped bedroom I shared with him.

We'd rent it out anytime we visited Charleston.

He assumed that going away from the money he possessed would cure him of his selfishness.

He was attempting to avoid his status by using me to establish a name for himself in the city.

He felt he could control me by employing a sickly-sweet voice in his conversations to deceive the public.

Unfortunately, his charisma was what propelled him to the top.

It was what maintained him at the top, and he was the king on his throne, observing us all from above.

He felt the need to inform me that the pain I was experiencing would be felt.

Both psychologically and physically.

That the outside world would do the same to me.

Beat me up unless I stood up and fought to defend myself.

His rugged visage, twisted with prior pain, had enveloped me into praising my father for everything he had taught me.

I felt sympathy for the man he was.

He was a disturbed boy who clung to his mother, the only rock in his life.

The women in our lives were the only ones who understood the suffering we felt.

Who nursed us back to health and guided us back on the road.

A father of a household had entire control over the family, making choices on everything we had going on to create our home.

What my father believed to be correct would be carried out.

It would be delivered to him, since whomever stood in his way would only lead my father down a worse path full of loss, as he would eventually learn.

He was taken aback by the yes guys who surrounded him.

He felt inspired to continue in his own tainted words.

Boxing has been considered as barbaric and an affront to human decency.

But can such a verdict be issued on a sport that has been around for centuries?

For many young men and women, boxing provides an escape from an unavoidable life of poverty, street fights, expulsion, juvenile gangs, and, eventually, prison.

Everyone has a dream, whether it is to become wealthy, to fly their own helicopter, or to possess a luxurious house.

People want to be teachers, professors, or even attorneys; nevertheless, this may not be the case; these individuals are not academic in nature.

These individuals may be the physical kind.

Young men and women who grew up in "rough" neighborhoods where they may have had to defend themselves physically have two characteristics in common: the ability to utilize their fists and ride their opponent's attacks.

Because they can protect themselves, they are able to establish a better life for themselves and their family.

Many physically powerful people may take up boxing because they enjoy it, rather than because they are compelled to fight.

They are men or women who enjoy fighting, not because they want to inflict misery on others, but because they have always battled to protect themselves and to satisfy their desires.

These desires are to be out there on their own, to prove that they are the one and that they can become the business's next Mike Tyson.

This is possible through boxing.

One uses their own brains and abilities to demonstrate that they are the greatest at what they do.

Whether it is by fighting with their fists rather than using a bat, ball, racquet, or even a club.

Boxing is an excellent character booster.

It teaches combatants how to care for themselves psychologically and physically.

A boxer is trained to eat and drink in moderation.

Boxers are well aware that a mix of alcohol and bad diet dulls the brain cells and slows response time.

All of this knowledge about boxing was exploited by my father to plunge me into the disaster that is the boxing scene.

He did everything he could, to say the least, to deliberately manipulate his words in order to twist my head into a loop of physical misery.

My mind was so absorbed at such a young age that I believed every thing he said.

He took advantage of this by not putting any enthusiasm into whatever he said about boxing.

Only to trick my mind into thinking that boxing was nothing more than a sport I had to undertake for my father.

It ripped me to shreds discovering all of his knowledge with a fast tap of the mouse, searching the internet, leading me to the conclusion that he used me for money.

He exploited me to fulfill aspirations he hoped he might have lived.

His statements were nothing more than overused internet phrases that he manufactured with his manner to divert my attention away from the veneer of deceit he lived behind.

That's when I understood he'd never want to have a heart-to-heart with me.

He disregarded his responsibility as a parent in order to exploit me as a pawn to obtain what he sought, power.

He capitalized on my status as a fighter who built his fame from the ground up to expand his conquests.

I made my name for myself. I knew that one day, as a father, I would teach my children the value of working hard to earn what they want.

I will not become my father.

I would not tread the road he had chosen as a father.

I'm not going to let him dictate my life.

There is no conditional love.

If love is conditional, it is emotional manipulation disguised as love.

My throat swells with bile, forcing me to look him in the eyes.

His presence was the only thing that made me sit up straight and strive to impress my father.

I'd fall into that trap because I didn't want to disappoint him.

I only had one father, and I would battle for his affection even if it meant taking it all in.

I survey the crowd once again, coming to a halt when I see her.

I looked down at her stomach, knowing that baby Kiara was on the way.

"Mike! Focus!" Coach Kevin jerked me back from my trance.

I heaved, dapping my fists together, ready to face my opponent because I knew I had a daughter I would fight for, for the rest of my life.

My father abused me, took everything away from me.

But there was one thing I knew he couldn't take away from me: my daughter.

~ ~ ~

Rafe's POV:

His rough palms hit my cheek, the force of which causes me to stumble.

"You fucked us!" He cries.

He presses his index finger into my chest, causing my breathing to tighten.

"You fucked us, Rafe!" I take a step back, my hands sliding down the table for support, as his tone makes me swallow.

It was the first time my father had laid a hand me.

My head was throbbing, and everything around me began to suffocate me.

He takes a step closer, his gaze fixed on me as if I were prey.

As he clutches my jaw, I bite my cheeks to hold back tears.

"Don't ever ask me who I'd pick when you're the one who... she's gone because of you."

He stops in his tracks, running his hands through his dark hair aggresively.

My cheek stings as his fiery eyes stare down at me, and I want to crumble before him.

"John B is the reason Sarah is gone," I gritted my teeth in anger.

"You and I both know that if she hadn't been chasing him around, none of us would be in this situation right now!" I start raising my voice.

"Don't you dare talk!"

He grabs me by the nape of my neck.

"Not everything is about you!" He grip tightening.

"I did not raise you this way."

I rise to meet his gaze, but he pushes me back.

He pushes me as I falter with each stride.

I try to fight back, but he is much faster than me.

"Get out of here, Rafe," he says, grabbing my shoulders and staring me down.

As a tear flows down my cheek, the knot in my throat tightens.

"But dad-

"Rafe, if you come back here pulling this off, you will not step foot upon this house again," he interrupts, his voice cold.

His hard gaze darts between mine

~~~~

When his father entered the room, the boy sat up.

He'd shift his behavior and tone of voice, all the while turning a submissive gaze toward his father.

His terror has taken the place of his conviction that he was giving in to what his father was robbing him of.

His sanity was snatched away from him by his father.

He prodded him with carefully crafted phrases that he couldn't decipher.

When his father needed something, his son would drop everything and go to his aid.

He'd forget how his father had him on a leash, pulling him in every direction.

He'd turn his cheek from his father's never-ending torment, only to blame him later.

He was aware that his son required mental assistance, but he considered it a burden.

He was too self-centered to see that he could be the one to help his son.

His problems were steadily consuming him, and everyone could see it.

Because they were afraid to confront him, no one understood how to address the situation.

His stability was taken away by his innocence, which he never grew out of.

So warped was his behavior that it was deemed childishly hazardous by those around him.

He couldn't control both sides.

A sequence of episodes that ate him alive, leaving him oblivious to his own voice.

The light was dimming since he was so far down the rabbit hole.

He used drugs and alcohol to escape the world's ignorance.

As far as he could tell, ignorance was louder than those who wanted to help.

Was it possible that others were to blame?

Or was it he who was at fault?

It's difficult to know whether or not someone is aware of your position, or even if they care.

In any case, confronting mental health is difficult because it is an underlying issue.

However, it is critical and self-evident to recognize the obvious behavior of someone who is mentally ill.

It's simple to recognize the signs and symptoms, but it's more difficult to tackle them when they're serious.

It felt as if you were carrying a time bomb.

Everything can fall apart if you make one wrong move.

Was it, however, so difficult?

He appeared to assume that everyone around him was more concerned with fleeing this risky behavior, which switched every now and then.

He couldn't control the voices in his head that dictated his behavior.

His choices were influenced by emotions that had been sifted through the incorrect hole.

He was at a loss as to how to keep them under his control.

Spiraling down the path of addiction temporarily distracted him, but it only made things worse.

He once had hope, which she instilled in him but which he was gradually losing.

He yearned to confront her once more, to feel her loving touch, which they had shared in the past.

Someone who knew who he was before he fell off the deep end.

He had no idea how to express his desire for help.

That he was looking for guidance.

He wanted her to show him that she cared and would be there for him in the same way she had in the past.

His brain had distorted the cry for help to the point that he didn't know how to express his feelings.

He'd shown himself to be simply human the night before.

He was confident in his ability to seek assistance.

A cry for help does not always have to come off as straightforward, especially if it is coming from someone who is unable to communicate properly.

Insecurities, lashing out, or being stuck in a loop of stress are all signs of a cry for help.

If he could just articulate himself properly, the boy knew she'd be willing to help him.

He felt at ease as he opened a wound that she had tenderly kissed before as part of his healing process.

His eyes were opened by her light, and he realized he could get help.

He would let her pick up his pieces because she was tangled up in all of his.

With her zeal, she was able to stitch them together and give him life.

Her gentle voice, like a quiet stream pouring through the earthen fractures of nature, soothed the shattered pieces back into place.

To take in the air that she had given him a purpose to live for.

He was usually at a lost for words when he was around her, not knowing how to pinpoint his emotions.

The negative voices around him were drowned out by her presence, and he realized he was vulnerable.

Her sincerity illustrated his existence, leading him to strive for a beacon of hope.

He recognized himself in the same way she did.

He was completely melting in front of her, lusting after more of the sensations she gave him.

His life was a puzzle because of the freedom she presented him.

He saw her break down in front of him, scraping at the chances of stabilisation.

All he wanted to do was hold her in his arms and shield her from the deceptive individuals who had broken her from the inside out.

What he thought he had to hide was seeing her let her tears fall to the floor.

She wore her heart on her sleeve, which infuriated him.

He was able to express no emotion that he had without being rebuked, because he knew no emotion that he had would be taken seriously.

But what happened that night cemented his realization of what was truly important.

Her vulnerability shattered him, allowing the pieces that had been attempting to stay together, fall apart.

He didn't know how to deal with her vulnerability.

He didn't think his was worth sharing.

He kept it to himself, waiting for the right moment to unwind.

But he was gradually letting his pieces fall, looking back to see her slowly picking them up as time passed.

They always found their way back to each other, unknowingly.

They tried to break free from each other, but their shared history was as deep as the ocean, and there was no mountain they could climb to escape their emotional connection.

All of this they felt for each other, but it was hidden deep within them, waiting to be revealed.

Waiting to be knitted into their eyes, containing so much mystery and secret that not even they could crack.

Their feelings were valid, since they wished to flourish as individuals.

They were raised on the art of independence, which made them susceptible in their eyes.

However, coming together as one has always had a lasting effect on both of their lives.

Forever leaving a stain of desire to be painted over.

Denying their past was what kept them imprisoned in a cell of regret.

The repetition of denial laced their emotions, blinding them to what had happened.

Both wanting to move on from the past, but deja vu haunts their souls, begging for a confrontation.

They wanted to be able to feel the passion that had affected them so deeply.

For a little while, both universes collided and intertwined.

Their vulnerability was weaved into each other, and it made them whole.

He was the fruit of her heart, and she was the breath of his soul.

Two lost souls waiting to be revived like a waterfall of grace rushing through fire.

Because two intricately special beings had so much beauty that they glowed as one over the pieces that bound them together, making them far from cliched.

Were they prepared to break the seals from their eyes?

Or were they supposed to overlap each other's broken pieces, only to see each other as separate people?

Allowing the hierarchy to take control of their complex past.

But, as the other knows, enemies never follow through on their plans.

They will always trip over the mask they try so hard to hide behind.

An unquenchable desire that begs to be met.

Mental illness takes away your identity.

It has the power to remove the very heart of your being and replace it with something that is diametrically opposed to you and what you actually are.

His disorder went undiagnosed for so long, he spent many years gazing in the mirror and seeing a person he didn't know or comprehend.

Not only did it take him of his sanity, but it also robbed him of his capacity to see beyond the place it forced him to stare.

He couldn't differentiate truth from imagination anymore, and he found himself in a world that wasn't his.

He was a free bird one minute, king of the planet the next.

The next thing you knew, he'd be in tears like a glass angel, poised to teeter, fall, and break.

He never wept because he was worried that something 'would' happen; he cried because he was afraid that something that could make the world more beautiful 'would not' happen.

He was captivated to her honesty, a quality he never trusted since the one person he trusted constantly drained him of it.

She saw potential in him, whether he was hiding something or not.

When he put on his mask, she was the only one who reminded him that the mask he hid behind wasn't actually himself.

He was perplexed as to why she never gave up on him.

On the surface, it appeared as though she despised him, like the blazing flames searing the night.

But on the inside, she had this strong structure of desire that drew him in like a moth to a flame.

He was afraid of her leaving, and his actions were a cry for help.

But deep down, she felt sympathy for him.

She had a honey-like empathy for him.

Empathy that had been buried behind hatred, confusion, sorrow, and betrayal.

It was the combination of charcoal and honey that brought this beauty to the shadows.

As if a glow mixing of a human being's imperfection condition.

It was as deep as the ocean and as majestic as the mountains.

The exquisite rose and thorn were both carried by the root.

Twisting and slashing through, but wonderfully woven as one.

~ ~ ~

My phone's ringing awakens me up from a deep slumber.

I groggily reach over, answering the phone and holding it up to my ears.

"Hello?" With a sigh, I ask.

"We're on," says Barry on the other end.

"Already?" I ask, my brow furrowed in confusion.

"Do you have a problem with that?" His tone serious, but laced with a little humor.

I had to answer to the agency whenever they needed me since I had taken an oath to help them with Hart's case.

"No...no...no, it's OK."

I slowly raise my head to better hear him.

"Tonight."

"Tonight, got it," I sigh.

He does not wait for me to respond.

"I'm sending a location immediately."

I get out of bed and hang up the phone.

I enter the last four numbers of my credit card into the casino's ATM machine.

The greasy keypads make me grimace and hasten the process.

As I lift my head to survey the casino, I bite my lower lip.

I just had an hour to earn enough money to give to Dimitri for the rabbit sculpture heist I got myself into in the previous several days.

He called me up, yelling at me for scrathcing the sculpture.

The tiniest dent was but not seen even with a microscope.

The machine emits a louder beeping noise when it prints out my casino card.

I accept it and proceed to the poker tables.

"Big blind?" As I sit in the open seat with a bunch of skilled poker players, the caller asks me.

"Sure." I chew gum to calm myself down.

"How far are you behind?"

"500," the caller says as he reaches for my business cards.

I hand him $500 cash.

"Chips, 500!"

The caller makes the announcement, just in time for the game to begin.

He counts my money, and the professionals surrounding me are impressed.

I was to call my bluff and use my poker skills to win this game.

"Thank you. Continue, five. To your right."

The caller hands out 5 cards to each of us.

"Call."

I notice my opponent sitting opposite me.

"Raise, please. Make it 110." He calls out.

"Can you raise $100?" The caller asks my opponent.

"I'm all in," I declare unequivocally.

"The young lady is fully committed."

"I'm going to fold." I answer quickly.

"It appears that it is up to you, sir." The caller raises his head to face my opponent.

"I'm building the groundwork." He sighs and slides his chips to the center of the table.

"He calls."

The caller deals out two decks of cards.

"Run with 'em." I stutter.

"Good luck to everyone."

"The set of kings wins." The caller turns over two kings while gently staring at me.

"Sorry." He says as he hands me my chips back.

"May I have one of those?" I request a cigeratte from my opponent, which I noticed on his right side of the table.

"Good luck. Bad  beat."

I say my respects to the caller and exit.

"Hello, Janice. I go to the bar, hoping to see a familiar face.

"Hey." She answers, a lovely smile on her face.

"I'd take the north exit." Janice suggests, pointing to the exits.

"Really?"

"Yeah. The entrance is teeming with security." She sighs.

Janice knew I was a regular here, so we became friends because of how frequently I came here.

"All right. Thank you." I give her a kind grin.

"How are you?" I ask her softly.

"Every day is better than the last." She sighs and hands me my business card.

"Hmm, I feel the same way," I concede.

"All right, girl. Best wishes."

She hands me an additional chip.

"You, too."

I pay a visit to Dimitri's estate, presenting the money in a yellow envelope to his men.

"Your money is in there somewhere." As I walk towards my car, I inform the man.

"That parking space is only for executives. They will inform you."

The man tries to strike up a conversation, but I start the car.

"Great outfit. I'm sure it looked better last night."

Before driving away, I give him the middle finger.

Before I get on the freeway, I notice a suv at the south exit of Dimitri's gated community.

Recognizing the license plate right away.

I don't pause and drive away, not wanting to cause a scene.

~ ~ ~

I chest pass the basketball to Colton.

He doesn't catch it in time and flinches as the ball smacks him in the arm.

He gives me a look,

"That's out! Stop pressuring me!" He protests, amusement in his voice.

"Stop goal tending!" I yell back, jogging towards the center of the court.

"Which one will it be?"

I dribble around him and layup underneath the basket, knocking him to the floor.

"You know you're going to be fouled, don't you?" he groans.

He jogs over to the center of the court.

I chuckle,

"You think I'm terrified of you, you big fuck? You're crowding the hoop."

"Hey, well, JJ's bouncing up a bar at Duke next week. We should go up there."

Colton lays out the scenario and dribbles past me.

"What are we going to do up there?"

JJ had never fucked with bars out of town, so this came as a surprise.

"I don't know. We're going to fuck up some smart kids."

He dribbles the ball to the side.

"Probably fit right in," he says, nodding.

Colton was one of the few people who listened to my lectures on the history of sea turtles.

When it came to textbook knowledge expressed with my words, I was like the female version of Pope.

That, along with street smarts, is how I got through this shit hole here at Kildare County High School.

I block his shot and dribble down the court, laying it up seeing the ball swish through the net.

Smirking, I turn to face him.

"Heads up," I chest pass the ball, only to have him deflect it.

He rushes up to me and we pretend to box one other

"Oh, what's going on? You're still tough, right?" He teases me.

~ ~ ~

"Gentlemen."

I nod in Dimitri's way.

I make my way down his steps and into his living room.

"How did it go?" He asks as he lights his cigarette.

I sighed as I told him that the plans may be fucked in the future.

"Well, I'm alive."

I sit up straight, ensuring sure my posture is calm.

You never want to get on Dimitri's bad side.

"So, where is it? You're strolling around with your arms swinging." Dimitri's irritated tone just added to the tension in the room.

I turn my head to the side, my gaze falling down and back at him.

"Yeah. That would be, um... That's what I wanted to discuss with you."

I make a point of looking the old prick in the eyes, as I don't want to be caught off guard.

"I'm not a fan of the way this sounds."

He puts his cigarette down.

"There was a slight complication." I say fast, hoping to get things out of the way.

I felt like a fucking prisoner in his house, and I had to get out of the suffocating room as soon as I finished.

"What are you on about?" He asks me cautiously.

"I'm referring to the FBI. They've figured me out. One specific agent."

My foot taps the hardwood.

"FUCK!" He rises up and walks around the room, pacing.

"This is not how it works. Did you speak with him?" His pupils dilate.

"Of course, I didn't speak to him."

My voice begins to falter.

"How do you know for certain that he's FBI?"

He closes his eyes and looks up.

"Because he has a government license plate and does not appear to be a census worker." My voice is becoming harsher.

I was thankful for my training at the agency, which allowed me to recognize license plates from a distance.

He pulls out his gun and points it at me.

I put my hands up as I recollect Hart pulling a gun on me a few days ago.

"What is it?" I ask him, and I start to panic.

"This is who I am. And I'm telling you, you're going to be completely honest, right fucking now."

He lowers the gun to my neck.

"Okay."

I avoided eye contact with him.

That's something I'd never do.

"Why are you pointing a gun at me?"

My heart rate grew with each ticking sound of the clock on the wall behind him.

"You're forcing me to aim this gun at you."

His chest heaves up and down as he takes a step closer.

"Dimitri, aren't you forgetting something?" My hands are still up.

"What happened to the sculpture?" He holds the pistol steady.

"I've got it."

"Why didn't you bring it with you? Why isn't it present?"

"For insurance purposes." My sincerity was intended to win him over.

"You do understand you're a little out of your depth here, don't you?"

He lowers his gun and places it in his holster.

"Yeah, that's something I'm getting more conscious of." Sarcastically, I answer.

"Listen to me. There was never going to be any type of shooting. This was me putting you to the test."

I stifle my sneer; there was more to this man than I realized.

"Really." He tries to persuade me.

I get up deciding to leave the room, not waiting for his reply.

"Wait! Wait!"

I return my attention to him, and he offers me a business card.

"What exactly is it?" I look down at the address.

"That is your final hurrah. I've made you a shit ton of money. I'm letting you out the back door, which is something I never do. Get me that sculpture that's being guarded in that safe place. You deliver me the item, and that's it. That's all there is to it. It's time to call it a day. Giacometti's 'The Nose'."

He refers to the picture from the address he provided me.

"Do you know it?" 

"I'd never heard of it. No." I give an honest response.

"Well, it's a big thing."

"Great."

"Kiara. Take care."

With that, I leave his house.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

I arrive at Michael's.

A diner I went to regularly.

Anytime I needed to stuff my face with some nice ass greasy diner cuisine and to keep my mind off the shit I had gotten myself into over the past year.

As I enter the jazz-filled ambiance of mid-day coffee lovers and college-aged Kooks, the diner's bell rings through the room.

Every time I came inside the eatery, the fragrance of fresh burgers on the grill made my mouth water.

The familiarity of the location put me at ease.

"Hey, man." I nod in the direction of Joe, the cook, as he dances about the kitchen, one ingredient on each arm.

This was one of my favorite places to visit.

It was the one place I went to after school.

I felt protected here, and it was also an excellent spot to get your job done.

You know, anything to get your mind flowing, a new change of scenery to get your brain functioning.

As the fathers would tell their children, whenever they were tired of the shitload of schoolwork that the school assigned them every night.

I stroll to my usual spot near the kitchen and take a seat on the high stool over the counter.

"How's the pancakes?" I ask him indirectly.

"That was some good shit. You should know. It's your joint."

Finally, I raise my head to meet his gaze.

He's a late-forties FBI agent.

His wrinkles hinted of the many cases he had handled throughout the years.

It was something I regarded.

I've always wanted to work in law enforcement.

"It appears you want to talk."

I give him a courteous grin.

I shift in my seat and peruse the menu.

"I didn't expect you to notice me in this disguise. FBI Agent Wilbur Torres. There's no need for you to introduce yourself, Ms. Carrera."

I nod politely, assessing his stare for professional purposes.

"I've taken advantage of the situation."

I scratch my chin, "Mm-hm. What's the point of following me?"

The elephant in the room was making me twitch.

"I'm not following you. I'm keeping tabs on you. There is a significant difference."

The man spoke to me with such tenderness that I was nearly certain I would tell him everything right away.

But I was not a liar, therefore telling the truth was always my objective.

"If I was following you, I'd need wiretaps, surveillance, and court signatures." He continued, sipping his coffee.

I return the menu to the waiter.

"Well, it appears that you're following me."

I keep an eye on my tone, hoping to seize the moment.

"I'll have a cup of coffee." I notify the waitress in the rear of the diner.

"You got it." She responds.

"Look, you're better at this than I am, so I'll just tell you the truth. Do you mind if I tell you the truth?"

I was charmed by his humour since I wasn't sure if this was a confrontation or a real misinterpretation.

"Please do." I hold up my mug to let him continue on.

"It's not difficult to find you," he scrunches his nose.

He puts on his spectacles and pulls out a yellow folder full of files.

"On the Internet, you can get ten bastards, and you can get the 50 or 60 men that install art for a livelihood around here."

He takes a moment and flips through the papers.

"Let's see what happens here."

He comes to a halt in front of a certain piece of paper.

"After art school, you worked for two private installation companies, Cooper-Beasley and Montrose Partners, as well as a handful of museums.

And you want to know the truth? It was said by an eyewitness. Nothing beats an eyewitness. Even if it's just a child."

Hart's daughter must have spoke up about my presence.

The man was looking through a false file made up by Dimitri, who had hired cybercriminals to cover my identity.

They created a faux setting for me to enter and exit with the work.

He examines the artwork that Hart's daughter used to describe me.

"If you ask me, it's not a bad resemblance. They grew a touch chubby in the cheeks, but I suppose that's the fault of the sketch artist. It's not hers."

He shows me the sketch.

His speech completely floored me.

I never expected to be accosted by an FBI agent.

"Yes, most likely. What exactly are you asking me?"

I keep the ball rolling, trying to understand what he's expressing.

"I've been a field agent for 17 years, and I've reached what's known as the "black ceiling." I believe it is past time for a change. Perhaps... something inside with a less municipal vehicle, and, yeah... Fuck it, I'm just going to say it.

There will be no more petty shakedowns with bitches like you. Over the last three years, you and your colleagues have snatched up more than $75 million in gray market paintings. Here's the deal."

I swallowed my nerves and I let him continue.

"You're going to make a mistake." He admits.

"Mm-hm," was all I could say as I tried to take in all of the information he set out in front of me.

"It could not be you. It might be a... volatile father or a bipolar ex. However, there is always a crack. Did I mention I've been at it for 17 years?"

"Yeah. You did it. That's twice, and from what I can see, you have my resume and the testimony of a four-year-old child." 

I get up, walking to the front door.

"Carrera, oh Carrera. I don't recall telling you she was four years old. I assume it's just a decent estimate." He laughs heartily.

Shit.

I approach him with a sigh.

"What exactly do you expect from me?"

I was prepared to be truthful, to give it all up.

All it took was an FBI agent knocking on my front door to wake me up to the fact that I needed to get out of the shithole I was in.

"Let's be clear about one thing. You're nothing. I'm not interested in you. You don't mean anything to me. Unless... and this is a capital U, you can deliver the man with the plan to me. If you don't, it'll be my foot in your ass."

I make an O shape with my mouth, turning around, and go back towards the entrance.

This man had guts.

"Hmmm."

I anxiously massage the back of my neck.

"Are you still using a fax machine?" I tease him.

"Fuck you."

He wasn't going to arrest me because I was doing something wrong.

He was about to arrest Dimitri.

He only wanted to talk to me, and I had a lot on my plate that I knew I had to unload eventually.

Connections like this one tonight, benefitted you.

The more people you met, the better.

~ ~ ~

We are met by a crowd of Duke students crowding the bar.

JJ, Pope, Colton, and I make our way to the back.

We were let in since JJ had known the folks at the back since preschool.

Even though it was just 7 p.m., the bustling atmosphere of the pub duped your mind into thinking it was midnight.

"Fuck, this is a Duke bar, isn't it? I expected to see equations and shit on the wall." JJ cracks jokes while we gaze around the pub.

He adjusts his signature red cap and nods to a group of girls.

He walks up to the counter, dapping up his boy.

"I'll have a pitch of the house's finest beer."

He wasn't taking us seriously since we were underage.

Instead, the guy from the back offers us some light beer.

"Woah. I'm going to have to bust a move on those Duke hotties down at the bar."

JJ points out a bunch of young women.

"Make some magic. Please get some potion for us." Pope mocks him and challenges his game.

JJ walks over to the girls, and I watch him.

Pope, Colton, and I rush in to observe the action.

"Am I a regular? I'm here occasionally.
I'm around every now and then. Are you a student here?"

JJ was having a good time.

I cast a glance towards Pope, who is smirking.

"Yep." The olive-skinned girl responded.

"That's all there is to it. I believe I had a class with you."

He redirects his focus to the other female.

"Oh, absolutely. What subject?"

She takes the lead.

"History, perhaps."

He pretends to think with his hand.

"Yes, I believe that's what it was."

The girls are giggling.

"You might not remember me. You know, I enjoy it here. It doesn't imply that just because I come here, I'm a genius. I am highly intelligent."

JJ fumbles over his words yet carries himself with charm.

"Hey."

JJ is interrupted by a Duke jock who is staring at him and attempting to measure his gaze.

"Hey!"

"How are things going with you?"

He adjusts the jock's collar softly.

"Good. What's up, how are you?

"Which class did you say that was?" The jock comes in and pushes his chest out, letting his vanity show.

"History." JJ responds to him, his gaze never leaving the females.

"Is that all there is?"

"It had to be a survey course at the time." Prods the jock.

I kept a tight distance from the boys since shit was going to go down.

"That's right. Surveys were used."

The jock, unimpressed, teases him,

"Right."

"I think you should look into it." It's an excellent program. It would be an interesting class." JJ faces him.

"To be honest, I thought the class to be quite basic."

At this time, JJ's wit was rescuing him.

"Elementary. I don't have any doubts about it."

The jock takes a swig from his beer.

"I recall that class. It was somewhere between recess and lunch."

The girl sighs and rolls her eyes.

"Dustin, please leave."

"I'm just having a good time with my new friend."

"Are we going to have a problem?" JJ cuts him off by extending out his hand.

"No, there isn't an issue here."

"I was hoping you could offer me some insight into the evolution... of the market economy in the southern colonies.

My thesis is that previous to the Revolutionary War, the economic modalities—particularly in the southern colonies—could best be described as... agrarian precapitalist."

I intervene, pulling JJ aside

"Of course, it is your point of view. You're a graduate student in your first year." I speak up.

"You just finished reading some Marxian historian—probably Pete Garrison— You'll be convinced until next month, when you meet James Lemon. Then you'll be talking about how the economies of Virginia and Pennsylvania... were entrepreneurial and capitalist back in 1740. That'll last till next year.

You'll be in here rehearsing Gordon Wood, talking about, you know, pre-revolutionary paradise... and the capital-forming impacts of armed mobilization." 

"Well, in reality, I won't, since Wood vastly underestimates the influence of—"

I cut him off before he could finish.

"Wood grossly underestimates the influence of social disparities based on money, particularly inherited riches.

That's from Good Will Hunting. Mark oh, around 30 minutes in, correct? I, too, watched it. Were you planning on plagiarizing the entire thing for us? Do you have any comments on the subject?"

I don't miss a beat.

"So, what's the deal? Coming here to quote some vague phrase from a well-known film merely to get your dick wet? Embarrass my friend?

I'll tell you what, dude. Your messed up egotistical no smaller than a dick brain revealed your real colors.

One. You're a wuss.

And two, if you're out here referencing movies, that tells me daddy exploited the words coming out of your lips in your college essays.

What is the admissions process? That means nothing to you. So listen up, if you want to impress this lovely lady right here, I recommend thinking with your mind rather than your dick.

Otherwise, I'm going to have to punch that pretty little face of yours."

"You spent $110,000 on a fucking education... you could've gotten it for $1.2 in late fees on Redbox, maybe even the monthly payments on Netflix."

"Yes, but I'll have a degree, and you'll be serving my kids fries at a drive-through on our way to a skiing trip. Hooters?"

He looks me over from head to toe.

I bite my cheeks.

"Perhaps, but at least my words won't be clichéd."

"If you have an issue with it, we may go outside. We could figure it out. Man to man? Because I know for a fact that you don't know how to treat a lady."

"Or may I pique your interest in a high school class about sea turtles? The patience of a mother sea turtle taking her children to the sea, holding their hand every step of the way until they reach the coast.

Or is that uninteresting to you? Too much to bear that one day your ego will get the better of you because of the gold-plated spoon that has been carefully placed in your mouth since birth?"

I point my index finger towards his chest.

"You, my friend, perhaps want to go home over the weekend and, I don't know, watch a couple documentaries about Seat Turtles and learn from them.

Learn why the development of a sea turtle is so crucial and consider this as a man. Consider pursuing a degree in biology. "Some insight into the emergence... of the market economy in the southern colonies," as you said earlier.

Use that brain of yours, take it down to the actual economy with Biology and further your research with the history of Sea turtles."

"All that,"

I shrug,

"and no GED yet."

"Rafe, the Obx is batshit crazy. No shit you wanted to leave."

Rafe, who is standing to the side of the bar and swigging his beer, draws the Jock's attention.

As our gazes meet, his demeanor straightens.

His cheek is scarred by a purple bruise, but his eyes sparkle with a tiny gleam, as if he was taken aback by the scenario unfolding before him.

JJ's grunt can be heard alongside me as he prepares to flee the scene.

"Fucking rich kids," JJ whispers under his breath, but I hear him.

Rafe pushes himself off the wall he was leaning against, slightly wincing in discomfort.

I keep my eye on him as he approaches us, laying his hand on Dustin's shoulder.

"Once a Pogue. Always a Pogue. Don't mess with them, man."

What the fuck did he just say?

Reciting a fictitious oath he believes we say every time we follow the fucking rules?

"I'm not sure," Dustin says, looking at me.

"Have you ever gotten a piece?"

Rafe takes another sip of his drink.

"If you kept your fuckmouth shut, the island would be a lot nicer."

"But you and I both know I wouldn't like that."

Justin frowns at him.

"How come? Women never, ever stop talking. Especially this bitch right here."

"Let me answer your question."

He turns to face us.

His gaze darted between us, never settling on mine.

"So innocent, you say?"

As he walks past us, his shoulder lightly brushes mine.

"Nevertheless, submissive."

Her neck tingled with goosebumps from their preexisting obscured infatuation, immobilizing her on the spot.

A flush crept throughout her olive skin, exposing her deceptive innocence.

Nobody was supposed to know what they were holding.

Had they planned to bury it for a long time?

Or were they just waiting for it to come to light one day?

In any case, the deep depths of their past were undoubtedly beginning to rise from the waters in search of oxygen.

"However, a piece?" His voice was heard from behind them.

"A single slice is never enough. However, the entire pizza. That is entirely up to you to decide. I've had the pleasure of experiencing it all."

"And given my surname, that should say a lot. The pleasures I could have, but I'll dig deeper to find the source. "The rawness."

"The beauty with her ashes"

I never turned around, too taken aback by his candor to rewind the conversation I'd had with Dustin.

Rafe Cameron, a voice in my head told me, could just be a decent human being who valued the significance of an individual.

Even in his slight drunken state, I was captivated by his devotion as to how a woman should be respected for her worth, not only being defined by her appearance.

//////

YOU GUYS ANY THEORIES ON THE RIARA FILMING SCENE? WHY IS KIE WEARING A FANCY RED DRESS ALONE W RAFE IN A MF MANSION???

~ have a great day/night you are loved🥰~