I buckle myself into the low-slung passenger seat of Chandler's sports car. The expensive leather smells new, and the engine rumbles with barely contained power.
I lean back against the headrest, letting my muscles finally relax for the first time since I stepped into that mansion. The stereo immediately kicks in, blasting some hard rock music, the distorted guitars a welcome, aggressive contrast to the polite silence of the Alaister house.
What Chandler said about ghosting him was technically wrong. I hadn't completely disappeared; I was just avoiding him recently. And that was a conscious choice.
Chandler is actually a cool person to hang out with. We met in France years ago. I was there for a string of matches, and he was there racing. We hit it off instantly. He is pure, unadulterated fun, and if you want a good time, Chandler is absolutely the guy.
He knows all the hot spots no matter which city we land in. For years, our routine was simple: I would call him when I needed to let loose and forget about cuts and weight classes, and he would call me if he was bored.
But something happened almost a year ago that had me thinking twice about hanging out with him. I haven't been able to quite shake the memory, which is why I've kept him at arm's length until today.
The loud rock music in the car becomes a backdrop to the vivid memory, almost a soundtrack. I still remember that night vividly. It was in upper class part of the city. I had a massive headache that day. I had already taken some over-the-counter pills, but the throbbing just wouldn't quit. I had already promised Chandler I would meet him, and I was afraid he'd think I was making excuses, so I still went to the club.
Chandler, to his credit, noticed something was wrong immediately. He asked what was up, and when I told him about the pain, he was instantly solicitous. He took out a bottle of pills, the white label indistinct in the low light.
At the time, I should have been more diligent, more suspicious. But the lights were dim, and the noise was too explosive, making my head throb even more. Chandler told me the pill would make me better, and my dumb ass took it.
When I saw there were no quick improvements, he gave me a hotel key card. He said I could go rest there for a while, away from the bass and the noise. Chandler was genuinely trying to help, his concern sincere. But the chain of events that followed were so catastrophic that I don't even want to fully think about them.
As for the kiss that happened afterwards, the one I referenced earlier, that was on another night out. I was drunk out of my mind and truly mistook him for someone else, the person from that night.
Every time I hung out with Chandler, there would inevitably be a disaster. Not always his fault, but always connected to him, a whirlwind of bad decisions and worse outcomes. He was like a jinx that brought about a string of bad luck.
I decided to avoid him for a while, a self-imposed exile from his chaotic orbit. Who would have thought we'd meet here, of all places, today?
I need to redirect. I come back to myself, realizing I haven't actually told him where to drive. "Where are we going?" he asks.
"At St. Ives Hospital," I answer.
Chandler turns his head sharply, his face instantly filled with panic. "What happened? Are you ill?"
"No," I say, the word flat. "My dad had a minor accident."
"Oh. Doesn't it have anything to do with the Alaisters?" he asks, his voice surprisingly serious.
"Don't even mention them to me," I snarl. "They wrecked the gym just to force me to come here."
He furrows his brows, turning the steering wheel expertly. "Wrecked the gym? What was so important that they had to use such a method?"
I sigh, the frustration tightening my chest again. "I can't even talk about it. I'm still fucking pissed."
Chandler doesn't push it. Instead, he lightens the mood. "Let me get something for him, maybe a basket of fruits."
I turn to look at him, my expression mocking. "You failed to lure me into your trap, now you want to go through my dad?"
Chandler laughs out loud, a boisterous sound that clears the tension. "You got me. I will show your father that I am a good man. He will give me permission to marry you."
I punch his shoulder gently. "I don't want to be a part of your harem."
We stop at a red light. Chandler looks over, his eyes twinkling. "You can be the main wife and supervise the harem."
I chuckle. "I don't like sharing."
"Damn it," he says, as the light turns green and he accelerates again.
***
The sleek sports car pulls up outside St. Ives Hospital. I feel the smooth suspension settle as Chandler cuts the engine. I reach for the door handle.
Before I can get out, Chandler's voice stops me. "I'm serious," he says, his smugness momentarily gone. "Let's hang out again. I promise I won't cause trouble."
A small, genuine smile touches my lips. He's an idiot, but he's a sincere idiot. "I'll think about it."
Chandler is visibly happy. "Okay! See you later then. Oh, and pick up my calls!"
I just wave my hand and get out, closing the door behind me. I pass by the hospital store and grab a fruit basket and a black coffee for myself.
I enter the quiet corridor and find the ward. My father is awake, propped up against the pillows. His eyes light up when he sees me, but there's a weariness there that aches to look at. I place the heavy basket on the side table.
"You're back," he says, his voice raspy. "It seems you didn't get into a fight."
"I did," I admit, walking closer. "But I beat the shit out of the security."
Leif glances at my knuckles, which are still bruised and red from my outburst at the Alaister gate. He lets out a long, slow sigh.
"What did they want?" he asks, his voice tight.