#romanreigns

The donation for my tuition was the seed planted that grew the forest. Now my reality is rooted and tangled in luxury I only used to dream of. The donations and compensation for my time and abruptly being tugged out of my life and into his, come more often than not now. 

So much so, Demi and I were able to wish the studio apartment a long awaited farewell. Twenty-eight hundred dollar rent would’ve made me choke on absolutely nothing just a few months ago. Now, it's the minor cost I pay to live comfortably, in our three bedroom condo planted in the heart of Manhattan. 

The space was a bit much for just two girls, who were barely there—by virtue of our packed schedules. So we took in a stray, as Demi would call him. Anthony—or as he referred to himself as, our Fairy Gaymother—was the perfect fit to our complicated puzzle. A twenty-four year old alum to Columbia, and the children’s hospital’s youngest surgical technician—who prides himself on dating the most giving and generous of foreign men, who only come to the city for business purposes. 

Only three weeks shy of graduation, we decided to take a much earned breather. Celebrating on the rooftop of this hotel, with an overflow of mimosas, conversation about men and the things we hate about them, consuming food at the highest prices inflation can convey. 

Dressed in all white, brown skins accentuated by the gold we decorate ourselves with, and champagne glasses held up to heaven.

“I’ve watched you two bust your asses for four months now. So, this is well deserved. I am so proud of y’all. Cheers to being young, black and educated.”

“Exactly,” Demi agrees.

“Raising the bar,” he continues. “And deleting that damn Canvas app… until med school.” A sharp clink of our glasses sounds off like a bold period to his cheers speech. 

Bzzz! Bzzz!

I place the glass down after downing half of it, to replace it with my phone.

Your Tribal Chief wanted me to let you know you’re needed in Miami next weekend. Flight information has been emailed. 

It's not even an inquiry anymore. They already know I’ll show. 

Butterflies erupt in my diaphragm nevertheless at the realization that I haven’t seen him since the beginning of the month. He was generous enough to provide Demi and I Wrestle-mania tickets. In the wake of our schedules, we were only able to attend night one. 

I’m sure he had desired to spend night two surrounded by family anyway. He took the pin and ended a legendary title reign. He’s been the top guy for so long—I’m sure it took a piece of him regardless of the preparation for the shift behind the scenes. 

Demi and I watched in horror from the condo. Mouths catching flies, even minutes after the fact. We had just been there. I had just been with him. He gave no signs of anticipated defeat. He wasn’t moving like a man ready to step down from greatness. Or maybe he did. Maybe it was in between the lines of him practically demanding I be waiting for him in the trailer immediately after his match. Or the unsolicited aggression as he took me from the back. The unforgiving grip on my neck. The scandalous and countless slaps to my ass, followed by painful grips of flesh. The fine lines that garnished his nose as his upper lip curved into a snarl in between strokes. The sharp bites like a feral python in place of kisses. 

Okay, thanks.

Call me if you have any questions. I’d pack very light. It’s scorching down here.

Miami…a city in such close proximity to his home. His real life. A territory nether of us touch as if it's poison ivy— opting to pretend it doesn’t even exist. But we know. It's all in the way I’m still only able to get in touch with Paul and not him. All in the days that pass between one getaway to the next. All in the routinely compensation for services. It’s disguised as a helping hand, but I already know it’s hush money. Insurance. A pretty bow wrapped on a box that guarantees his secret stays exactly that. 

This isn’t the first time he’s flown me out. Our arrangement started as him just dipping into me every time he was on this end of the map. Now, wherever he is, is never too far to get me to. 

The first time was in Green Bay, Wisconsin. Christmas was approaching. New York was covered and knee deep in snow. He was already in Wisconsin, preparing for Smackdown. Thursday, the night before, I received the regular text from Paul.

Locked away in another five star hotel, I waited all day for him. Watched the show air in real time as The Bloodline faced heat from none other than Mr. Voices In My Head himself—Randy Orton. The wee hours of the night crept up on me as I laid stretched out on the plush, king-sized hotel bed. The clock read 1:41 a.m. when the subtle buzz of the room key granting access, reached my ears. Like a dog awaiting its owner’s arrival, I shot up. Daddy’s home.

Lines of defeat and hard work all over his golden face. Rich beard, grayer than I had ever seen before. His bun, loose and not as pristine as usual. He was still the finest man I had ever laid eyes on. Every encounter—every late night as he shed another layer of Roman off to reveal Joe, it only made my attraction to him spread like wildfire. 

Still, always reeling myself back to the impenetrable truth, that this was just sex. An exchange. Bearing witness to the lessons of my business classes— his market has a need and I’m his supplier. I know my role. And for him I act it out with grace and confidence every time.

He removed his Nike hoodie and emptied everything from his sweatpants’ pockets on top of the dresser. Again, twisting the black band off and burying it in the drawer with the rest of his guilt.

“I need a massage,” he declared with hands rested on his hips. The expression on his face and his tone suggested it was a question, but I knew better. I sat planted on my knees that sunk into the mattress, longer than I intended because the sincerity sparkling in his eyes—the neediness shook me. 

Hastily, I disappeared into the ensuite bathroom as he took my place on the edge of the bed. The complimentary lotion and some type of oil, is what I return with. He’s shirtless laid out on his stomach. Eyes already shut in comfort. 

Situating myself on his butt, I squeezed what I thought was a sufficient amount of lotion and scented oil into my palms. Rubbing it into my hands before sliding it evenly across his defined back in erratic patterns. Digging deep and showing supplemental love to every ridge and dip I find. I didn’t think my small hands were making an impact until he released a deep breath paired with a moan.

“Mmm.” The vibration transmitted from his core, to my hands flattened on his back, landing in my hot center. I’m sure he could feel her heating up—but nothing came of it.

That was how the night carried on. Me kneading and caressing his hard back and soft skin, until I heard the soft snores I’m accustomed to dozing off to after a long night. We didn’t do our usual. No sex. No head. No lingerie. No dirty talk. Just a much needed massage to a man who offers his life to his fans and the mat—followed by sleep.

As expected, when the sun hit my face through the drapes, I found myself alone. No trace of him. Just the lingering and faint smell of his natural scent mixed with whatever he uses for his hair. And the note on the dresser. Same message every time.

Thanks for last night.

Followed by his name and the two R’s.

I learned quickly that this little arrangement between us was exactly as Paul described that first night. He was just in need of company. Comfort on the road. An outlet. I’m here to help him unwind. That’s going to look different some nights. Some nights we fuck. Some nights he just wants to be held in complete and serene silence. Other nights I'm his personal masseuse. I know the declaration I made that night in the Hamptons, but I can’t help but always wonder if he’s like this with the others. I deem it exhausting to be spread so thin, wearing different faces for all of us.

I keep those inquiries to myself now, though. The less I know, the better. The thicker the line between us, the better. For me and for him. He’s living a double life as is. I’m here to help ease the other one or ones—and pull him away from it all, even if just for a few days. Catching feelings defeats the purpose, not making me useful anymore. And I’m not in the business of not being useful to him.

Yet and still, it nudges the back of my conscience how the inevitable split will come. I know this won’t last forever. It can’t possibly. I do have my own life too. Maybe it didn’t seem that way to him because every time he puts a Bat signal out, I’m here at the ready. 

I yearn to be someone’s wife one day—yearn for love. Motherhood possibly. I can’t hang onto whatever this is forever. So yeah—the thicker the line, the better. That way when we have to break, it’ll be easy…Right?

“I’m actually a little tired of hearing about you and the Italian. All you two do is make love. Call me when y’all get into a scuffle or something.” Demi yawns.

“Well, someone has to share their mancapades. You’ve been single since Obama was in office.”He flicks a long finger my way. “This one here has a mystery sponsor she refuses to talk about.”

An unpremeditated grin adorns my me at the mention of him. Sponsor. I think I like that term better than Demi’s Sugar Chief.

“Mmph,” She catches my smile. I wish she’d get out of my head sometimes.

“I mean seriously— what is the big deal with him? I’m starting to think the man is famous…or married.”

Tight-lipped, I shrug, pulling my oversized Chanel shades over my face— to avoid lying straight to his. How has he hit it on the nail twice? Demi and I have been working like ants to keep Anthony at bay. He’s always interrogative of the secret phone calls, random deposits and last minute trips. I can feel his discovery creeping up like a lion on the prowl.

“You don’t worry about my friend and her mystery man. Her services have been keeping us all fed.” She gestures to the contents of the table. I shake my head at her mocking Paul.

“Yeah, well whatever the arrangement,” Anthony waves a hand. “Next time you see him, just whisper in his ear about me, would you?” I raise a brow. “Just tell him you have a roommate that’s on the hunt for a rich mantoy. And not one I have to hide.”

“Mantoy?” Demi’s face scrunches up.

“Yeah! I know baby boy has to have a cousin or something.”

“Yeah.” Demi chuckles bringing the mimosa to her lips. “It depends. You like seeing double?” I pinch her under the table, covering my laugh with my other hand.

“Oh, no. Maybe he prefers they come solo,” I add. We erupt into a fit of laughter together. coaxing Anthony’s wrinkly forehead as he looks between us both— smiling apprehensively.

“Wait,” Demi holds a hand up, lip quivering from all the shenanigans. “Twilight. Were you into the vampire or the werewolf?”

“Alright!” I reach into my purse pressing my lips together, barricading any more giggles. I pull  out six crisp hundred dollar bills and slide them to the middle of the table. “On that note, I’m gonna go. It’s been real, gal and gay.” I raise up to kiss them both goodbye.

“You’re insufferable,” I whisper into Demi’s ear after a kiss to her cheek.

“You love me,” she replies lowly, flashing her teeth.

“Whisper in his ear!” Anthony reminds me before I reach the elevator that leads to the rest of the hotel.

“Believe me I will!”

“Thank you for your services,” Demi waves the hundred dollar bills in the air.

In the back of the Uber, I decide to check in with Paul.

“Lana,” he greets me over the phone. My phone. Thats right—we’ve also wished the payphone a farewell. 

“Paul,” I greet back with the phone smushing between my ear and shoulder to shuffle through my purse. “I’m just calling to make sure it's only for the weekend?”

“Yes, the weekend is all he said.”

“Good.” Still with a million and one things in queue before graduation, I can’t afford to go M.I.A for a whole week.

“And you’ll be taking the jet again.”

“Lovely. Nice doing business with you.”

“Pleasure as always.” Ready to take the phone away from my ear to hang up, I hear my name again. “Oh—and Lana?”

“Yeah?”

“Congratulations.” For a man that presents himself as an evil, flip-flopping mastermind on screen, behind the scenes he sure is an empathetic softy. 

“Thank you.”

“I know the concept of graduation and the real world is quite scary, but trust me, before you know it you’ll be thirty.” I cringe. “Married, with babies, wishing you had these same problems instead.”

Babies…babies.

The energy in my walk-in closet was charged with nothing but irritation and the doom of dare I say it—judgment. She sat on the white ottoman in the center as I moved about—sharply hanging shirts and folding jeans, that on a normal day, would’ve sat in the hamper for weeks until I found the drive to deal with them. But it's not a normal day. Nothing is ever normal anymore.

It's one of those days that’ll stick with me. One of those days that I’ll think about on a random day when everything is seemingly fine. One of those days that if I’m lucky, I'll never have ever again.

She’s not talking anymore since I revealed my verdict. Demi and silence didn’t go together. It was an unlikely pair. One that gave you angst—a tornado in your stomach. Usually a context clue that something was deadly wrong. She didn’t need to speak. Four years now—living together, learning each other—loving each other. I already knew. I could already feel it.

The stinging sensation in my eyes expanded the longer she waited to speak. I knew it was coming, but the anticipation was useless. That lump in my throat grew, until swallowing brought physical pain.

“—I can’t believe you wouldn’t even just tell him.”

“What is there to tell? Huh?” My eyes widen at her even as she purposely avoided my heavy stare. “What am I supposed to do? Call Paul? And say what exactly?” I ridicule. “It won’t change anything. What do you think will happen here?”

I’d rather be anywhere else. Doing anything else. And talking about anything else. But I had been hiding already. I knew this was coming. The appointment was made days ago. And I had the nerve to walk around the condo, not even mentioning it. Leaving out whenever she came in. Eating in my room, instead of hers or the living room. Making it painfully obvious. There was nowhere else to go now. 

“You don’t think he at least deserves to know?”

“The appointment is already made. It's done.”

“I’m not saying you shouldn’t do it. Thats not for me to say. It’s your body—”

“So, what are you saying?”

“It’s half apart of him—”

“It,” I slapped the jeans in my hand against my thighs. “Is not anything. Okay? It is not even conscious. It has no cognitive abilities. It isn’t even the size of my fist. It's a fucking tumor— a parasite if anything.” I don’t know what took over me. All of the stares, bullhorns, signs with messages of hate and condemnation— the campaigns in the wake of all thats been going on with the laws surrounding it— was all starting to consume me. A problem I never thought I’d have to bear. But isn’t that what we always think? A problem isn’t really a problem, until it's our problem.

“And it's gonna ruin my life.” My voice cracks. “And his.”

I have things I want to do— accomplishments untouched collecting dust on the shelf, that I’d like to see through. This would put the ugliest blockade on that. I’m an absolute mess. Nothing that permanent would even fit into my life.

“It’ll change everything. This thing we have going—it's gonna be over and done with. I know it.”

“Thats what you’re scared of?”

The words get stuck in my throat—choking me. It's not about this new life and I really wish it had been. It’d be so much easier for me to just say I don’t want the perks to stop. But it's not about that. I hate that it isn’t. I hate that every time I wait in the five star hotel room, or his condo in Miami—that I’ve already forgotten about the lingerie, shoes, or bag he’s left on the bed—and my heart picks up speed when I see him walk through that door. 

“I don't know.” I lie through my teeth.

“I don't think he’ll respond the way you think he would.” 

“Let me guess,” I laugh mockingly. “He’s gonna come with me?” I raise a brow. “Come hold my hand? Tuh!” I shove the stack of jeans into a slot on the wall. It wasn’t fucking fitting, so I forced it— not having the capacity to figure out anything as simple as folding and putting clothes away. My mind too cluttered for simple every day tasks. “I know I don’t say what’s going on—mainly because I can’t. But you’re smart. You know exactly what’s been going on. I show you the lingerie—the shoes—my account. You see it all.”

“You’re a fool if you think it's still just sex, even now—”

“Demi, I don't need to hear this right now. Don’t you have to go to the hospital soon?”

“I told Miss Tonia I can’t come in today.”

Of course. Shaking my head, I lose the grip on the jeans in my hands. They slipped as I held the back of my hand to my nose, to ease that tickle. It started as one tear. Then another from my other eye, even heavier than the first, joined the race to my chin. Before I knew it my shoulders were shaking violently, and my vision was blurred.

I felt small arms encompass me from behind. Face pressed against my back as I came undone in the middle of the closet. If anyone was to walk in, they’d find two young girls, who had seen way too much, way too soon. Everything passing them by, but only one thing remained—stable and unwavering like a coast redwood tree. Their friendship.

“Right,” I force a laugh. “I have to go—thank you.” Without giving him an opportunity to respond, I press the red button and slam the phone face down on the leather seat. Breathe, Lana.

Tuesday, April 30, 2024

Brows turning down and nose turning up from the smell of books, books and more books—I stick a palm to my forehead, while jotting down the same notes repetitively in red pen. They say it helps to remember it this way. 

The library is ironically empty, considering it’s final’s week. On the top floor like always, I sit alone at the extensive shiny, dark-wood table. A single antique lamp in the center of it, giving life to this corner of the library.

I take my last final of undergrad tomorrow morning. Marking the official end of my best and worst chapter in life. College. 

They give all the trainings and seminars before they send you off, but they never really prepare you for the end. All month long, thoughts of what happens next sneak up on me. 

Where will I go? What will I do? Sure I have a plan, but if there’s anything I’ve learned about life in twenty-two brisk years—it's that plans are just suggestions. Nothing is definite in this life. The curse and the gift.

My pen hits the thick college-ruled notebook, watching my phone buzz. A picture of a baby Lana being held by her five year old, toothless brother overrides my home screen.

“Yes?” 

“You know—robbing banks even if you do it electronically—is still illegal.”

“The word you’re looking for is scamming, dickhead. And what the hell are you talking about?”

“There she is. That’s the Lana, I know. Not the one who buys me thirty-five hundred dollar paintings for my birthday.”

“So, you did get it?”

“Alana.”

“What?”

He chuckles. “Girl, where did you get the money for this?”

“Does it matter?”

“Uh— yeah, kind of? Especially since me and Chloe been throwing theories back and forth and all we could come up with was scamming or prostitution.” Well…he’s not completely out of range.

Something like a laugh escapes my throat. “How is Chloe?” I haven't seen my brother or his long-term girlfriend since Christmas. He didn’t show for the weekend I spent home on New Year’s and untraditionally of me, I didn’t come home for my birthday last month. 

I miss him in only the way siblings can miss each other. We can spend an hour together, at the most—laughing and reminiscing about how we grew up and things we miss about it—before we start fussing about nothing and disagreeing about anything. Then, I need distance again and maybe I’ll miss him again in another two to three months. 

“We broke up.”

“What?!” I shriek and immediately swivel my head to find I am in fact not the only person on this floor. Shit. “What?” I press in a fierce whisper.

His boisterous laugh fills my left ear, influencing my shoulders to drop a little. I shake my head—picking up the red pen I dropped again on the notebook. “I’m just fucking with you. Everything’s good. She’s good.”

“I can’t stand you. I don’t know how she does—willingly.”

“Don't try to switch the subject up. The painting?”

“You know—usually when people receive a birthday gift—especially a really expensive one—they say thank you.”

“I’m getting there. I’m just trying to figure out first, what my little sister has been doing to afford said really expensive gift.”

“Did you like it?” I side step his curiosity the same way I do with my parents. I plumule them with questions of my own. They’re still asking with every phone call,“how are you paying rent in a condo in Manhattan?” They bought the random donor for my bill. Everything else, they were absolutely not going for.

“You’ve never been this consistent with anything in your whole life.” It's not a secret that my brother is a nomad in careers. In high school, he fixated on basketball. In undergrad he wanted to get into tech. And now as an overgrown graduate, his new thing? Art. “Who’s paying you?” I probe.

“I don't know what you talking about…” I wait. “It's mommy. She said she’d pay my rent for the month if I got it out of you.” There we go. “She told me about you moving out the condo and going to Miami for your birthday. I didn’t believe her. Then I got the painting last week.” I exhale deeply. “She’s really worried, Lana.”

“Mommy starts her day worrying about something. How is me having money and living comfortably, cause for worry?”

“Because just last year you were asking to hold two hundred dollars and sharing a studio. Come on now. And when we ask—you do this. Deflect.”

“Make something up. I don’t know. Believe me—it's nothing to worry about.”

“I hope you’re leading with your head and not your heart.”

My face balls up. “You sound like your father.”

“That’s not good…” He’s quiet for a beat. Probably thinking of another angle. He can poke and prod like the detectives Benson and Stabler. I’m solid. He releases a breath through the phone. “Looks like I’ll be paying my own rent.”

“Damn.” It wasn’t just about the NDA. It was the weight of the judgment I anticipate. Hell, I look at myself sideways some nights thinking about this life I’ve created that’s sewn in lies and adultery.

“I saw your mans lost his title a while back. Shit crazy.”

I freeze up—pen stopping mid stroke at the mention of him. How does he find his way in every part of my life? “Crazy,” I agree with no inflation in my voice.

“You still watch wrestling?”

“Not really,” I lie. “Haven't really had that much time to, anyway.”

“That last lap is a bitch, ain't it?”

“Shitting me?” He chuckles.

“Don’t be expecting a thirty-five hundred dollar graduation gift. It’ll be more like thirty-five dollars. Seeing as I have to pay my own rent and stuff.”

“Still waiting on my thank you.”

“Thank you, Lana. I really do appreciate it.”

“There you go. Did that kill you?”

“Where’d you get it?”

“I went to this art show in Brooklyn. I saw it and it immediately felt like you.”

“So, this new Lana is paid and she has feelings? I don’t know who he is, but send ol’ boy my love and blessings.” 

Thursday, May 2, 2024

“Completely bald?”

“Completely bald.” Demi confirms. “Wasn’t a single hair left on that bitch. I almost asked him did he have business hours. My wax lady don’t even get me right like that.”

I shake my head, continuing the assault on my MacBook keyboard, racing to the finish line of this paper before 11:59 strikes. The last lap, I remind myself. Curling further into the corner of the cream-colored couch—toes sinking into the spongy cushion—I use Demi and Anthony’s pubic hair exchange as background noise.

Unfortunately, for my best friend, she’s experiencing another failed attempt of “getting out there.” Everything was seamless with the younger twenty-one year old quarterback, who plays for St John’s an hour away from us. Closing in on two weeks of thoughtful dates and suggestive texts, she finally decided to see what he was talking about in the bedroom. To her dismay, she discovered a whole lot more than a horse. The horse was bald.

Demi and Anthony sit on the carpet below me by the coffee table. Their lax game of Go Fish on complete pause after her revelation to the group.

“Wow.” Anthony puts his entire deck face down now, too invested in her dilemma. “Now, as a ponk—I prefer it. I didn’t know straight men did that shit too?”

“Neither did I! I mean he pulled it out and wham! Like am I fucking a seven year old?” My unsolicited snort causes her to swivel in my direction. “He could’ve at least left a little bit. A nice trim. I don’t need the whole forest.”

“So you like a little hair?” Anthony presses with dents in his brows. You would’ve thought they were sharing how they like their steak to be cooked. “Thats interesting. La, what about you?”

Demi leans back on both palms where she sits—face fixing with amusement. “Yeah, La. What about you?”

“This mystery man—he’s older isn’t he?” I nod. Nonverbal. “I feel like older men don’t even bother with that type of stuff. They just let it do its thing.”

My Samoan giant definitely trims. My mind is overrun by the soapy smell as he forces me all the way down until my nose is buried in the black hairs. “Trim,” I reveal. 

He gasps. “Really? Every thing I thought I knew is wrong.” 

Capping the last sentence on the screen with a period, I release the deepest sigh. Proofreading. Yeah, right. The graduation application has been accepted already. Clicking submit, I shove the pink device off my lap. “Well, was it big?” I break the silence.

“Eh.” She waves a hand. “Now that mouth? Something completely different.”

Anthony swats her leg. “You naughty girl. I thought y’all didn’t do anything.”

“No.” She beams. “I told you we didn’t have sex.”

“Did you return the favor?” I ask.

“I wasn’t putting my mouth anywhere near that hairless hotdog.” I feel a buzz underneath my outstretched leg. “Back to abstinence I go.” 

Without even knowing the contents of the message, a giddiness—girl-like and dainty—possesses me upon seeing the football and black heart emoji combo. 

i’m outside

Like I said—my life looks completely different now. 

“Uh oh.” Anthony retrieves his deck from the carpet. “I know what that means.”

Biting my lip between a smile— I stand, stepping into my Ugg slippers. “I’ll be back.” I regret to inform.

“Mmhmm.” Demi grins. “Tell him I said hi.”

Down the building elevator and through the lobby, the pit in my stomach grows with every advancement. Exiting my building into the night air of May—sounds of sirens and music from cars speeding by are powerful. New York is a different animal when the temperature rises. I spot the matte black Mercedes AMG a few steps up the block. Lights still on with a familiar sultry R&B beat, muffled and pounding from it. 

I knock on the tinted window, placing my hands in the pockets of my Spider hoodie. Seconds later the door is pushing open to reveal him.

Jaire Alexander. Twenty-seven year old cornerback for the Green Bay Packers. He sinks back into the leather seat, getting comfortable, marinating into all his five foot ten energy. The car smells brand new despite him having it for over a year now. Always carrying the energy of “chill, but still a big deal,” he’s dressed in a black Nike Tech, accompanied by something very sparkly on his wrist. His Creed cologne, overpowering the small space in the best way. A smoke signal to anyone near by, that a man—a well established one—is in the midst. 

I turn in my seat as we perform that same dance we do every time we see one another. Smiling like two teenagers who just passed the “do you like me,” note in class. His dimple is soft, a contradiction to his sharp jawline. He reaches to turn the knob on the radio—lowering the comforting sounds of Dilema by Nelly and Kelly Rowland.

“What you smiling at?” My shoulders rise and fall as my cheeks grow tender. His low chuckle fills the car. “Still not a woman of many words?”

“Still trying to figure you out, is all.”

A drunk night in Miami for my twenty-second birthday, had me literally colliding into him. I shut him down—like I do every man that crosses my path. But Jaire was consistent and charming as fuck. He was hard to sidestep and ignore. His laid back southern charm captivating me from the start. 

It's unfortunate what lies behind the curtain. My life just doesn’t call for whatever this is. It was a classic case of right person, wrong fucking time.

I really wish we had met at a different time. Under different circumstances. Maybe five years from now—when I’ve exhausted all my use to him and he’s retired the ring, ready to live out the rest of his days with his football team of kids and the one that actually makes his heart beat like mine is right now. 

“I could say the same thing about you.” He looks down—tongue sliding over his perfect top row of teeth. “Wouldn’t have to wonder no longer if you’d just let me take you out. A real date.” It's my turn to shy away from his intense stare. His pear-colored eyes with specks of brown, enough to make any woman fall to her knees. “Don’t you think this car thing is getting a lil’ old?”

This is as far as we’ve got. From Miami, to random phone calls and text messages, to unforeseen visits when his schedule permits—like right now. The most we do is talk about surface stuff.  School. Major news. Our favorite things. How our day is going. Nothing too deep. That’s my doing. I don’t want the strings to get too tight in the event I have to cut them altogether. The most intimate thing we’ve done includes him taking my small hand into his large one as he compares the size.

“Soon,” I promise for the umpteenth time. I can’t see a near future where this works with what else I have going on, but the way my soul relaxes when I’m around him just won’t allow me to cut this off. 

While in the spirit of disappointment—I release a deep breath in preparation to keep it going. “I’m gonna be M.I.A again this weekend.”

His head rolls back until it hits the head rest. “You killing me, Lana.”

“I know—I know.” I shake my head, fixing my gaze out the windshield, watching a couple hand in hand pass by on the street. “It's just the weekend.”

“And after that?”

My mouth opens and closes, because I have nothing for him. No plans. No good news. Just more words I can’t say. More half stories mixed with half truths.

This isn’t how any exchange between two potential lovers should start. A foundation built on lies, secrets, and deceit. No—thats reserved for him. This… This is something completely different. Or at least that’s how it feels. He feels good to me in a way that not just the other one doesn’t, but in a way no man ever has. It’s genuine. It’s organic. I’m myself. He’s hisself. There’s no angst— no looking over my shoulder. No confusion. No grey area with him. You know that feeling when you meet a man and you can just tell from the burn of your cheeks with every laugh, every word in that first exchange—that he’ll be in your life for a very long time? The heat—the jump in your heart when he says his name to you for the first time.

“Balls in your court…always has been.”

Friday, May 3, 2024

The cool water from his condo’s infinity pool is a soothing contrast to Miami’s humidity. Even now, at eleven at night. Paul was right. If the emerging heat in New York is unforgiving, then the heat ensuing down here is just relentless. 

The city is lit up below me. Lively and vibrant—leaving me to wonder what could be happening. I down the rest of the costly champagne he had waiting for me, wrapped in a pink bow on the bed. No note and of course he wasn’t there with it. I’m not sure of the occasion, but there never really is one when I’m greeted with expensive gifts from him. Just candy to keep the baby quiet.

I’m sure he’s oblivious or rather careless to my recent accomplishments. 

My insides heat up—face growing hot as I grow restless. Champagne bottle half gone. I push myself over to the opposite side of the pool where he’s seated. 

I waited all day as usual. Excitement diminishing when he finally entered just to be on a business call. What fucking business is there to discuss at eleven at night?

I missed him—or maybe the dick. Either way I’m feigning for something that’s lacking. I rest my chin on my forearms—holding myself steady on the edge. 

“That’s what I’m saying. If he wants more—the numbers have to go up.” He talks with a large hand. Legs spread apart, just begging for me to sit on him. Saying fuck the glass—I bring the bottle to my lips. A battery in my back to execute the plan in my head.

Reaching behind me, untying the knot of the colorful Pucci bikini top, I release the double D’s that never fail to steal his attention. The material pops as it comes undone, resting in between my now exposed breast. Nipples a shade darker than my skin and hard as rocks due to the cold water and stretching arousal. 

He didn’t even need to do anything. Just thinking of him all day—the anticipation built since Paul’s text letting me know I would see him soon—was enough to turn me on. 

His bottom lip sinks into his mouth as he squints in my direction. Shuffling in the lounge chair with a strong hand running down his thigh.

“Right,” he agrees with the other party of his phone call with a flat tone. I bite my lip failing to hide my amusement. I push away from the ledge to dive back. The water—cold and powerful swallowing me until I pop back to the surface. Fingertips wrinkly and chlorine invading my senses. Placing palms on the ledge— I push myself up and out. Breast bouncing freely with every step that leaves a trail of water on the stone flooring. 

He hasn’t blinked once. Eyes bright—the lights from the city and pool reflecting off them. Fixating like a movie projector lens, recording my every move. I pay him and myself a favor— untwisting the cap off with a loud pop and pouring a double shot of whatever brown liquid was housing the decanter he brought out with him and hadn’t even touched. It runs smooth into the glass—mimicking the much broader sound of the pool’s filter. 

I extend it to him. Tongue sliding over my teeth, watching him watch me. Instead of taking ahold of the glass itself, he wraps a large hand over mine—prompting me to pour the shot into his mouth. He doesn’t even react to the alcohol.

In the spirit of temptation, I turn to plant myself on top of his inviting manspread. Shifting to the side so both my legs can drape over his toned thigh. Dripping wet from the swim I took—he’s not even fazed. He just sinks deeper into the lounge creating more space for me to get comfortable. 

“Mmhm,” he hums in agreement. The strong and persistent voice echoing from the speaker of his phone, a straight cockblock. 

Sliding a wet hand up his black shirt, I find the soft skin of his abdomen stretched over his rippling muscles. Acrylic black French tips dragging up and across. Then down, brushing over the tent begging for attention despite its owner’s current distractions.

Rising to my knees, I maneuver one on the other side to straddle him. Making sure all of the heat from me brushes right up against the beast. All the while, leaning over to retrieve another shot from the decanter. This one is for me. 

It hits me right in my chest and spreads—not showing any mercy on the furnace that is already growing in pussy. Literally aching— I shift in his lap, creating much needed friction. Taking his free hand in mine, guiding it to my slim stomach. His fingers spread, damn near covering my entire mid section. Eyes locking on me. I slide it up so he’s covering my entire left titty. 

This is backfiring. Teasing him only makes me more antsy, feeling like a boiling pot of water with the lid shaking off.

His mouth widens—eyeballing the two thick fingers of his I slide all the way up to my warm mouth to suck.

“Sounds good…Yup—alright. See you soon, man.” In a rush, his thumb is on the red button and he tosses the phone to the table, not even looking to ensure its landing. Before it even hits the table I’m on him. Biting, licking, sucking everywhere that’s available. He’s no better. Gunning for my neck at the same time I angle to find his. 

“We don’t know patience tonight?” He smiles through a kiss. 

“I don't have any left,” I answer in between assaulting his mouth with licks. His smile deepens, advertising a single dimple peaking out from underneath the thick hairs on his cheek. Rough hands grip my face, stilling me. Everything pausing for a moment.

“Hey,” he whispers.

“Hi.” I greet back—a small giggle ensuing. All confidence burning out under his immediate attention now. But he’s on me and there’s absolutely nowhere to hide.

He’s slimmed down a lot these last couple of months. I don’t know if it's intentional, but he looks damn good either way. Almost like his younger self when he used to run around with Seth and Dean. The ridges and valleys that map his body—from his arms, strong back and his core—more defined than ever. The grey in his beard a permeant staple now. Damn.

I look down between us—his stare too intense. I’ll never get used to this. No amount of alcohol—no drug can suppress the young Lana gawking at the one and only, Roman Reigns. 

My eyes make the trail back up to his. Smiling with his eyes and nothing else. “There she is,” he whispers.

My heart thumps just a little harder. A little faster. Yielding to the courage of alcohol—slow and deliberate—I lean in again, but not to kiss his lips this time. Once over his forehead. Another over the crinkle in the corner of his left eye. The definition of his cheekbone. Then, finally I arrive at his mouth. He takes the initiative to slither his tongue inside, after a drawn out peck. Our breath picking up again as another power struggle ensues. My hand sneaks behind him to tug at the bun until it comes undone. My wild Samoan. 

The kiss is sloppy and dizzying much like the alcohol is slowly but surely making me. So much so, I barely register the push of his hips, as he slides his shorts down just enough to release himself. The hand he has digging into my hip, unties one string on my bottoms, freeing me. 

A sharp gasp pulls from me as I crane my neck up at the feel of him—wide and strong filling every inch of me.

“This shit…” The wind he releases from his nostrils is heavy against my neck, before he sinks his teeth into my throat. 

I can’t wait to adjust. I need it now. My hips wind up and down chasing that feeling that’s closer than it usually is. Heat possesses me as I lean a hand back on his leg continuing to grind on him. Massive hands cover the entirety of my breasts, only heightening this euphoria. 

“So tight.” He strains with a locking jaw. The depth in his voice another brick stacking itself atop of my nagging climax.

His mouth falls open with shut eyes, relaxing as I do my thing. “Oh my god—I’m gonna cum already.” I pant. Thigh muscles aching, breathless and grip on his leg slipping—but I refuse to slow up. This shit just feels too good.

He grows unbelievably stiffer inside of me. My end so close if I reach out I can touch it. I whimper and nearly throw a fit when he rises all the way up, standing at full height with my legs wrapping around him.

Top row of pearly whites sinking into his plump bottom lip, while he lays me flat on the lounge chair. My frustration is snipped watching him lift his shirt up and off, exposing that masterpiece of a body. The ink on his arm jumping when he grips himself to sink back inside. 

“Unnhh!” A muffling moan erupts at the feel of him bottoming out, but as quick as he’s in, he’s back out to slide his full length between my lips. I jump at the tingle on my bundle of nerves where his head grazes. “Joe, please,” I beg. Vacant of any shame. One hand tangled in my wet hair, the other cupping my breast. Both our stomachs rising and falling at the thrill we’ve orchestrated.

My hole clenches around nothing and it’s enough to make me go mad like a woman possessed. Earning a full view of him and his naked glory will only make me spiral. I squirm against him and the soft cushion under me. Eyes inching down where he continues to rock on me and not inside of me. 

I quite literally take matters into my own hands, reaching to bury him where I need. My breath coming out shaky. He goes as deep as humanly possible—heavy hands on the back of my thighs, spreading me apart. My everything on display for him. Lips glistening under the moonlight, pink skin pulling him in, and even pinker nub distended completely. 

His eyes switch back and forth over my face and my center. “Touch it for me,” he urges not slowing his strokes. 

His obedient soldier. I reach a hand down, eyes closing, mouth in an “O” shape. You would think I’m back at the condo, locked in my room during that small window on Friday afternoons, where Anthony is still at the hospital and Demi is in her last class. It's like he’s not even here. Just a silent passenger in the vehicle as I drive myself to the big bang. That is until the weight of him is crushing me as he accelerates, capturing my mouth in an invasive kiss. The hairs of his full beard scraping my face—a complete deviation from his delicate lips. I hum at the taste of him. Warm and commanding, just like the liquor he consumed. His tongue is everywhere. My neck, collarbone, shoulder, chest, nipples, the valley between them—until he finds his way back into my mouth. Warm, solid and wet.

He pulls back just enough to watch me. Brown pupils dancing over every inch of my face. Studying me. Every hit, loud and forceful. My whole body jerks with every entry up and down the long chair. 

Eye to eye—no words exchanging. No need for them. It's all seen and felt where we connect. The “i’ve missed you,” being pummeled deep inside me. The “i’ve missed you too,” tangled with my fingers in his fluffy mane, pulling his face as close as possible and making sure he stays here.

The orgasm comes like a meteor. Catastrophic. Once you realizing it’s coming—it's too late. It's already here. My own scream is cloudy in my ears as my whole world comes crashing down. His face is buried in my neck. My nails pressing into his scalp. Eyes pooling with tears of passion, pain and pleasure. The twinkling lights from Miami almost look like stars in the sky watching us. 

If sex was the equivalent to wrestling, he’d hold every title in the WWE universe stacked on his shoulders. He leaves no stone unturned.

The come down is cut short as I’m flipped on all fours. Full of him again. My back pressing to his front. His strong hand cupping my jaw. The other, squeezing the life out of my left titty—trapping me in his web of gentle dominance. He rocks into me. Slender nose pressing flush against the side of my face.

I take a hold of this wrist to get some type of grip on reality. I don’t know what to center on. I feel him everywhere he can possibly be.

Wet curls clinging to my neck and face—I gasp every time his hips snap against me. Huffs and pants in my ear, he breathes out like a dog. His tongue making shapes of every kind wherever it can reach.

In his strong embrace I feel untouchable. Nothing feels better than this. 

“Mine,” a gruff declaration. Ready to default it as a figment of my vibrant imagination—enhanced by alcohol— I hear it again with twice the aggression. “Mine,” he growls directly in my ear, making it impossible to ignore. His shallow breaths and forceful thrusts picking up in unison. Knocking the very wind from my lungs. I'm helpless to think, respond, or react. Bagging his claim and wrapping it to save for later.

“Where do you want it?” He begs to question low in my ear still. I’m helpless. Mouth opening and then closing tight in a twisting pout at him hitting the spot still sensitive from my first release. “Huh?” His choppy strokes snap me to my sense. Please, not in me.

“My mouth.” Looking up at him with pleading eyes, I urge again. “In my mouth.”

Face contorting in pain almost, he fits in four good thrusts before pulling out. I scrape my knees rushing to them in front of him. He stands grand and tall like a statue. I take him in my hand to finish what I’ve started. His balls jumping with every jerk of my small fist. Underside of his thick tip pressing against my tongue that I hold out to catch what he offers me when it comes. 

A much larger hand waves mine off his thickness so he can take over. His other hand gripping the top of my head—fisting a mess of wet curls, forcing my neck to crane harder as an intense wince escapes me. Still, I offer my mouth—wide and waiting at the ready. Eyes bouncing from his intense face to the head of his dick, so hard the tip is turning a pale color.

“Give it to me,” I plead. “Please—please. I want it.” Knowing exactly what sends him over the edge, I request desperately like I’m a woman in the dessert and he possesses the last ounce of water for miles.

“Ughnn! Aw, fuckkk!” It comes out heavy. Spurts of thick white fluid in my mouth. Strays landing on my chin and my chest. 

“Mmm,” I hum in satisfaction listening to his guttural moans. Fixating on his stare locked in on me, as he doesn’t let up his strokes until he squeezes the very last bit on my lips. 

“Damn,” he mumbles—fine lines forming in between his brows. A smug look resides over my face, right before I gather the saltiness from my tongue, allowing it to drip down to my chin. “Filthy.” He shakes his head. 

The night is long and busy. He makes up for the weeks spent apart, tenfold. Filling me in just one night, with enough to hold me over for another month without him, if I had to. From the lounge chair, to the pool, to the shower, to the bed. We break in the condo and make our mark the same way we’ve done a hundred times before. 

By the time we close our eyes, the Miami skyline was turning blue.

It’s not long before I hear the shower running. Morning’s burnt orange rays nearly blinding me from the glass balcony door. I groan, burying my head under the stack of fluffy pillows to drift back into slumber. 

Consciousness didn’t see me again until a couple hours past noon. This is how it is when I’m in his world. I sleep all day and come alive in the night time like a bat out of hell.

My body is aching, sore with all the evidence of merciless sex. Bruising on my hips, my neck and my knees. Tiny scratches in the most hidden places. I observe them all with a sadistic smile in the steam ridden mirror after a much needed shower. 

He left a key fob on the nightstand. I’m assuming it grants me access to the condo. Good. Theres no way I’m staying in here all day again.

The elevator dings as I exit into the lobby on the first floor. Three chandeliers in the center, looking like the price of my tuition. Ceiling high to heaven covered with artwork I didn’t even notice yesterday. I find myself staring up in awe and almost bumping into someone coming in my direction before I focus back on the task at hand.

I catch the eye of the young brunette behind the desk that’s almost as tall as her.

“Hello!” She acknowledges me cheerfully. I offer a closed mouth grin.

“Hi. Do you a have a phone I could use?”

“Eh—sure.” She sits on top of the counter a digital telephone that looks like it's never been touched, fresh out the box, with not a speck of dust on it.

“Thanks. I won’t be long, I swear.” She nods and I make my way to the other wall near the steel elevators.

I dial the number I was forced to memorize by heart. 

“Hello?”

“It’s me.”

“Oh—bitch don't scare me like that. I thought you were that Iota from sophomore year calling me from another unknown number.” I stifle a chuckle in the eerily quiet foyer, with at best, only four other people.

“What’s going on back there?”

“Same shit—different day.” I return the stank face to an older lady eyeing my unkempt, “I just had sex,” hair paired with his t-shirt that only stops right below my butt. One raise of my arm and every one in this lobby would get a free show. 

“Any calls?”

“Mom called twice. I text her and said it's a really busy day at the hospital and I’ll call when I can.”

“Good girl,” I commend. Demi and I have a routine down pack. It's full proof and hasn’t failed us yet.

“Your dad called. I sent him a question mark. He said nothing—just wanted to check in on you. Uhhh… Mariah from your business policy class asked if you know anybody that takes good grad pics.”

“Send her the boy who took ours.”

“On it. And Jaire called last night…” My eyes flutter closed, running my nails along my forehead. The line is grotesquely silent. 

“What?”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“Exactly. When do you ever have nothing to say.”

I hear her huff. “What are you going to do about him? I don’t think it’s right that you got him hanging on like that—”

“Hanging on like what? You think this is on purpose? I already told him he couldn’t have came at a worse time.”

“So, then where do you go from here? Cause every time he pulls up you go outside.”

“I don't know,” I snap in an undertone. We don’t speak for a while. I marinate in this dilemma. I like Jaire. I mean—I really like Jaire. He’s charming, respectful, funny and patient. There’s no guess work with him—no mystery. He’s like a breath of fresh air in the line up of men who want nothing but to waste my youth and take what they can, while they can. 

“I can tell that you like him, Lana.”

“I can’t really do nothing about that— can I? What am I supposed to do? Tell him, ‘yeah I really like you and we can start dating as long as I can still fuck my Sugar Chief on the side and go missing for days at a time?’” I smile coyly at the front desk lady, praying she didn’t catch any of that before turning away from her.

“Something has to give. You don’t want this thing to last forever, do you?” If I’m lucky, it will. But lucky, I have never been.

“It can’t.” 

“You think Jaire will wait for you?”

“Honestly? No.” Great catches are hard to come by. I know in my heart theres another girl that actually deserves his time on her way to him. And when she crosses his path—what would make him choose me over her? “Say I do cut this off. What does that mean for us? Me and you?” It's no secret that it's not just I who benefits from this arrangement. Demi and I barely lift a finger these days. The strife of living paycheck to paycheck has been wiped away thanks to the head of our table.

“I don't know…I’ve been meaning to bring that up. Like—what if he wakes up next week and decides it done and over with? That he wants to be a family man for real? I know we’ve been stacking the money we make from work and the hospital—but that’s chump change. We’d have to downgrade. Like a lot. Are we really ready for that?”

“Can we talk about this when I get back?” The high from the events of last night are slowly being seized by conceptions of the days to come. 

Too often I find myself wishing I can just stay in his world, and my world be the distant secret. But the thought leaves as quickly as it comes. I shouldn’t want that. I shouldn’t want this set up. Sneaking in and out of cities, never seeing him in the light of day and fitting in calls from a condominium’s front desk phone. The whole thing is like period sex. In the dark it feels good. Once you turn the lights on to get a clearer look at the mess you’ve made—my god.

“Okay—I’ll leave it alone. The moment. We’re still in it. Worry about that shit another time.”

“Right. Well, I guess if you need me you can call this number back. Just ask for me. I’ll give the girl at the desk my name.”

“Okay. See you when you get back. I love you. Be safe.”

“I love you too.”

He returns earlier than he did the night before. So early, I was taking my routinely nap so I’d have enough energy to tend to him when he comes. I’m woken up by the softest kisses mixed with the coarseness of his facial hair. On my back en route to my ass. I’m wiping the drool from my mouth and lifting my hips for him to slide my panties down. The appetizer to yet another long and restless night. 

Finally, we make it to my favorite part.

“Quizlot and all that other shit—we didn’t have none of that when I was in school.”

“Quizlet,” I correct. Tracing the lines of the intricate artwork on his chest piece where my chin is resting. 

“Yeah—that. I saw my daughter using that stuff and I couldn’t believe it. I’m like— you’re only in high school. It’s only gonna get harder from here on out.”

“Oh my god. What did y'all do if y'all didn’t study?” I ride over the mention of his daughter like a bad pothole.

“That depends. Now, if it was a big lecture hall?” He waves his large hand in the air. “Just send somebody in to take the test for you. I was a football player— I could do things like that.” He nods in contempt with a toothy grin, pulling an eye roll from me. Fucking athletes. “Or just go in and say a prayer. Hopefully my coach could work something out. Most of the times I really just had to study. Even for the electives I didn’t give a shit about.”

“Wow. You’re like a fossil.” His sour face has my stomach aching with laughter.

“I’m the finest fossil you ever seen, babygirl.”

"I won't argue with you on that.”

“Just stay the course,” he continues with his original point. Taking me by surprise, he brought up graduation. I guess he does pay attention. “Stay focused. Work hard. I’m telling you, it’ll pay off. What’s next? Medical school?” I hum and nod. “Survival of the fittest, I hear.”

“That’s what they say. When I do my residency, that’s when they say I’ll know for sure if I really wanna be a doctor. That’s the real test. No more books. It's time for the real stuff.”

“Mm. You can handle all that—cutting people open and stuff?”

“Well, I wouldn’t do that. The surgeon would. But I’m pretty sure I won’t make it out of med school without cutting some stuff.”

The noise of Miami, cars blasting music as they ride by, horns honking—fill the room distantly. I collect his chin hair between my index and middle finger, watching him. He really is beautiful from any angle.

He clears his throat. “Did you always want to go into oncology?”

His inquiry catches me off guard. My hand releases him as he angles his head to look down at me. 

“Um—no actually. I wanted to be a make up artist like my mom. When I was like twelve or something like that.” I shake my head laughing. “She didn’t have the heart to tell me I was shit.” He flashes a smile. That thumb running familiar circles on my bare hip under the covers. “And then—” My voice snags on apprehension. It's been years since I’ve talked about this. It's one of those things you bury inside. A block hidden all the way in the middle of a Jenga tower, that only if you’re skilled and worthy, I’d let you pull out of me. A story I choose not to tell to anyone who wasn’t there to live it with me.

“My uh—my dad was diagnosed with brain cancer. I was like fourteen when they sat me and my brother down to tell us. It was only stage two, but at that age—that didn’t mean very much to me. All I heard was that my dad’s brain was killing him.” He’s still as a statue. Gaze on me unwavering. “He’s good now, but we had a rough couple of years before he got to that point. My whole family fell apart. They got divorced. My brother left for school. It just…didn’t feel good.”

“But to answer your question—I wanted to get into oncology because I thought, yeah my dad made it, but he was lucky. Might’ve lost some other things.” I shrug carelessly even though it haunts me and has shaped eighty five percent of the attitude I’ve morphed towards life. “But he made it out with his life. Some other people aren’t so lucky. So—I thought I wanted to be one of the ones to change that. And I know I’m just one person and there’s been thousands of doctors before me. I probably won’t make much of a difference. I don't know.” I shrug again.

It's too quiet. The weight of his stare is heavy regardless of the fact that I can’t see it. I’m not looking at him so I can't gauge his thoughts. He’s almost impossible to read anyway. I should’ve just shut the fuck up. Made up some bullshit story about wanting to save strangers. My roots are way too deep for the shallowness of whatever we are to one another. 

“That’s beautiful,” he expresses in an octave as soft as the sheets we lay in. Bringing my heart rate back down to normal with the comfort and reassurance of his words. "So beautiful," he repeats. Pools of brown jumping around my whole face in a matter of seconds. His big thumb running over my cheek. A part of me, tangling in what he means to refer to as beautiful. Me or the confession?

Before I can think too deeply, his lips are on mine. Soft and deliberate. Not like all the other times. No, this kiss is a little different. It might be the shots we took earlier. Or just the fuzziness that comes with staying up at the wee hours back to back like this. I don't know and I don’t really care in this moment. All I can seem to care for is the way his tongue glides over mine, igniting tiny fires all over me. The way his rough hand grips my chin to keep me in place. The look in his eyes—a look I’ve never seen before on him as he pulls away. And finally, the way he pulls me closer up under him before we close our eyes and choose our dreams over reality. 

Sunday, May 5, 2024

“Uhn…Uhn…Eh…Uhn.”

Grunts and pants. Thats what pulls me from my slumber. I think I might be dreaming still. But the more cognizant I become, the louder they grow. My eyes shoot open. Big mistake. The shots taken the night before dig their nails into my head as I groggily lift up. “Mmm.” I groan in pain. 

I’m floored as my attention is drawn to the source of all the ruckus. All man—big, burly and covered in a sheen of sweat—he pushes himself up and off the floor repeatedly. The digital clock beside me reads 11:03 A.M.

What the hell is he still doing here?

Mesmerizing. Watching his large frame break a sweat. Veins pumping. The muscles in his back prancing while the cuts in his arms pump to their full capacity. Hair hanging loosely around his broad shoulders. The rhythm of his deep pants waking up other parts of me before my brain can catch up. 

I’m stuck in place, refusing to move on the bed even as he rises from the floor to his full height. It's evident that we shock each other.

“…Good morning.” He speaks first. 

His attentive gaze, a reminder that it is in fact morning and we sit in the light of day. I grow self-conscious with every second that passes, realizing what that must look like on me after a full night of drinking and fucking like a wild animal. I run a hand through my curls which are most likely wilder and out of place from air drying. I pull the sheet up tighter avoiding his stare. 

“Morning.” I clear my throat.

My eyes follow his every movement as he retreats and returns with a water bottle to his mouth. Basketball shorts hanging low around his waist. He moves in my direction and holds the half empty water bottle out for me.

 I look at it then him, and back at it again. “Thank you.” 

He’s gone right after passing it to me. The shower runs from the conjoined bathroom. “You getting in here?” 

We don’t have sex. He barely touches me. Just washes himself. We do a funny routine of looking and then looking away once we realize the other is looking too. It's a weird kind of intimacy. Void of any sexual guise. Just two people—comfortable enough in each other’s presence, in each other’s nakedness—showering together.

It's about that time. I’m zipping my carry on after gathering the last of the strays spread across his condo inside. I peak over where he’s sitting in the chaise lounge chair by the balcony door, fiddling with something in his hands. It's too small for me to see.

The room is decorated with silence. Not an awkward one. It's not comforting either. It's that same silence when everyone is packing the last night on vacation. All the memories from the days before spent drinking, partying and relaxing are on replay in your mind. All the things back at home waiting for you, flood your mind shortly after. Every one is sad to leave, but no one really says it because it obvious.

My mind drifts to the last time I saw him before this weekend. Wrestle-mania. 

I don't know what comes over me. Standing by the bed just a few feet away from him—I blurt out the only words that I can think of.

“You’re still my champion…”

Elbows resting on this knees he averts his gaze my way. Features twisting at first from my sudden outburst, but they soften after a beat.

He holds a big fist out. I don’t even fight the lazy smile that tugs at the corners of my mouth. The coolest motherfucker in and outside of the ring.

I take the necessary steps toward him to connect my minute fist to his larger one. He turns his hand so his palm is face up to reveal what I saw him messing with earlier. A dainty silver bracelet, adorned with charms that practically wink at me when the vibrant lights we sit under touch it for just a second.

Raising my brows—he mirrors my expression,  holding his hand out further, initiating me to take it. Surely, not.

The stones dancing on the hanging “A” charm are cold under my fingertips. Another charm—a graduation cap—shines even brighter. Too bright to be anything other than diamonds. “I left your name downstairs.”

“For what?” I question, still in awe of the fine piece of jewelry as I clasp it on.

“Whenever you’re in the city, you’ll have a place to stay.” He explains holding out the key fob I used earlier to return to the room. 

Twirling the key in between my fingers, I scan my brain for a reason not to accept the grand gesture, but I come up short. “Try not to have too much fun without me.” He adds, smirking. 

“I can bring people?”

“Long as you follow the NDA, I don’t see why not.”

“Thank you, Joe.”

I’ve grown immune to receiving hand outs from him. But, this time feels different. The bracelet has meaning. The “A” charm and graduation cap—maximizing a pivotal time stamp—makes it personal. It's not just a bag he thinks I’ll like. Not just a lingerie set with the intentions of taking it off. No—this is different. This is special. 

Saturday, May 11, 2024

I think about that last day spent with him all week. On the entire jet ride back to New York. The car ride back to my own condo. It's the last thing on my mind before I go to sleep every night. I can’t get that look he gave me as we laid in the bed, out of my head. It replays like a broken record.

Yet and still, it's not enough to ease the dilemma that was waiting for me back home.

The car thing is getting old… show me what’s new

Thumbs doing a little dance over the lit screen, I reread the same message for the twentieth time. 

I’ve decided to give Jaire a chance. After I walk across that stage in a week, I’d be entering into a whole new chapter—a whole new space. A new Alana. Which means I have to make room for new things to fit. Only thing is, starting a chapter with Jaire and it actually meaning something, would require me to end the one with him—Joe. I must be insane. Just delusional. There is no chapter. There is no anything. It’s just an excerpt. 

All we do is fuck, drink and sleep. He upgrades my life whatever way he sees fit. Not out of the kindness of his heart, but to make this arrangement more feasible. He doesn’t care about Alana. He doesn’t see me. He just sees a girl that looks at him like the star he is, so she’s willing to go the extra mile to stay in space with him. Well, not anymore. 

That night I keep replaying is a figment of my wild imagination. Just a blimp in his, that’s long forgotten. Fleeting. My life can’t stop for him. Surely, his doesn’t stop for me. I’m twenty-two. My whole life ahead of me. I should be getting flown out to Miami to see Jaire. Partying the whole weekend, in someone’s section not even dreaming of touching my own wallet. Throwing back shots and acting bad. Handing out my number like candy on Halloween. Not a care in the world. Doing what twenty-two year olds do. Reaping the benefits of youth while I still can. Not hiding out in hotel rooms, waiting for a man twice my age, grey in the beard—to come fuck me and dip in the morning before I even open my eyes and stretch. But damn—I’m going to wake up in cold sweats after dreaming about running my fingers through that beard while he sleeps. And damn—I am going to severely miss that dick like a man misses his family when he has to serve time. 

Just as I get a rush of confidence to press send, Demi’s call delays me. 

“Yeah?” I answer. 

“You gotta come back to the condo. Now.” My fight or flight immediately kicks in. Demi didn’t come into the hospital today because she didn’t feel well. God, what the hell is wrong?

“—Why? What’s going on?” I rise up from the nurse’s station briskly, making my way to get my stuff in the locker.

“Something’s…here for you.”

“Huh?” I stop jogging. 

“Just get here. You only have two hours left. Tell Miss Tonia you’ll make it up tomorrow.” Click.

Upon arrival to my condominium, I’m immediately bewildered at the scene unfolding through the window from the backseat of the Uber.

“Thank you,” I tell the older man before hopping out, but not before inspecting the matte black Mercedes G Wagon parked right out front. A pink ribbon plants itself on the hood. Someone is definitely loved. Probably the girl that lives across from us. I think her boyfriend is an actor or some shit like that. 

On the sidewalk, Demi, Anthony and a man I’ve never seen before meet me. “Is something wrong?”

“Are you Alana Floyd?” The man speaks first. I look past him before responding. Demi looks like she’s seen a ghost and Anthony looks like he might jump out of his own flawless skin.

“I am,” I finally answer.

“Do you mind showing me some ID?”

A chuckle escapes me. A product of discomfort and pure fucking confusion. When I see that he’s still waiting, I fish for my ID in the LV Neverfull hanging on my shoulder. He takes it. I look behind me. Every pedestrian walking by, gawks at the truck just as I did when I pulled up. 

“Here you go.” My head snaps back. He holds a clip board out. My ID and a pen sit on it. “Just need the signature at the bottom. Proof you received the delivery.”

“Delivery?” One brow shoots up.

“The truck ma’am.”

On cue, Anthony pops like a can of Pillsbury biscuits. “Joe!” He waves a card in the air, beaming down at me. “Aha! So that’s his name!”

Shaking her head, Demi snatches the card, offering it to me. I take it, not missing the smirk that tugs at her full lips.

Happy belated and congratulations.                    

                        — Your Champion, Joe

The card and everything else in my hand slips—hitting the pavement silently. The blood in my veins run cold in the heat of May. 

Someone must’ve hit the trunk button. And out falls the many pink roses that were stuck inside. They’re everywhere. Spilling from the truck. Onto the street. The sidewalk. Mimicking on the outside, exactly how whatever chakra is trapped in my heart is now overflowing and spilling out. 

This. This is special. 

A/N // in honor of Papa returning to work, i busted my ass tryna get this out lol. i wish i could post the warnings at the end lol they’re literally spoilers!

- any thoughts about Alana? any changes you noticed in her or her relationships with the other characters?

- any thoughts on the appointment Lana had to make?

- i know i didn’t reveal much about Jaire’s character, but that was on purpose. still, any thoughts about him?

- any thoughts on how Lana views what’s going on between her and Joe? do we think he sees it the same way she describes in her head?

- the graduation/birthday gifts? access to the condo??

- like her brother said, is Lana leading with her heart or her head?

- and just cause i’m nosy… trim, hairy or bald? lol

i would really love feedback. as always, if you read it or even just a portion, i am forever grateful and appreciative.

part 4 Desires is already in the works. depending on how y'all react to this, y'all might just hate me for some of the things i'm about to do lol

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@mohawkmama

The silence of the apartment was the hardest opponent Roman had ever faced.

For over a decade, his life had been a symphony of roaring arenas, pyrotechnics, and the absolute certainty that he was the center of the universe. He was Roman Reigns. The Tribal Chief. The Head of the Table. But tonight, the table was empty.

He stared down at his phone, the screen illuminated by the harsh, artificial light of the kitchen. There were no new messages. His ex-wife made it clear that communication was strictly for logistics regarding the kids, and today wasn't his day to call them. Losing the Undisputed Championship in front of eighty thousand people had been a physical agony; losing his family was a quiet, suffocating death.

Roman’s body had become a vessel of dull, persistent pain, an atlas for the precise locations where his pride and flesh had been jointly battered by a decade of main-event wars. The cold weather stoked every old injury; the left shoulder he’d separated headlining Mania, the right knee that had buckled on a botched spot in Cleveland, the ribs that never quite knit right after the Hell in a Cell. It was as if his body wanted to remind him, with every twitch and flare, that pain was the one constant he could count on now that the roar of the crowd was gone.

The official story was that he’d agreed to “indefinite time off” for self-care and recovery. In reality, the company’s suits had parked him on the shelf after the PLE debacle, low-key nudging him away from the industry’s collective memory until he either found his old spark or faded into irrelevance. The talking heads online and the “insider” newsletters declared that he’d lost his aura, his credibility, his gravitas. He couldn’t argue with them; he’d lost it all, and more. The titles and the pyro and the merchandising machine had been stripped away, leaving only the shivering core of himself; a man whose best days were archived in looping GIFs and TikTok montages.

He spent most nights in purgatory, pacing his empty Penthouse apartment, unable to sleep, unable to sit still, unable to call anyone who mattered. The boys in the locker room, the ones he’d once led, texted every week or so, always with the same forced optimism. Roman ignored most messages. The separation from his kids gnawed at him, but that pain was at least pure and honest, unfiltered by kayfabe or corporate speak.

Tonight he found himself standing in the kitchen, cradling an empty coffee mug in hands. He blinked at the clock on the microwave: 11:18 PM. There was nothing left to binge-watch, nothing to eat except a half-dead banana and a box of protein bars. The silence pressed in, suffocating.

He needed out, even if only for a few hours. He needed a place where nobody would stare, nobody would ask for a selfie, nobody would try to psychoanalyze his downfall. Roman threw a hoodie over his head, and locked the door behind him. The world outside was draped in the kind of ragged darkness that promised anonymity if not comfort. He walked with his head down, hands buried in his pockets, making his way through the hellscape of closed strip malls and silent intersections.

A block past the train tracks, he found himself in front of a Diner. It was a cinderblock cube painted the color of old mustard. He’d been there three times before, always after midnight, always alone. The waitresses were too tired to notice him, the other customers too wrapped up in their own dramas to care. It was perfect.

The Diner wasn't the kind of place a WWE superstar frequented, which was exactly why he liked it. It smelled of burnt coffee and old fry grease, bathed in the flickering hum of a broken neon sign. He slid into a cracked leather booth in the far back, pulling his hood low.

"Rough night, or just a rough life?"

Roman flinched at the interruption. He’d been so deeply submerged in the safe numbness of his own headspace, he barely noticed her approach. The voice belonged to a woman who, by all appearances, was the only other person in the diner younger than seventy. She slid into the booth opposite his with the casual confidence of someone who had nothing to lose or, perhaps, nothing left to prove. Her hair was a tangle of black, pulled through the back of a faded ballcap, but what stood out were her eyes: alert, undeceived, the kind of eyes that had seen the world’s tricks and elected not to be bothered by them.

His first instinct was to turn away, to signal with his body language that he wasn’t interested in company, but the woman’s presence was deliberate, her stare unblinking and oddly gentle. She didn’t make him for a celebrity, at least not yet. Maybe she did and didn’t care. The thought was both a relief and a challenge.

"Excuse me?" he mumbled, the syllables clumsy behind a wall of exhausted defenses. He braced for the onslaught of recognition, the slow dilation of pupils as she made the connection; the permanent scowl, the bulk that, even in a hoodie, read as unmistakably pro-wrestler. It should have given him away, but she only shrugged, as if the details of his face were just another artifact of the night shift.

"You’ve been staring at that same spot on the table for ten minutes," she said, gesturing with her chin at the chipped Formica surface between them. "If you’re waiting for it to crack, you’re gonna be disappointed."

Behind the counter, the lone fry cook dropped a metal basket into boiling oil, the sizzle like static in the cable silence. Roman felt the woman’s focus on him, patient, not predatory. He tried to remember the last time someone had spoken to him without an angle, without some underlying need to be seen with him, and came up empty.

"Yeah, well," he said, offering her half a smile, "I’ve been disappointed before."

The woman grinned, "That’s usually what brings most folks to the diner on a random Tuesday at midnight."

He tried to sink into the red vinyl bench, to shrink away from whatever curiosity this woman had. But she wasn’t leaving, and now he felt compelled to say something, if only to make the moment pass. "You come here to people-watch?" he asked, voice gruff with disuse.

"Not really. I come here to avoid people," she said, glancing at the two overnighters hunched at the far end of the counter. "But you looked like you needed the company more than I did. Sorry if I was wrong."

He wanted to tell her that she was wrong, that he had managed decades of his life by keeping strangers at arm’s length, that if he opened up even a little it all came gushing out. Instead he found himself staring at her hands; the red nails, the restless energy of her tapping thumb. She seemed like a misfit and lived-in in a way that refused to be pitied. He respected that, against his own will.

He risked a look at her face. She was younger than he’d guessed; late twenties maybe. But there was something almost luminous about her. Not gorgeous, not in the way he’d been trained to recognize in the spotlight, but compelling, pretty. Maybe it was the way she never broke eye contact, even when Roman tried to glare her down.

"You look like a man who just lost a war," she said, and the words landed heavier than he expected.

He flexed his jaw, searching for a comeback, but there was none. She was right. He felt the loss everywhere; in his battered limbs, his ruptured reputation, in the fact that he was sitting alone at a diner table with no plan for the next hour or the next year.

"Somethin’ like that," he said, and this time the smile was even fainter, a ghost that vanished before it formed.

She shifted in her seat, made a show of pulling her jacket tighter around herself, and finally extended a hand across the narrow aisle. "I'm Maren," she said, leaning over slightly and extending a hand across the aisle.

He hesitated, then reached out. His massive, calloused hand enveloped hers, but she didn't flinch. "Roman," he replied.

"Well, Roman," Maren said, pulling a worn sketchbook from her bag. "You picked the best booth in the city for brooding. Trust me, I'm a professional at it."

For the first time in months, he didn't feel the weight of the world pressing down on him. Maren didn't recognize him, or if she did, she didn't care. She didn't see the fallen Tribal Chief, the disgraced champion, or the headline of the week. She just saw a massive, broken guy nursing a black coffee.

"So, what kind of war did you lose?" Maren asked, sipping her coffee.

Roman leaned back, the leather creaking under his weight. He thought about the empty arenas in his mind, the divorce papers on his counter, and the silence of a phone that used to ring off the hook.

"The kind where you don't realize you're fighting the wrong battles until the castle is already burning," Roman said, his voice a low rumble.

Maren looked up, meeting his eyes dead-on. "The good news about a burnt-down castle, Roman, is that the ground is completely clear to build something new."

A waitress walked by, dropping off a steaming mug in front of him. He wrapped his hands around the warm ceramic, looking at Maren. For the first time since his world collapsed, the absolute certainty of defeat cracked, letting in a tiny, fragile sliver of light.

"So," she said, rapping her chipped mug with a spoon until he met her gaze, "what’s your go-to diner food? And don’t say you don’t have one, everybody has one." She held up a finger as if to preempt his objection, then cocked her head, studying him with the scrutiny of a late-shift cop. "Wait, no, let me guess."

She appraised him with a slow, theatrical squint, drawing out the silence like a pro wrestler milking the crowd. "Egg whites," she said finally, nodding to herself, as if settling a bet. "Or maybe steak. Something tragically protein-based. I bet you’re the type who orders a burger, then peels off the bun and acts like that makes it healthy. Am I close?"

Roman snorted, despite himself. "I don’t count macros," he said, though the lie was obvious in his voice, "but yeah, steak and eggs, if I’m hungry. Otherwise, black coffee and whatever’s least likely to kill me." He glanced at the laminated menu, all the options a parade of yesterday’s regrets: chicken-fried steak, triple-decker BLTs, the ominous “breakfast skillet” that had ruined his night on more than one occasion.

Maren grinned, "You ever just order pie? You look like you could use pie." She flagged the waitress with a practiced flick of her wrist. "Can we please have two slices of whatever the hell is freshest pie back there," she called, then turned back to him. "Don’t act like you’re gonna say no. I won’t let you."

He shrugged, surrendering. "Ya got me. I’ll eat pretty much anything as long as it’s not kale. Or anything that comes out of a juicer." He realized how long it had been since someone ordered for him without asking.

"So what’s your order?" he asked, curiosity half-genuine.

She didn’t hesitate. "Patty Melt, extra pickles, side of fries. Food of the gods." She leaned forward, elbows on the Formica, voice dropping to a conspiratorial hush. "And if you ever say ‘extra protein’ in front of me, I’ll cut you."

Roman barked a laugh, the sound echoing down the sterile aisle. It felt good, foreign. Maren smiled like she’d won something important.

They sat in the sudden comfort of shared absurdity. The fry cook called out an order, the bell punctuating their silence. The waitress returned with two slices of pie; apple, crumbling and over-sweet, just as bad as he remembered from childhood road trips. Maren dove in with the abandon of someone who’d made peace with her vices. Roman, for the first time in weeks, didn’t bother to count the calories.

"So what brings you here at midnight, Maren?" he asked, mouth full.

She wiped a fleck of crust from her lip, her eyes dancing with either mischief or exhaustion. "Just got off work. Figured the odds of seeing something weird or tragic were higher here than at home." She gestured around at the empty booths, the peeling linoleum, the single mother gently shaking her dozing toddler awake in the corner. "Diner’s always a good bet. What about you?"

Roman considered the question. He could’ve lied, but it didn’t seem worth the effort. "I needed somewhere I didn’t have to be anything. Just…a guy in a hoodie who couldn’t sleep."

"Mission accomplished," Maren said, raising her mug in a mock salute.

He returned the gesture, and for the first time, the gesture wasn’t hollow.

They spent the next twenty minutes in the sort of comfortable, undemanding silence that Roman had forgotten even existed, punctuated only by the scrape of forks against cheap ceramic and the occasional, low-throated observation from Maren. The pie was better than it looked, dense and sweet and almost defiantly unpretentious, and the longer they sat, the more Roman found himself relaxing into the brittle warmth of the diner, his shoulders unknotting one vertebra at a time.

They took turns trading scraps of story, neither one pushing too hard, both careful to keep their respective traumas beneath the laminate table surface. Maren told him about a job she hated and had quit six months ago, a call center, always the night shift, the faces and voices blending together until she started dreaming in hold music. Roman told her about cross-country drives, the endless blur of motel rooms, the way the world shrank to airports. He didn’t mention WWE and she didn’t ask.

He noticed the way she listened, without flinching, without waiting to talk about herself. Sometimes she’d laugh, a quick giggle, and sometimes she’d just shake her head with the slow, tolerant bewilderment of someone who’d already made peace with the world’s absurdity. It was, in a strange way, the most honest conversation Roman had participated in for years; there was no quid pro quo, no audition for who’d suffered more. Just two people eating pie and being less alone than they’d planned.

Maren finished her slice first, licking a thumb and running it along the plate’s glazed edge to collect the last sugared crumbs. She was unembarrassed, even when she caught Roman watching. “Don’t judge,” she said, leveling her fork at him.

He raised his hands in mock surrender, the motion awkward but sincere. “No judgment. Just admiration.”

A little after one in the morning, the fry cook began mopping behind the counter, the slow spiral of his arms a clear signal that the graveyard shift was winding toward its cold, fluorescent conclusion. Maren checked her phone, wincing at the time. “God, I’m tired,” she said, running a hand under her hat and up through her hair. “I have to be up in, like, five hours. My cat will probably eat my face if I don’t get home soon.”

Roman nodded, the prospect of leaving suddenly heavier than he expected. “Yeah. I should…” He gestured vaguely toward the door, realizing he didn’t actually know what his plan was supposed to be. For a moment, he almost asked her to stay, to order another round of coffee, to see how long they could keep the world at bay.

But Maren was already standing, shrugging into her jacket and fishing a crumpled bill from her back pocket. Before he could object, the waitress materialized with their check. Maren snatched it fast, her eyes daring him to try and argue. “Don’t even,” she said. “Consider it a solidarity tax for all the people who’ve ever wanted to be left alone in peace.”

She scrawled something on the back of the receipt, then slid it across the table to Roman. Her handwriting was small and deliberate, the numbers neatly aligned. “You know, just in case you need a pie sponsor next time,” she said, smiling.

Roman stared at the slip of paper, then at her, the gesture so fundamentally decent that he had no idea what to do with it.

“Same time next Tuesday?” Maren asked, already halfway to the door.

———

The cracked red vinyl of the corner booth felt different this time. Last week, it had been a desperate refuge. Tonight, it felt like a stage, and Roman hated waiting for the curtain to rise.

He stared at the black screen of his phone. 11:54 PM. He shoved the device deep into the pocket of his hoodie, disgusted with himself for counting the minutes. He hadn't admitted it out loud, not even in the echoing silence of his apartment, but he had spent the last seven days anchoring his mind to this specific Tuesday. He had replayed the conversation, the shared pie, the way she had looked at him without seeing the wreckage of a fallen empire.

"Coffee, black?" the waitress asked, barely pausing as she slid a thick ceramic mug onto the Formica.

"Yeah. Thanks," Roman muttered.

He wrapped his massive hands around the heat of the mug, his eyes fixed on the glass door at the front of the diner. Every time the bell above the frame jingled, a sudden, unfamiliar spike of adrenaline hit his chest. At 12:15 AM, it was a pair of exhausted paramedics. At 12:40 AM, an older man in a faded trucker hat. By 1:15 AM, it was a couple arguing in hushed, vicious whispers.

Maren wasn't one of them.

By 2:00 AM, the coffee had turned to cold acid in his stomach. The fry cook had started wiping down the griddle, the rhythmic scraping of metal against metal signaling the death of the night. Roman threw a crumpled ten-dollar bill on the table and walked out into the freezing parking lot. The cold air hit him like a steel chair, but it couldn't numb the ridiculous, hollow sting in his chest. He was a grown man, a former world champion, feeling stood up by a stranger he didn't even know.

The next seven days were a blur of agonizing routine. He lifted heavy in his private gym until his muscles screamed for mercy, punishing himself for the weakness he’d felt in that diner. He ignored texts from his cousins. He stared at the blank walls of his apartment.

He tried to convince himself that Maren was just a ghost, a hallucination conjured up by the heady combination of insomnia and muscle relaxants, a side effect of too many years spent absorbing the impact of foreign objects against his back. He told himself she was a fluke, just a chemical blip in the dopamine-starved wasteland of his brain, a random kindness from the universe that didn’t mean anything. He didn’t need her, or anyone. He had spent twenty years training himself to survive in the vacuum, to grind his own needs into powder and snort them like a warlord high on his own discipline. The entire point of being the Head of the Table was eating alone, hell, that was the job description, the brand, the merchandise. 

Solitude was the ultimate flex.

But the brand was gone now, and the table had vanished with it, and all that was left was Roman: not the myth, not the monolith, but just a man. A man with forty years and a spine crooked from punishment and a phone that only buzzed for group texts from his cousins. A man who, after all that, still couldn’t sleep.

He spent the week trying to fortify the walls. He methodically worked through every arm day and leg day, every sadistic ab circuit, every rehab exercise that the doctors had told him would help "retrain his core." He ate bland, protein-packed meals on schedule, washed the Tupperware by hand, stacked them in the drying rack like evidence of a life in order. He read the news in the mornings, tried his hand at sudoku in the afternoons, and doom scrolled in the evenings until his thumb went numb. He told himself he was doing fine, that the gnawing ache in his chest was just residual inflammation from the last match, that the way he checked his phone every hour on the hour was just force of habit, nothing more.

When Tuesday rolled around again, he fought a brutal internal war. Don't go, his pride demanded as the clock struck ten. It's pathetic. He sat on his couch, the television muted, watching the digital numbers on the cable box flip. 10:30. 11:00. 11:15.

The silence of the apartment began to roar in his ears, a suffocating, heavy pressure that felt like the walls were actively closing in to crush him.

At 11:40 PM, Roman pushed through the heavy glass doors of the Diner.

The familiar scent of old grease and burnt coffee hit him, and he let out a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding. He made a beeline for the far back, sliding into the exact same booth. He pulled his hood low, casting his face in shadow, and settled in.

The waitress walked by, raising an eyebrow at his return, and wordlessly dropped off a mug of black coffee.

Roman didn't touch it. He just sat, his back against the wall, watching the door. He felt entirely foolish, exposed in a way that had nothing to do with wrestling and everything to do with being human. He was a man holding onto a tiny, fragile sliver of light in a pitch-black room, hoping against all reason that the door would swing open and a woman with ink-stained fingers and an unbothered stare would slide into the booth across from him.

He glanced at the clock above the counter. 11:58 PM.

He dug his hands into his pockets and settled in to wait.

At 12:45, just as Roman had begun to accept the inevitability of disappointment, the bell over the door split the night’s hush with its sharp metallic jangle. Maren entered like a punchline; late, unexpected, and so precisely herself that the rest of the diner seemed to flatten around her. She looked different this time, not in the way people usually do after only fourteen days, but in the way a mask rearranges itself for a new crowd. She was dressed in a skin-tight mini dress, black as wet asphalt, cut to reveal the constellation of tattoos scattered along her arms and the deep blue bruise blooming beneath her left knee. The dress barely qualified as functional clothing, and the heels; stiletto, absurdly tall, the color of cherry candy, announced each step with a little stutter on the tile floor. It was club wear, if clubs had ever existed in this part of town. Maybe they did. Maybe she was coming from one, or headed to one, or maybe this was just the uniform she wore for the night shift at whatever life she was living outside the diner’s walls.

Roman felt, with embarrassing immediacy, the sharpness of his own reflection in the window; the washed-out hoodie and gym shorts, the hunched posture of a man who had not prepared for company, let alone this kind. He watched Maren pause just inside the entrance, blinking as her eyes adjusted to the overlit interior, then sweep the diner with a gaze that was clinical, almost bored. When her eyes landed on him, she didn’t smile. She just tilted her head in a small, private acknowledgment, like she’d expected him all along, like his presence confirmed some private theory about how the universe worked.

She made her way down the aisle, hips moving with deliberate insolence, hands tucked into the pockets of a leather jacket she wore over the dress. Roman sat up straighter, acutely aware of the way his pulse kicked up, the way his hands seemed suddenly too large for the world. When she slid into the booth across from him, she did it in one unbroken, boneless move, folding herself into the space as if she were hydrating into a former self.

Neither of them spoke right away. Maren set her purse on the seat. Up close, Roman could see the fatigue etched under her eyeliner, the faint smudges of mascara at the corners of her eyes. She smelled faintly of some warm, musky perfume, and her knees were trembling ever so slightly as though she’d been standing for hours. He wondered what kind of night she’d had, what had driven her to show up here, dressed for battle or escape, or both.

“So, Tuesdays are your thing now?” she asked, voice hoarse but steady, like she’d spent the last three hours screaming over music.

Roman shrugged, trying to play off the way his entire attention was telescoped toward her. “Figured I’d see if the pie was as good the second time.”

Maren cracked a small, crooked smile, and for a moment the distance between them felt traversable. The silence that followed wasn’t awkward, but weighted, like a shared dare. Roman was the one who broke it, reaching for the coffee he’d left untouched and taking a long, deliberate sip. It was cold and terrible. Maren watched him, her expression unreadable except for the slight bunching of her lips at the corners, as if she were fighting an impulse to say something reckless.

The waitress appeared without being summoned, and Maren ordered a Patty Melt but added a double order of fries. Roman raised an eyebrow.

“Long night,” she sighed, as an explanation.

The old joke about carbs soaking it up. He almost made it, but something about the set of her shoulders; tense, defensive, kept his mouth shut. Instead, he asked, “You okay?”

Maren leaned back, stretching her arms along the red vinyl. “I’m here, aren’t I?”

It was neither an answer nor a non-answer, and Roman recognized it for what it was; the kind of feint you made when you weren’t sure how much of the truth you were willing to give away. It was the same move he’d used a thousand times in locker rooms and press junkets, and he felt a stupid, flickering pride at how well she played the game.

“You look different,” he said, and immediately regretted the cliché.

“Yeah, well,” she replied, a dry laugh catching in her throat, “I have range.”

The waitress delivered the order, the table suddenly crowded with the promise of calories. Maren dug in with both hands, breaking the silence between bites to ask Roman about his week. He tried to keep his answers light, but she had a way of pressing that was both gentle and relentless.

“So, you’re a workout kinda guy?” she asked, licking ketchup from her finger.

Roman almost spit out his coffee. “I guess it’s a habit by now.” He rubbed at his beard, self-conscious for reasons he couldn’t pin down. “Spent too long being told my body was my whole worth.”

Maren laughed and wiped the corner of her mouth with a napkin, leaving a red comet streak. “God, I get it. You ever just…stop for a month or two? Not get up at five? Not record your macros like a penitent?”

“I’d fall apart,” he said, and it was technically a joke but the words felt heavy in his throat. “Once, right after my divorce, I thought I’d just skip the gym for a week. By day four, I was crawling the walls. Didn’t even know who I was.”

She rotated her wrist, showing off a spidery line-art tattoo creeping from her sleeve. “You’d still be you. Maybe a softer, lazier you, but…” She looked at him sidelong. “You might like him.”

He frowned, not because he disagreed but because he hated how right she probably was.

He almost, almost slipped into the character he played for press calls. But the ache in his shoulders, the taste of cold coffee, the honest disaster of Maren’s eyeliner; he was too tired for kayfabe. “Now I just try to stay in one piece.”

Her mouth quirked, a tell of amusement or understanding. She didn’t ask him to elaborate. He respected that more than she knew.

Roman leaned forward, pressing his elbows into the sticky Formica, and regarded Maren across the table. He felt the moment stretch between them, both expectant and treacherous. The words came out before he could second-guess himself: “My turn.” He lifted his mug in a small, empty salute and drained the last dregs of cold coffee. “Wanna tell me about that bruise on your leg?”

Maren’s hand moved instantly, as if drawn by muscle memory, to shield her knee beneath the edge of the table. The gesture was both reflexive and self-aware, and for an instant, Roman saw a half-dozen conflicting reactions flicker across her face: surprise, amusement, something like embarrassment. Finally, she shrugged, rolling the joint in a practiced, lazy circle. “Oh. That? Just a rough night at work.”

He didn’t buy it, not for a second. He leaned back, away from the table, trying to project nonchalance. “You in a fight club or something?” The joke landed, and to his relief she actually laughed, a real, unarmored sound that ballooned in his chest.

“Yeah, every Tuesday at the VFW,” she said, and the sarcasm stung sweetly. “Winner gets to go home with their dignity.”

He grinned, emboldened. “You’d clean up.”

“Damn right,” Maren said, but her eyes flicked away, scanning the desolate diner, the bored waitress at the counter, the window where the streetlight made a bright, oval stage in the parking lot. She picked at the edge of a fry, rolling it between her fingers until it broke. Something was shifting in her, and Roman could feel the tension building, the sense that she was circling an answer but wasn’t sure she wanted to land it.

He tried again, slower this time. “So what do you do, really?”

She looked at him, not just at his eyes but through them, measuring risk, or maybe summoning courage. The silence that followed was different from the ones before; it was intentional, an attention vacuum, a test to see if he’d blink. Roman held steady.

“I ugh… I dance,” she said, and the way her voice dropped at the end, the way she tightened her hand around her own wrist, made it clear that wasn’t the whole truth.

“Dance?” He let the question hang, not quite gentle, not quite confrontational.

Maren exhaled through her nose, a short huff that could have been a laugh. She rolled her eyes, her face slipping into a mask of practiced indifference, and then, almost as if she was daring him, she said, “Stripper.” The word clattered on the tabletop, heavy as a half-dollar.

Roman blinked. Not out of shock, exactly, but because his mind was flipping through every version of Maren he’d imagined across their two brief encounters, recalibrating as if the answer had always been there, waiting to be discovered. For a second he saw her not as a set piece in his late-night diner ritual but as a whole person, complicated and angular and unafraid of her own mess.

A beat passed. Then another. The sound of the kitchen waitress clattering plates and the far-off buzz of the neon OPEN sign filled the silence. Roman realized he was staring, and tried to get his face under control, but couldn’t decide between a smile and something softer.

He cleared his throat, pushing the mug away as if it were suddenly too fragile. “That’s…” He searched for the right word, wanting neither to gawk nor to judge, neither to flatter nor to reduce. “Cool.”

Maren’s eyes flicked up, hard and suspicious, her gaze sharpening. She regarded Roman with a skepticism that bordered on contempt, “Right. Cool,” she echoed.. For a moment, neither of them moved; the air seemed to tighten with the threat of her laughter or her anger, but the only sound was the distant shriek of a siren passing by.

Roman did not flinch, but he felt the cold rise in his stomach. He wanted to find the right angle of approach, the way one might try to talk a jumpy cat down from a tree, but instead he only pressed his palms flat against the table and leaned forward, his voice gruff with the effort of sounding unfazed. “What about the bruise?”

The question hovered, weighty and deliberate, and for a second Maren seemed to debate whether to answer at all. She looked away, out the window, where the streetlight’s glow made spidery shadows of the rain streaks on the glass. She tapped a finger, then rolled her head back as if searching for patience in the ceiling tiles. When she spoke, it was almost offhand, but there was a tremor in the words that belied the ease. “Some drunk asshole followed me out to my car,” she said. “Tried to rough me up. Got a couple shots in before the bouncer clocked what was happening and came running.”

She stopped there, watching Roman for the flinch, the wince, the familiar flicker of male outrage or pity; one she’d seen a million times, and, judging by her face, had no use for. “Threw me on the ground,” she added, as if clarifying a minor point in a business meeting.

Roman stared at her, the facts assembling themselves in his mind with the slow horror of a car accident in progress. He wanted to offer something; sympathy, anger, even a joke, but all he managed was a tight, embarrassed nod. The silence bloomed, prickly and uneven.

Maren, for her part, seemed to find the pause amusing. She gave him a crooked grin, as if to say she’d already made peace with the story. She drummed her fingers on the table. “Kind of a hazard of the trade,” she said. “They don’t exactly put it in the brochures, but you get used to it.”

Roman felt the anger gather behind his ribs. “You shouldn’t have to get used to it,” he stated, the words coming out rawer than he intended.

“Yeah, well, the world’s not really consulting me on that one,” Maren shot back, but there was a glint of gratitude, or maybe something softer, hiding behind her sarcasm.

She picked up a fry and chewed it, pensive. “Anyway. I survived. So it’s fine.” She wiped her hands on a napkin, the gesture brisk and final, as if drawing a line under the whole ordeal.

Roman wanted to ask more, to press into the story, but something in her posture warned him off. He settled for watching her across the table, feeling the boundaries of what she would allow and the strange, heady privilege of being let close enough to see her scars.

After a few more beats of silence, Maren reached for her check and started to stand, the movement abrupt, but not unkind. She fished a crumpled bill from her pocket, flattened it against the tabletop, and offered Roman a faint, lopsided smile, one that didn’t come close to reaching her eyes. “I’m gonna go,” she said, gathering her bag and the remains of her composure in one graceful sweep. “It’s been a long week. But it was good to see you again.”

She didn’t look back, just shrugged into her jacket and made her way to the register. Outside, the rain had started up again, slanting under the jaundiced glow of the streetlamp, and Roman watched through the smeared glass as Maren hesitated beneath the awning, fumbling for her keys.Then she straightened and strode across the parking lot, her silhouette sharp and solitary in the halo of wet neon.

He sat motionless, hands clasped around the empty mug, feeling her presence like a pressure drop inside his chest. He tried to reconstruct the conversation, to parse what she’d given him and what she’d held back, but the edges blurred as soon as he reached for them. He wondered if he’d said the wrong thing, or too little, or if the outcome would have been different if he’d found a way to make her laugh one more time. The window rattled softly with the wind, and somewhere behind him the waitress flipped a chair upside-down onto a table, the ritual of closing time already in motion. For a long while, Roman just sat there, letting the cold seep into his bones, the taste of old coffee and new regret mingling on his tongue.

———

Roman waited precisely seventy-two hours, to the minute, before he allowed himself to drive out to the strip club closest to the Diner. He told himself it was to give Maren space, to respect the unspoken boundaries of their awkward, unfinished conversation, but the truth was that every hour since she’d walked out into the rain had been a trial by attrition. By the third night, he’d lost. So he went.

The Exchange was less a strip club than a fortress, a free-standing block of glass and blackened steel at the ragged edge of the business park, three exits south of downtown. Its lot was floodlit and immaculate, the hedges trimmed into precise, authoritarian cubes. An LED sign above the entrance pulsed pink and turquoise, announcing “Private Champagne Suites” and “Professional Stage Shows” in a font that seemed to sneer at the concept of subtlety. Roman circled the parking lot twice, caught between a compulsion to scope out the periphery and a dread of looking conspicuous, then finally slotted his Maserati between a pair of Mercedes SUVs.

He sat for a minute, engine ticking in the early-spring chill, watching the parade of clientele; men in loosened neckties, women in pointed heels, a battery of security staff with arms crossed like battering rams, before he killed the lights and pocketed his phone. He felt, for the briefest moment, the urge to turn back, to drive home and forget he’d ever cared enough to come, but the feeling passed quickly, replaced by a thin, insistent curiosity that bordered on hunger.

A long, black awning funneled guests toward a double door manned by an ogre in a suit, who scanned IDs and administered a perfunctory pat-down with all the warmth of a TSA agent at the end of his shift. Roman joined the queue, hands jammed in his pockets, and tried to appear less nervous than he felt.

When his turn came, the bouncer, a slab of a man with a thumb-sized mole under his left eye, looked Roman over, then grunted, “First time?” Not waiting for an answer, he snapped his fingers for the next in line and nodded Roman through the vestibule, where a second, even larger bouncer greeted him with a plastic smile and a set of house rules printed on laminated cardstock.

Roman pretended to read them, his eyes flicking instead to the pulse of colored lights leaking from the main room and the thrum of bass that made the floor vibrate under his shoes. He handed over the cover charge, received a blacklight-stamp, and stepped inside.

He didn’t know what he was expecting when he took a seat at the bar and ordered a whiskey. Part of him anticipated a sleazy circus, a parade of silicone and peroxide, all teeth and calculation but what unfurled before him was both more garish and more mundane than he’d imagined. The Exchange was lit for spectacle, ropes of LEDs and spotlights carving sharp lines across the floor, but at the edges, the mood was all resignation and routine. The mirrored wall behind the bar doubled the space and the sense of surveillance, catching the patrons in an endless loop of their own furtive glances and nervous tics. Every surface, from the lacquered bar top to the black leather stools, was polished to a sheen, as if the place hoped to reflect enough light to outshine the shame.

Roman nursed his drink, letting the ice melt and the taste settle. The whiskey was overpriced and under-aged, but it did what he needed it to, sending a brief, medicinal warmth down his throat. He watched the stage, the tables, the slow orbit of waitresses in their barely-there uniforms.

Even the music, a relentless churn of pop-R&B remixes, seemed less an aphrodisiac than a narcotic, dulling the edges of the night into something soft and indistinct. Roman felt a strange solidarity with the other men at the bar; lawyers, sales reps, a few off-duty cops, each of them nursing their own little defeats, each of them pretending not to recognize the others.

He caught sight of a familiar figure near the edge of the stage, a curvy, dark-haired woman in those same cherry red stilettos and a sexy maids uniform moving with a feline, almost lazy grace. For a second he wasn’t sure; the makeup, the glare of the spotlights, altered the contours of her face. But then she turned, sweeping her hair over one shoulder with a practiced flick. It was Maren.

He raised a finger for another whiskey, the knuckle trembling just enough to betray his nerves, and as the bartender poured, the DJ’s voice rode over the speakers with the glazed charisma of a cruise director. “Gentlemen, please welcome to the main stage, the one, the only… Cherry.” The crowd’s response was overwhelming, and Roman’s head snapped toward the stage, pulse jumping up a notch.

She moved with a deliberate, almost insolent ease, no high kicks, no gymnastic desperation, just a slow, rolling strut, the room’s attention dragging behind her like a comet’s tail. Even from this distance, Roman could see the faint outline of the bruise, a plum shadow just below her knee, half-concealed by makeup. He wondered if any of the men in her orbit noticed, if they ever read the skin for anything but what it was paid to display.

A waitress in a vinyl halter dropped his drink with a wink, and Roman thanked her, eyes never leaving the stage. He was aware of the absurdity; sitting in the dark, watching a woman he’d known for all of three weeks work a pole for the amusement of strangers, while his own hands sweated circles onto the glass. He tried to focus on her face. Maren’s expression was oddly serene, her mouth set in a line that almost looked bored, or maybe concentrated.

She let her hand drift up to the thin strap of her costume. The room’s focus bent toward her. She toyed with the strap for a moment, stretching the anticipation, letting the music’s beat pulse once, twice, before she slid it off her shoulder with a studied, indifferent grace. The crowd, hypnotized by the movement, reacted with a collective held breath, the clink of ice and low mutters fading into a hush for a split second. Maren rotated her hips, drawing the eye along the length of her body, the red stiletto planted, her posture turning every gesture into a dare.

There were no gimmicks, no props, just the silent assertion that whatever happened next would happen entirely on her terms. Roman saw her scan the floor, saw her eyes dart to the bouncer at the edge of the audience, and then, with a flicker of something like amusement, she locked her gaze somewhere in the middle distance, refusing to give any individual the satisfaction of direct connection. The other girls, half-hidden in the wings, watched her with open envy, or maybe superiority–Roman couldn’t tell.

She ran her hands down her own sides, smoothed the curve of her hip, then with a single, fluid gesture, undid the clasp at her back. The costume peeled away, revealing the soft swell of her breasts. The men at the bar leaned in, their expressions flickering between hunger and awe, but Maren barely acknowledged them.

Money began to rain down on her as she danced, crisp bills floating in the air like fallen leaves. Roman could feel his breath hitch in his throat as he watched the rhythm of her body play against the pulse of the music.

He couldn’t take his eyes off her. The way she commanded the space, her confidence radiating like a beacon, lit a fire deep in his gut. She was a storm wrapped in silk, and he was only an observer, caught in the wild turbulence of her presence. There was something intoxicating about watching her relinquish the armor of her daily life, to become a different version of herself, a version that held all the keys to the universe in her fingertips, leaving him both desperate and electrified.

He shifted on his stool, the leather creaking beneath him, the heat rising within. The whiskey burned pleasantly in his throat as he took another sip, grounding him amidst the chaos unfolding on stage. The contrast between the coldness of the drink and the warmth pooling in his veins seemed almost poetic.

On stage, Maren became a different creature, her skin illuminated by the glimmering LEDs, her silhouette cutting clean against the haze of synthetic smoke. She spun on the pole, her body wrapping around it like a snake, muscles rippling under the surface of her skin as she arched and uncoiled. Every movement was deliberate, a slow-burn seduction meant less for titillation and more for domination. She climbed the pole with the effortless stamina of a gymnast, inverted, and hung suspended, half naked for a breathless moment, her hair cascading to the floor in a river of black. The audience was pinned, transfixed.

Roman felt time dilate around her performance: the lazy orbit of the waitresses, the synchronized sips of watered-down liquor, the sharp, spicy perfume of the patron two seats down, all of it faded to backdrop. He watched Maren spin downward in a slow spiral, legs scissoring wide, then landing with a catlike grace that drew a round of half-suppressed applause from the regulars. Even the DJ, ever eager to fill any gap with canned banter, let the music ride out uninterrupted as she worked the stage.

Roman’s breath caught as Maren prowled the runway, stopping at the very edge to lean into the light, her eyes rimmed in black and gleaming with something feral. He could see the sheen of sweat on her shoulders, the tiny tremor in her calf as she flexed, and for a moment he wondered if it was all an act or if she was as adrenalized as he was. The men at the rail jostled for position, throwing down bills with the desperate reverence of gamblers in a losing streak, but Maren gave them nothing, just the merest nod, the faintest flick of her tongue over her lip, then she was gone, retreating to center stage for one last flourish.

She finished her number by dropping into a perfect split, arms raised, fingers splayed in a gesture that was half-victory, half-dare. The house lights dipped, the music faded, and the spell broke. Maren rose, collected herself, and began gathering the scattered currency with precise, almost disdainful motions, never pausing to acknowledge the applause. She did a quick circuit of the tables, her walk brisk and businesslike, and then vanished behind a velvet curtain at the back of the room.

Roman felt both relief and disappointment wash over him in equal measure. He drained the new whiskey and tried to measure his own intentions, but the math was getting fuzzy. He didn’t have to wait long, minutes later Maren reappeared, now in a black silk robe that barely grazed her thighs. She sidestepped a pair of regulars and made straight for the bar.

She didn’t even look at him as she slid onto the stool, instead signaling the bartender with two fingers and pointing at Roman’s glass as if ordering for herself. “Thought you might show up.”

To be continued...