Chapter 4 - Scars and Secrets
The drive home was quiet. Ryan kept one hand on the steering wheel and held an ice pack against his split lower lip with the other. The hum of the tires against the asphalt was the only sound between us for nearly twenty minutes until we reached our townhouse in the suburbs.
I unlocked the front door and led him straight into the bathroom. I pulled out the antiseptic, cotton swabs, and medical tape from our first-aid cabinet—tools I was intimately familiar with from years in training camps.
Ryan sat on the edge of the closed toilet lid. As I dabbed iodine onto his cut, he winced slightly, then caught my wrist—gently this time.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered.
I paused, looking into his eyes. “Why are you apologizing? You stood up for me. You took a punch for me.”
“Because I promised you that you’d never have to deal with that world again,” Ryan said, his voice heavy with guilt. “When we met at the physical therapy clinic three years ago, you told me how badly you wanted a normal life. No press, no cameras, no violent men challenging you everywhere you went. And my family dragged you right back into the dirt.”
I set the cotton swab down and cupped his jaw with both hands. “Ryan, listen to me. I retired because my body was tired, and I had nothing left to prove to anyone. I wanted peace. But peace doesn’t mean helplessness. You took that blow because you love me. The only thing I regret is not putting Derek through that table two minutes earlier.”
A faint, painful smile crossed his bruised lips. “Marissa really pulled up the Alvarez fight on her phone?”
“Looked like the second-round finish,” I said with a faint smirk. “The flying armbar.”
Ryan chuckled, then groaned as his split lip protested. “Derek is an idiot. But he’s an idiot with dangerous friends. You know where he spends four nights a week, don’t you?”
I nodded slowly. “The Iron Vault Gym down on 5th Street.”
The Iron Vault wasn't a standard fitness center. It was an unsanctioned, grime-coated combat gym run by Marcus “The Anvil” Vance, an ex-heavyweight kickboxer who had been banned from three legitimate athletic commissions for doping and assaulting referees. It was a haven for bouncers, debt collectors, and steroid-fueled meatheads who liked hurting people without rules. Derek had been training there for two years, treating it like a private fraternity of bullies.
“He won’t let this go,” Ryan murmured. “His pride is all he has. Diane has spent thirty years telling him he’s God’s gift to manhood. Getting thrown across a picnic table by his sister-in-law is going to make him reckless.”
Right on cue, Ryan’s phone chimed on the granite counter.
It was a family group text.
Diane had posted three photos of Derek sitting in an emergency room triage chair, his arm in a blue sling, looking pathetic and furious.
*Diane: Look at what your ‘wife’ did to your brother. The doctor says his rotator cuff is severely strained. I expect Claire to pay every cent of this medical bill, followed by a written apology to Derek. If she doesn’t, Derek is filing a police report for aggravated assault tomorrow morning.*
Ryan began typing a furious reply, but I gently placed my hand over his screen.
“Don’t waste your breath, Ryan,” I said softly.
“Claire, she’s threatening to have you arrested! You were defending yourself!”
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“Let them threaten,” I replied, looking out the bathroom window into the twilight. “A bully only uses the law when violence fails them. But Derek isn't the type to let the police fight his battles. He's too proud. He'll try something else first.”
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