CASSIUS

Sweat coats our bodies as we lay in my bed, chests still gently heaving as we try to catch our breath. While I'm staring at the ceiling, still coming down from the high, Quinn is bouncing up and grabbing the only article of clothing of hers that made it into the bedroom.

Wriggling back into her underwear, excitement transforms her face, and she darts from the room. I groan and ruffle my own hair out of frustration before following behind. Why can't she be tired after sex like most people?

Sluggishly trailing behind her, I see her standing in the middle of the living room, wide-eyed as she surveys it like she's in some fancy art museum.

Her eyes light up before running toward the shelf hanging by the front door.

"Cash, you did not!" When she spins around, she's clutching the wooden frame that holds her kindergarten-level artwork.

The loving shine her eyes emanate and the lip she keeps securely tucked beneath her teeth as she stares at me makes me feel like I'm walking on water. Weightless, other-worldly. I've never had someone look at me the way she does.

I sit on the couch and prop my feet up on the table as I observe her exploring every nook and cranny of my home. It's not much, but it's admittedly decent for someone my age.

While pops coached me in everything from fighting to hockey to emotional control, mum was the voice of reason when it came to finances.

Every dime that didn't go towards bills went into my savings account until I could afford this place. Even now, I still penny-pinch, never spending a dime on something that isn't necessary.

Until I learned that Oreos are the way to Quinn's heart. Now there's a separate little slush fund for her cookie addiction tucked away in my dresser drawer.

Disappearing into the bathroom, her head pops out not even ten seconds later.

"You don't have a shower curtain! I knew you were sexy, but I didn't know you were smart too!" She squeals before vanishing again.

I chuckle to myself. "Yeah, thought you might like that."

She flies to the second bedroom tucked on the other side of the house, the small laundry room that branches off the kitchen, and then the kitchen itself. Each drawer is pulled open, and no cabinet is left uncharted.

I let my eyes drift shut for two seconds too long.

"This is the perfect setup for climbing!" She cheers and I'm on my feet before she even finishes her sentence.

"Nuh-uh! Don't fucking do it!" I scold, rushing towards her. But she's already up on the counter.

My arms lock around her waist and I yank her off what she obviously perceives as a jungle gym.

"But...Cash!" She grunts, stretching her legs out to try and keep her toes connected with the quartz countertop.

I drag her from the kitchen in a lethargic manner and place her on her feet. My hands fall to her hips, and I walk her in reverse until her ass is pushed against the back of the couch.

"You're welcome here any time, as long as you promise not to climb around on everything."

She pouts like a child and crosses her arms.

"Well then what's the point in even coming over here?" She fires back.

"Uhhh, I don't know. Hanging out with me, maybe?" I reply, dumbfounded.

"Boooorinnng." She fakes a yawn and rolls her eyes.

I playfully tackle her over the edge of the couch and kiss up the side of her neck until she's laughing so hard, she can't even get actual words out.

*************

The following Monday afternoon, an hour before my shift starts, I'm once again sitting on the other side of Max's desk. He clicks away on the computer mouse while staring at the outdated software pulled up on his screen.

I don't know if he's actually doing anything work related, or just pretending to be busy. A pointless attempt to buy himself more time before having to answer the first of my many questions.

Bolstering my right ankle up on my left knee, I relax into the cracked leather chair. I can be a very patient guy and I'm not leaving this room until he gives me something I can wrap my head around.

"Maxipad, you gonna answer me? I can repeat the question if you forgot what I said." I muse after a good five minutes of silence.

His eyes narrow as he scowls at me.

"Don't call me that."

My lips pull to the side while I act like I'm contemplating his request.

"Eh, it's a fitting name for someone who's too scared to tell me the truth." I shrug.

Now he reclines in his rolling chair, intertwining his fingers before placing his hands in his lap.

"I plan on retiring soon. That's why I asked you to be a partner." He finally responds after puffing out a breath of air.

"I know you're old as dirt, Max, but I think you still got a while before you're supposed to retire."

He chucks a pencil at my face, but it flies out into the hallway when I lean to the side at the last second, dodging it.

"That, right there." He nods to me. "That's one of the reasons I want you to take over."

I twist my neck to look behind me before meeting his eyes again.

"You want me to take over because you couldn't hit me with a pencil?" I deadpan, arching an eyebrow.

He laughs at the skepticism and bends forward, laying his elbows on the desk.

"I want you to take over because you're still sharp, kid. You still got your reflexes intact. You'll need that in this business. You think with your head instead of your fists and you have the respect of my employees. So, for now, you'd be my partner. But, in a year or two, I plan on stepping back and handing it off."

"Sooo, you hired me to do security because you know I can fight, but want me to take over because I'll think with my head?"

"Good men do both."

His words settle in my brain. I repeat them over and over because it sounds similar to something pops always used to say.

A good man thinks hard and punches harder.

Never knew what the fuck he was talking about when I was a kid, but it made more sense as I got older and more involved in this world.

It's exactly how he raised me. Always lecturing me to be calm and collected while also designing my body to withstand the physical hardships.

"You know, if I'm in charge, things are gonna change. You sure you want that for this place?" I pry, hoping for the answer I desperately want to hear. The one that will help Quinn accept my decision.

A jovial laugh spills out of his mouth.

"Son, that's what I'm counting on. You sound just like your dad."

His eyes wander and he appears to be lost in a memory. Meanwhile, there's a strange swirl of anxiety wreaking havoc in my gut, leading me back to the original question.

"What uh...what happened to him?" I fixate on my elevated ankle, debating if I want to retract my words or not.

But, if I never find out, I'll never be able to get it out of my head. I'll wonder forever. Answers I might not like are better than no answers at all.

Max sighs deeply, seeming to prepare himself for this conversation.

"You sure you're ready for this, kid? Because, once I tell you, there's no going back. You gotta carry this shit around on your shoulders for the rest of your life."

Yeah, guessing it definitely wasn't a drunk driving accident. I wish Quinn was here. Or Warren. Someone to be by my side when my world inevitably gets flipped inside out.

I meet his eyes, using mine to convey that I can handle this. And I can.

Whatever he says might create an open wound but, with time, it'll scab over. The remaining scar tissue will be tougher, harder to break through the next go around.

"Alright." Max huffs. "But after this, I want you to take the night off again. Get your head straight before you step foot in this building again."

The ominous warning is unexpected, but I brace myself for impact before telling him I'm ready to finally hear the truth about that night.

"Your dad was drunk the night he got in the accident, but that isn't what caused it. I think the only reason he was even drinking was so he could do what he thought he needed to do."

My gulp is audible as the words sink in. Or maybe that's just my imagination.

"I told you about the kid he was helping, how he took on that debt with the bookie so he could get his life on track after getting out of jail? Told you he didn't have the money in time? Well, I offered him a loan, but he downright refused it. Told me if I ever brought it up again, he'd step out on our deal."

He takes a second to compose himself while I continue trying to map out where this is headed.

"He told me he had it handled, and your dad was no liar. I trusted him on that. Just didn't know that his plan was so...fucked, for lack of better words."

Max's knuckles drain of blood as he squeezes his hands together on the desk. This is harder for him than I expected, which only makes me more nervous about how it's going to affect me and Warren and mum. If I even end up telling them, that is.

"I don't think you and Warren knew, but your family wasn't doing so hot on the money front. Everything they got, they ended up sinking into some charity case of a human. Noble, sure. But also stupid. Now, your dad had been battling a lot of demons. The kind that you can't escape. The head ones, you know what I mean?"

Head demons? Sounds like some shit Quinn would say. But I think I get what he's alluding to, so I shake my head.

"Well, he had a decent life insurance policy. Knew it would cover your mom and you kids, knew it would cover the debt. To him, that money solved a lot of problems he felt otherwise helpless about and...well...yeah. Left your mom a note, telling her to make sure she used some of it to pay off that kid's tab."

"Wow." Comes out on a breathless exhale.

"He didn't even read the damn policy. Life insurance doesn't cover... well, you know." He somberly shakes his head, as if reliving an awful nightmare of regret.

Max sure has a way with words. He's one of those guys that starts to rip off the bandaid, and then gives up midway through. Pain, relief, confusion. That's what he invokes in me by saying everything, yet nothing all at once.

Mum and pops never brought up money around us, but I can easily recall barely scraping by. I remember mowing every single lawn in the neighborhood each summer to pay for boxing lessons or hockey camps.

Warren learned the art of woodwork early on, constructing patio furniture or flowerboxes to bring in some extra cash.

But I don't think I ever paid close enough attention to see the signs of dad slipping away from us.

Yeah, we were poor. But we were happy. Or so I thought.

So, I don't know if this news is better or worse than the bullshit story I've been fed since the day we got the phone call about his accident.

It wasn't an accident. It was intentional.

I was pissed that he would ever be stupid enough to get behind the wheel while he was drunk. But now...what the hell am I supposed to feel?

He didn't make a mistake that ultimately took him from us. He chose to leave us behind. And that just doesn't fucking sit right with me.

I run the facts through my head at least a dozen times while Max is waiting for some kind of reaction out of me.

"What's the guy's name? The one dad was helping?" I rasp, peering up at him.

"Sonny." He whispers after a long moment of hesitation.

Sonny. Internally, I repeat it, committing it to memory. The guy who my dad thought was worth his life. I guess that's not exactly fair though, is it? He thought he was doing it for us, too.

"Is he good now?"

Max shoots me a weak smile and focuses his attention on the computer screen again.

"For the most part, yeah. Hasn't gambled since he's been out. Still goes to meetings. But still gets into some stupid shit from time to time, too. Can't really blame him, considering his family history. But he's got a stable job and does right by people. Commits himself to carrying on your dad's generosity. All in all, he's a good kid, Cash."

I'm continuously nodding to a nonexistent beat as I process the information.

I wonder if he was at the funeral. Did he offer me his condolences? Shake my hand? Did he hug mum like he's not part of the reason her husband was lying in that casket? Does he still come to the club? Have I talked to him here?

My jaw clenches as I think of something else.

"That bookie he owed the money to still work here?" I grit out, my body temperature rising before I even hear the answer.

"I can't give you that information, kid. I'm sorry."

That's a yes. I still work with this motherfucker.

Closing my eyes, I flip through every memory I have from over the years. Every. Single. Encounter.

"Fletch?"

Max's face stays stoic as ever and I know I'm right.

Fletch...the quiet guy. The one who doesn't even seem like he wants to be here on fight nights.

The one who avoids eye contact with me. The one who stares right through me when I'm talking to him and the other bookies. The only one of them who doesn't speak to me like I'm some kind of lifeless war machine at his disposal.

He says please and thank you. He's polite. You can practically see the guilt and remorse manifesting in his eyes, but I always thought I was imagining it.

That makes it really fucking hard to hate him.

Once again, I'm repeating a mantra in my head, hoping it will stick to the walls of my soul.

It's not his fault. He was doing his job. He didn't force my dad to do this. It's not his fault. He was doing his job. He didn't force my dad to do this.

"Go home, Cass." Max mutters, going back to sorting through payroll paperwork.

I don't know what to do with this. There's nobody to be angry with. Nobody to blame. Which means the anger is just floating around with no proper location to pin it down to.

It's not my fault. Max, Sonny, Fletch...not their fault. The blame lies solely with pops, and I can't even be mad at him because he's fucking dead.

Mum worked so hard on putting our ill-feelings to rest when he passed. I don't want to unravel all the progress she made, but I can feel it. The thread, gradually being pulled while I desperately try to keep it in place.

Without another word, I stand from the desk and exit the room, heading straight for the bar.