With Her Fists

Chapter III

Chapter IIIBiloxi, Mississippi

March 20, 2010

The flight from Philadelphia to Atlanta was uneventful, other than the event that began inside of her. An anti-c****x that happens immediately after every fight. She's never experimented with drugs, but knew what it felt like to be seriously high, to soar above everything and everybody and never want to come down.

She knew what it felt like to come down, hard, a vertical drop without declining in gradients. No levels of descent to get the body sensitized to running on less Go-Go Juice. Just an abrupt loss, a snatching, a dream life lost and never to be lived again.

And she knew what it felt like to want more. To go mad for another hit.

Clarice was in agonizing withdrawal when she and Eddy changed planes and landed at Gulfport International an hour later. Her home was close by, in Biloxi, about a fifteen-minute drive. Ace picked her up in his Dodge Ram. They said their goodbyes to Eddy and he drove them home in silence. Her man understood that she needed this time to think and readjust to being human again after playing the super hero role in the ring. Emotional decompression. Ace was lucky this process worked. Otherwise she'd have him on a steady diet of Ms. Bad b***h, with liberal servings of Wicked Narcissism on the side, and, perhaps, served up on a lovely platter of I Run This s**t.

And feed it to him for breakfast, lunch, and dinner…

So she fought for decompression. He stayed quiet.

And lucky.

They exited Interstate-10 in Woolmarket, in north Biloxi, and turned onto Woolmarket Road. Headed east for about a quarter mile before turning into a driveway. A two-hundred foot steel building sat on five acres of grass surrounded by pine trees and residential streets behind it. The building had a granite stone front, dark blue steel sides, and a white roof with half a dozen skylights showing on the front, with more on the other half of the building.

Huge windows with awnings on the front entrance were dark, reflecting the street lights. A large blue and gray sign stood guard at the left of the gravel drive, ten feet of fiberglass and wood, a tattooed chick bending over and reading the side of a door on a hot rod. The door advertised that this was a united business: Tattoology, her high-tech tattoo studio. And Custom Ace, the all-purpose mechanic shop that she renamed after marrying Alan “Ace” Carter.

They got out of the truck and were greeted by crickets that one by one started up their violin wings again once the Viper engine stopped growling at them. A dry breeze brought the fragrances of dozens of flowers and weeds that were blooming all over the yard. The smell of home, the ultimate aromatherapy. Clarice walked inside, passing through the tattoo studio area and into a hallway that led to the auto shop in the back. The studio's lobby, office, and partitioned parlor were spotless, furnished with state-of-the-art equipment, and smelled similar to a hospital. Ace took her hand and we walked up the wooden stairs in the center of the hallway, into our home over the top of the studio.

She was struggling in a strange daze. An empty, numb, and wanting sensation that had nothing to do with jet lag. She was too spaced out to seriously analyze herself, but was sure the feeling is what others experience from traumatic loss. Like when a family member dies. A brother or sister, a twin, and you feel like you've lost a part of yourself.

A part of myself.

She could still hear the crowd cheering as she left the ring. Could still hear the roaring, vibrating echo that was the hypodermic for her Invincible dope, as she sat in the locker room, sobbing, as Eddy cut off her hand wraps and her promoter hustled the media that crowded in after them. She could still feel it happening…

But it wasn't happening. And never would again. She just didn't want to let it go. It didn't want to let her go, either.

Let her go.

Shocker Ares. She's gone.

I'm gone. I'm there. Now I'm here. Without her.

A part of myself.

“Are you okay, Clarice?” Ace asked, stroking her hair. He knew how much she loved that. And it helped, was soothing on so many levels. They sat in their comfy living room, in a huge leather chair that was their favorite spot because they could view the room and the artwork on the walls, the Turkish rugs that checkered the hardwood floor.

Mostly earth tones, the ambience was tranquilizing until your eyes wandered onto the mythological paintings dwelling like three-dimensional beings on the walls. Dragons, gods, and goddesses. Eight life-sized paintings with layered backgrounds in striking realism, seemed to lift off of the canvases and reach into your imagination. Monsters from the sea and the land, myths and legends that were created and accepted as real in everyday life thousands of years ago. Clarice painted them once she knew she was going to be building a home. Kind of like a home warming gift to herself, a series her Greek ancestors would surely appreciate.

A low moon white ceiling with small fluorescent spotlights lit up parts of the room and the paintings behind the sofas and the chair. The skylights were trimmed in dark blue, even darker now because of the night sky's lack of illumination. The forty-foot square floor was dark shiny wood with rugs in geometric patterns, though there were settings of furniture as well. A circular white leather sofa cornered a large flat screen TV and stereo entertainment center to their right. Tall corner windows with beige and white curtains were behind it and six-foot Apollo and Aphrodite renderings were on the far side of the windows. A small glass coffee table held remotes and coasters in front of the sofa. Behind that and almost directly across from them on one reddish-brown wall was another sofa. Long and white brushed leather with dark red throw pillows. A behemoth dragon on the wall above it floated in the air the entire length of the sofa, blowing flames on a tiny village far below its muscular wings, furious. Twin glass tables flanked it with red lamps and more coasters.

Behind them was another six-foot painting, this one with the goddess of the moon, Artemis. She was hunting for something, though Clarice left that up for the observers' interpretation. Honestly, she didn't know what the hell the ancient broad was hunting for. So she didn't put it in the painting. But it looked kickass over their chair.

The chair had the appearance and feeling of a king's throne, with an aura of cunning emitting from the scenes of sprites and fairies carved into the thick oak legs and arms, the little creatures twisted around each other erotically, expressions of carnal magic that seemed to honor a superior being. Like it was crafted so Conan and his concubines could have an orgy on it.

Maybe I should paint that and hang it over the chair…

She leaned back against her man and sighed, eyes closed. Then remembered he had asked her a question. “I know I'm being a drama queen. I'm having issues here,” she said by way of apology.

“Just relax and tell me when you feel like it,” he murmured, wanting no part of Ms. Bad b***h. Wanting to stay lucky.

That made her smile. “Relax? What is that?”

“Shh. Don't do that. You know you'll feel better if you just talk it out,” he murmured again, brushing his vibrating lips on the side of her neck, kissing it. He moved her hair and kissed her nape.

Oh, god. The man knew how to get her mind out of the gutter, and off to frolic in a different kind of gutter. Clarice started squirming, thinking of the Orgy Throne painting again. Giving it a title made it real in her mind, a fantasy, one she wanted to bring to life, lose herself in at that very moment.

“You're absolutely right,” she whispered in a tight, I Have An Idea Voice. Her tone rose louder, husky. “Let's talk this out. Come on. Get up. I need your help with something in our bedroom. Let's scream that motherfucker out.” She stood and grabbed his wrists, snatched him out of the chair.

I need this, as a cleansing of sorts. Yeah, this feels right…

Yeah. And Nolan won't be here until 6 a.m., when Mom drops him off. Plenty of time to deal with this…

She gripped his arms tighter.

“Are you going to hurt me again?” he said with a little worry laced in it. But excitement, too. Like he was about to get back on a theme park ride that scared him stupid, but he kept getting back in line anyway.

“Probably so.”

“That's cool.”

He laughed nervously as she led him down the hallway to their bedroom.