Respect Me, Part 1 by Nia Arthurs
Jerrison
Athletes are a sensitive bunch.Especially when they’ve lost three matches in a row.
“You’re saying they cancelled the contract?” Nathan Zedina paces my office. His legs are thick as tree trunks and, I swear, the frames on my wall tremble with every step he takes.
“It wasn’t cancelled. Think of it more like a break,” I say, gesturing with my hand.
“To hell it is.” Nathan’s blowing his top, but it’s about to get a lot worse. I’m already thinking of dropping him from the agency.
His personal life has gone to crap. He’s got three baby mamas and another woman claiming she’s got his son. The media’s been slurping up his scandals like a milkshake.
It’s a freak show.
And that doesn’t fit the brand.
If a man can’t keep his house in order, how can I put my money into making him a household name? These days, one tiny match will burn the entire forest down. Vultures are circling on social media, just waiting to pounce on a man’s sins—whether they happened yesterday or fifty years ago.
I push my palms against the table and rise slowly. “Nathan, we’re doing everything we can over here. You should focus on training.” My eyes drop to his scarred knuckles. “Your coach mentioned that you’ve been skipping out on practice.”
His gaze skitters away guiltily. “There’s been some stuff…”
“What stuff?”
“Life stuff.” He squares his shoulders. The bushy beard on his face covers most of his chin and lips, but I can still see the way his jaw is clenching. “Fix this for me, Jerrison. Isn’t that what I pay you for?”
My smile lacks any warmth. “Actually, Zedina, I pay you. Don’t forget that I took you off the street where you were fighting in back alleys and made you a star.”
“That’s what I’m saying,” he mumbles. He’s a giant man who could crush me like a twig and he keeps his head down in front of me.
I gesture to the door. “You can go.”
As he plods out of my office, I fall into my chair and sigh. Patrick told me to stop representing boxers. There’s a lot more money to be made in the mainstream sports—football, baseball, basketball. Hell, even golf has more commercial promise.
There’s a monopoly on boxing competitions. Very few names that ring with recognition. Even fewer bring in all the sponsorships.
But I can’t give it up. The boxing world is an uphill climb filled with scrappy characters who know how to throw a punch inside and outside of the ring.
And that’s why I love it.
There’s a freedom in the barbarity.
Explosions lashed with ropes and rules.
The release of violence but only inside the boundaries.
Four corners.
One ring.
A thin line between anger and strategy.
It’s easy to ignore the athletics behind the punches and kicks, but it takes just as much discipline to train in the ring as it does to swim a couple laps or swing a tennis racket with the power of a machine.
Besides, boxing has sentimental value for me too.
It’s where I met my wife.
When I found out Harriet was into the sport, I signed up to her dad’s gym immediately. For weeks, I watched her practice, punching the life out of a bag and going toe-to-toe with beginners in the ring.
She was powerful. Lithe. Grace on her feet.
I knew she could handle anything.
And I knew I wanted her more than anything in the world.
The memories pierce me instead of bringing any sweet nostalgia. That Harriet hasn’t been around for a while. She’s prickly, all sharp points and edges. And lately, she feels so far away. This morning, when I tried to get closer to her, she looked at me like I was a monster. I had to pull out of there fast.
I’m not annoyed because we didn’t have sex. Okay, I am a little annoyed, but not to the point of fury. I’ve never been a man who’d force himself on a woman. Ever. There’s no pleasure in breaking someone down. The most exciting trait of a woman is her will.
But seeing my wife look at me like that…
Hell, I don’t know when we got to this place. Sure, she’s been using lube now. She thinks I don’t know. Thinks she’s being slick reaching for her ‘lotion bottle’ every time I roll her over and spread her thighs apart. But I know.
It didn’t bother me.
Figured she was just going through her own crap.
Now, I’m wondering if there’s more.
Maybe I should talk to her about it, but she’s so sensitive these days. Always working. Always on her laptop late at night.
My phone chirps suddenly.
Unknown number.
I pick up anyway. “Hello?”
“Hi, is this…” Harried breaths fill my ear. “Is this Jerrison Bradley? Harriet Bradley’s husband?”
“Who is this?” I tap my fingers on the desk.
“Sorry to bother you. I’m Nancy, Harriet’s assistant manager.”
“Oh, Nancy. I didn’t recognize your voice.” Should have though. She’s got a distinct one. Deep bass with just a hint of a feminine pitch. “Something wrong?”
“Harriet isn’t picking up her phone and… well, the thing is, an inspector’s here. He’s asking for her and I can’t reach her.” She gives a garbled little yelp. “I told her yesterday that she should be more careful…”
My back stiffens. “She wasn’t there yesterday?”
“No. She… she hasn’t been coming to the shop in the mornings.”
The hell? I shoot out of my chair. “Nancy, where has Harriet been every morning?”
“I don’t know. She didn’t say. All I know is, she doesn’t show up until noon.”
“How long has this been going on?”
“Mr. Bradley, I need to go. Can you get Harriet down here please?”
Click.
My fingers ball into fists as I turn around and glare at the view. Bright skies. Yellow-tinged clouds. No birds in sight. The street below reveals people the size of ants, scurrying about their days, grinding and hustling through life. I want to squash each one of them with my shoe until the tightening in my chest goes away.
Where the hell has my wife been going every morning if it hasn’t been to work? And if she isn’t working, then who has she been calling every night? Why is she glued to her laptop as if she can’t get enough of the business?
Tension winds through my chest and needles at doubts I never knew existed.
Something is way off.
I call Harriet on my way through the door.
No answer.
I shoot her a text about the bakery and then head there fast. Tracking Harriet will take too much time and Nancy made it seem like the inspection was urgent. The bakery is mine too, although I don’t do much of the day-to-day running. Harriet’s always handled that side while I focused on my sports agency.
As I drive, I grit my teeth and think about where my wife could possibly be. Maybe she’s hanging with Pax? Those two became best friends overnight. And what if she isn’t with a woman at all?
The thought needles my brain and refuses to let go.
I deal with the emergency at the bakery. Shake hands. Make nice. Sweet-talk. The inspector seems like he’s out for blood, but I meet plenty of men like him in my line of work. He’s no match for me and I put out the fire before it really has any time to blaze.
“Thank you,” Nancy says, turning to me with those big, doe eyes. She’s painfully scrawny and shorter than I was at ten. I can’t imagine why Harriet would leave her running the bakery alone all morning.
“No problem.” I fold my arms over my chest. “Can we continue the conversation we started on the phone?”
“Oh…” Her eyes slant away. Guilt seeps from her brown skin.
“I need to know where Harriet has been every morning.”
She swallows hard. “I really don’t know.”
“You do.” I take a step toward her. “She’s with you everyday. You must know something.”
Nancy’s eyelashes flutter hard and she digs her fingers into her apron. “To be honest, whenever I call her, I hear… clanking. Like someone hitting something with metal.”
“Metal?” A memory slams into me. Harriet. Last week. She came home smelling like car oil. I asked her if there was a problem with the car and she snapped at me. ‘The car is the least of my problems, Jerrison’.
What is my wife doing?
The question festers in my heart. Chews away at my concentration. Hauls me around like a stuffed doll.
I go back to work, but I can’t focus on anything.
In the end, I decide to go home and wait for Harriet.
It’s late when the knob turns and she steps into the living room. She’s wearing a polo shirt, fitted khakis and black pumps. Exhaustion forms new wrinkles on her dark face and makes her seem much older than she is. Since when did my wife look so beaten down?
My attraction wanes just as my irritation soars.
She jumps when she sees me. “Jerrison, were you waiting for me?”
“Rough day?” I rise from the sofa and brush my shirt down.
She shrugs.
I stalk toward her. “Where have you been all morning?”
Her entire back stiffens and her eyes start to burn like twin coals.
She doesn’t respond.
“Nancy called me. There was a problem at the bakery.”
“I know. She told me.” Harriet kicks off her shoes and massages the back of her neck. “Thank you for stepping in and smoothing things over with the inspector.” She marches toward the stairs.
I follow her, my stomach churning. “That’s it?”
“What’s it?” Her sigh is big enough to swallow me. “Jerrison, it’s been a long day. I’m really not in the mood right now.”
“In the mood for what? Conversation?”
“Yes. Exactly. I don’t want to talk to you.”
“Why? You have something to hide?”
Her eyes flash with irritation. “Excuse me?”
“You disappear for hours every morning and you don’t think you should inform me?”
“No, Jerrison. I don’t.” Harriet whirls around and slams her hands against her hips.
My nostrils flare and my heart thumps like crazy. “Tell me straight up.” I glare into Harriet’s face. “Are you having an affair?”
