It Takes Time

Back at 53.

Wade hated his god-damn smart phone.

Almost as much as he hated Sacramento.

Southern boy or not, Wade hated the heat, and northern California, Sacramento in particular, was pushing 110 degrees in early August. Hot enough that even the air conditioning in the Golden 1 Center barely made ReVival 53 tolerable. Once the sun fell and the night’s cool air took over, Ol’ Wade took his size fourteens outside to the parking lot. Better to wait for his Queen outside before the heat forced him to make poor decisions indoors.

But that god-damn smart phone.

They ruin everything.

The click of high heels against the asphalt stole his glare from the phone in hand, his sharp blue eyes lifting to watch his fiance’s long legs step toward him and his black pickup. On any other night, a rare, wry grin would creep behind his gray beard at her approach. And on any other night, that god-damn smart phone would have been tossed into the backseat, or shoved into the pocket of his worn jeans. Or forgotten entirely.

But not that night.

The Queen lifted a curious eyebrow as she approached, reading the concern in Wade’s eyes.

“You left early,” she said, her heels planting firmly against the pavement.

“Was this yer call?” he asked, flatly, turning the phone. The curiosity in her hazel eyes faded as she read the freshly posted card for ReVival 54.

More specifically, the booking of the Bad Dog against the Diamond.

“It’s a big moment for Brandon,” she confirmed, taking a step forward. “He can’t earn win number fifty against just anyone. We needed to put him against someone that will take him to the absolute brink. And that’s you.”

“It’s a mistake,” he shot. “Lindsay, it’s a big god-damn mistake.”

Wade shot hot air through his nose, and turned toward his truck.

“I’d start lookin’ for th’next sorry sonnuva bitch to throw at ‘im for his big win number fifty,” he growled, swinging the door open and lifting one boot inside. “‘Cause he ain’t gettin’ it against me. I’ll kill that mother fucker first.”

“Wade…”

“An’ now that’s on you.”

He slammed the door shut, and turned the ignition, bringing the black beast to life. Ol’ Wade stared out the windshield a moment, visibly breathing heavily through his nostrils. Lindsay’s eyebrows curled in confusion, and perhaps a bit of contempt.

She watched as he reached over, unlatching and opening the driver’s side door, leaving it open for her as his big paws returned to the steering wheel.

Somewhat reluctantly, the Queen fixed the bag on her shoulder, and stepped toward the passenger’s side to join her fiance.

Climbing in, and preparing for a quiet drive.

“Sonnuva bitch…”

Wade shook his hand after cranking it against the engine manifold, socket wrench clanking and clattering to the garage floor, blood pooling a touch on yet another skinned-up knuckle.

The Southern Sparkplug was a piss-poor mechanic.

He grumbled, sucking at his knuckle and lumbering toward the nearby work bench, ripping off a piece of blue paper towel and wrapping it around his finger before securing it with black electrical tape.

“Yer a real pain th’ass, y’know that?”

The Green, 1979 Chevy Stepside offered very little in response. Though in its silence, it had so much story to tell.

With a huff through his nose, Wade thought back to all those years ago. Fifteen, now. When a drunken escape from Colossus VI left his Silverado upside down and on fire, he’d found Kate and her cabin. And three years later when it was time to leave, she sent the ‘79 Stepside with him. He told her he’d come back.

And never did.

“How many more hours of your life are you going to put into that thing before you call an actual mechanic?”

Wade hid a chuckle behind his gray beard at the sound of Lindsay’s voice, but had yet to meet her gaze.

“I got it runnin’ once before,” he replied, fiddling with his makeshift bandage.

“Funny, because it literally hasn’t moved from this garage since you brought it to Vegas.”

The Queen of the Ring offered a soft smirk when Wade finally turned his blues away from the pickup. Comfy in sweats and a loose top, she padded across the concrete, two hot coffees in hand. He smiled with his eyes, taking the mug from her fingers.

“Some things take a little time,” he said, taking a long sip.

She lifted her eyebrows behind her own sip, keenly aware of the meaning.

“So,” she said, setting her mug on the top of the tire and leaning against the truck’s fender. “Are we going to talk about your little outburst the other night or are you going to keep kicking that can down the road?”

“Ain’t much to talk ‘bout,” he said, taking another strong swig. “Yer gonna get yer Old Boys match, just like with Craig.”

“Hey,” she said, sternly, kicking his boot with her slipper. “I’m serious.”

“It ain’t my call anyways, so there ain’t much more to talk abou…”

“Don’t.”

A forced pause. Her hazels were hammers. The finger pointed square at his forehead was a dagger.

“Don’t,” she repeated. “Don’t you fucking do that. You don’t get to fly out to Barcelona and propose to me just to go back to your old self.”

“I’m NOT,” he declared, loud, standing up hard from his stool. “An’ you KNOWI’m not.”

“Then what is this?” she asked, holding her arms out. “What’s this bullshit with Brandon? And don’t tell me you’re still hung up on what happened after Dave came back.”

Wade had nothing to offer, just his steely eyes drifting to the wall. Lindsay rolled hers, and pushed a hand into her curls.

“Oh for fuck’s sake, seriously?”

“I can’t stand ‘im, Lindsay. I can’t fuckin’ stand ‘im…”

“Wade, I can take. Care. Off MYSELF! You don’t need to be my hero every time someone wants to throw hands! I made a career off of throwing hands! You've watched my take it and dish it out for years!” 

“It ain't the same thing, Lindsay! It just ain't!”

“Then enlighten me, Wade. Please, because I..”

“GOD-DAMNIT!!”

He struck his heavy hand down against the with bench, tools and fasteners rattling and vibrating. She stiffened a bit. Glimpses of the Bad Dog of Old pushing through. A thunder behind his eyes that was familiar, and at the same time forced concern.

Less familiar, though, was the sheen in his eyes, and the quiet of his voice.

“God damnit,” he said again, low, turnimg to her while stifling quickening breaths. “Do you have any idea how hard it was? After PRIME closed up? After I ran off from DEFIANCE?”

“We were good then, Wade. You told me we were good. You were the one who left. Again “

He shook his head slowly. “I couldn't do it. I just fuckin’ couldn't.”

“Couldn't what?”

“You. An’ Tyler,” he admitted, crossing his arms and sitting against the workbench.

A quiet in the garage. A sobering quiet. Cut only by the buzz of fluorescent lights overhead. Lindsay was the first to break it.

“You said..”

“I know,” he interrupted. “I know it. I know Rayne an’ me patched up our shit while PRIME was closin’ up. An’ I know I  said we were good when you asked me t’roll on to DEFIANCE. But damnit, Lindsay, those years since we wrapped up PRIME? An’ that short while in DEFIANCE?”

He grit his teeth, head tilting, fighting off the tears to come. The Queen’s hand fell from her curly locks, a glisten in her hazels.

“It fuckin’ killed me.”

Back in ‘18.

“God damnit…”

He reversed the drill in his hand and spun the bit out, having found nothing but drywall. Frustration on his brow, he moved the bit over a couple inches, flipping the drill into forward, and tried again.

The bit dug through drywall, and found empty air behind.

“Sonnuva bitch!”

With a growl he flipped the drill back into reverse, wrenching out of the wall. He pushed a hand through a short mop of hair, advertising the first signs of gray at his temples. He turned his head left, glancing at the electrician, organizing wires in an electrical panel. To the right, plumbers, soldering pipes before the walls went up. Secretly, he’d hoped they hadn’t noticed his inability to drill into a stud.

“Yer pretty fuckin’ shit at drywall, aren’t ya, Wade?”

The former ‘Bama Bruiser couldn’t help but chuckle at his foreman’s comment, letting the drill in his hand drop and hang at his hip.

“Yeah, I guess so,” he admitted, shaking his head.

“Sixteen inches,” said the foreman, clapping Wade on the shoulder. “The center of standard studs are sixteen inches apart.”

The foreman, roughly Wade’s age; in his mid-forties, studied the multiple holes Wade had left in the drywall. After careful consideration, he planted a stubby finger in-between two failed drill marks, and turned a pair of knowing brown eyes to Wade’s blues.

“Right there.”

Reluctantly, Wade placed his drill bit against the wall and pulled the trigger, snorting an accepting chuckle through his nose as small fragments of wood eventually found their way to the surface of the wall.

“Yeah, Dan. Yer right. Pretty fuckin’ shit.”

“‘Nothin’ a little mud can’t fix,” said Dan with another pat to Wade’s broad back, though the silence from Elliott forced the foreman to pause.

“Why’re you here, Wade? You spend all of that PRIME money already?”

The Bad Dog choked on the thought, pushing a laugh through his throat.

“Would ya believe I hardly spent a dollar’ve it?”

Dan chuckled behind his brown goatee, and understood with a nod.

“I do,” he confirmed, slapping his hand against the wall. “I really do. But it still doesn’t answer the question…”

Hand against the wall, Dan pulled the trucker’s cap from his scalp, scratching the back of his balding head.

“What’re you doing here, Wade?”

Elliott’s keen blue eyes darted away, and down, then focused on the drywall; planting his drillbit now that the stud was located.

“Just…needed t’keep the hands busy.”

Dan nodded, and gave Wade one more clap against the shoulder.

“Sixteen inches,” he said, his boots carrying him to the left toward the electricians.

“Hey, Dan?”

The foreman paused, turning back toward the man once known as The Son of a Bitch.

“She called yet?”

Dan curled his lips, and provided a solemn shake of the head.

“Nah, Wade. No calls yet.”

Wade’s lips curled behind his brown beard, and a long exhale escaped his nostrils

He nodded twice, then turned back to finding the stud in the drywall.

“Every minute’ve it. It fuckin’ killed me.”

The Queen stood silent, lower lip hanging a touch. Each of her arms had found the other, crossing across her chest while her eyes drew over her husband-to-be, who had never looked more frail. More vulnerable. There, in the garage of their Las Vegas home with the ‘79 Chevy Stepside resting silently.

“And I couldn’t tell ya ‘no,’” he said, his eyes lifting from the floor. “It was a chance t’stay close. T’hold onto…whatever we had left. But shit…seein’ you and Rayne, with the kids…I couldn’t fuckin’ watch that anymore…”

Wade cleared his throat. A weak attempt at some sort of masculine fortitude. The sheen in his eyes had failed to retreat, regardless of how hard he tried to hide it. And The Queen, setting her frustrations aside for her part, allowed her fiance the time he needed.

“An’ that’s why I took off again. I couldn’t be ‘round you an’ Tyler, nevermind be on a team with ya.’

Damnit.”

God damnit…”

He choked on the words, clearing his throat. The tears were close, nevermind his efforts.

“An’ when I walked in on you and Brandon’s scuffle? An’ saw his hand ‘round yer wrist? I don’t know, I just saw red. Straight RED.”

Wade tried hard to hide the sniffle in his nose with a broad forearm. He could hear his teeth grinding within his jaw. The welling of his eyes. Trying so hard to hide it from the one person on Planet Earth that needed to see it.

“An’ damnit, Lindsay, I’m fuckin’ scared’ve  what kinda man yer gonna see in the ring against him…”

She shot forward, wrapping her arms around the ‘Bama Bruiser. He melted into her; his strong grip wrapping around her and burying his eyes into her shoulder.

“Hey,” she whispered, her fingers lacing into his grayed head of hair. “I’ve seen the worst of you, and the best of you…”

She held him at arm's length; her enchanting hazel eyes dug deep into his sharp blues. Through the pain, through the mist.

“So please,” she said, drawing a hand along the side of his head, combing his short, gray locks.

“Show me the best.”

His lips met hers immediately; arms grasping the other frantically, and deep with emotion. He pushed her against the door of the Chevy Stepside, lifting her against it.

Whether it ran again or not, he didn’t care.

Portland met Wade with a tidal wave.

Since 2006 and long before, he’d made it a point to travel by vehicle as often as possible; a better way to lay low, and avoid attention.

And all these years later, in Portland, Oregon, that strategy had failed as Wade stepped out from his GMC Sierra AT4 to a group of reporters with microphones in hand. 

“How do you feel after losing to Daytona Diamonds?”

“This is only your fourth match since stepping down from security. 

Is Lindsay Troy protecting you?”

“It’s been months since your proposal, 

and there is NO sign of a ring on Lindsay Troy’s finger…”

Quiet on the set as Wade Elliott stood amongst a sea of journalists, bloggers, and reporters. In the distance he could catch the gaze of Angelica Brookes, grinning, but taking no steps to join the mess.

He appreciated that.

And instead, focused on the crowd he loathed so god-damn much.

“I didn’t buy Lindsay Troy a wedding ring,” he said, loud over the volume of bodies.

To his surprise, the crowd quieted, holding their recording devices forward.

“And the rest,” he said, “Is none of yer fuckin’. Business.” 

A few hoots and cheers rose from the crowd, and lifted a grin behind the ‘Bama Bruiser’s beard.

“And I don’t fuckin’ like Brandon Youngblood,” he spat, swatting away a microphone encroaching particularly close. “And I’m sure as shit he doesn’t like me neither, so here’s how it’s gonna go…”

Wade rolled a shoulder, and cracked his neck.

“If he’s gonna earn big ol’ win number fifty? ‘Gainst Wade. God. Damn. Elliott? Then he’d better brit his fuckin’ worst.” 

The Southern Sparkplug snorted hard, and shifted his shoulder.

“”Cause while Ol’ Youngblood’s thinks he’s ‘bout to pin his fiftieth or not….”

The Bad Dog righted his posture, and drew a big hand over his gray beard.

“...I can say fer sure he ain’t been punched in the fuckin’ mouth as hard as from a sonnuva bitch like me.”

He drew his sharp, keen, blue-eyed glare across the crowd once more, before turning them to the camera.

“I told Daytona ‘fore I cleared his whole damn crew from th'ring; Diamonds are real fuckin’ soft.”

The Bad Dog pushed through the crowd, but now before one last loud, gravelly holler;

"An' Brandon God-Damn Youngblood ain't no fuckin' different!"