...And if I Did, You Deserved It

---

Hello, Casanova.

Please, indulge me — did you see this coming? I mean, from the moment my associate and I made a farce of your precious little tournament, did you think this is how it'd go? Maybe it's the optimist in me that hopes a man as petty and cruel as you wouldn't also be blind or stupid; maybe that's too much to hope for.

Regardless, We're here. And for all my intimations to the contrary, I haven't exactly been honest.

Maybe I truly ought to state it all for the record. Re-introductions are to be made, and with them, a confession.

Don't worry, you can still call me Grace Leary — even if we both know that's not my name.

---

7/1/23

There were no two ways about it — the drive from Baton Rouge to Oklahoma City was going to suck shit. Even before considering my previous drive from Lakewood to even be in this hellish Louisianan armpit in the first place, I knew as much. Still, as we blew past the exit to Alexandria in the dead of night, the clock on the dash reading 2:37 AM, I couldn't help but be pissed at my dear companion in the driver's seat for depriving me the chance to sleep in an actual bed.

The radio was tuned to some local Coast to Coast knockoff on AM radio, inundating us with barely coherent ramblings about human shapeshifters.

Grace hadn't said more than two words to me as we left the arena; Johnny filled me in on the status of the mission they'd embarked on the night prior in the same breath he used to ask me to babysit Ruby while he and Grace deep cleaned the rental van. I leapt at the opportunity to stretch my legs a little, even if it meant walking on eggshells.

Our eyes met in the reflection of the rearview mirror, before Grace's gaze darted back to the road ahead. Her grip on the wheel tightened for a moment.

"You look like you want to say something," she said.

"Penny for your thoughts?"

Then, we fell silent again. For an agonizing moment, the same insipid bullshit from the radio overwhelmed me. Grace bit the inside of her lip.

"This was inevitable. She's far too coddled."

"You know that's not what I was asking about," I replied with an eyeroll, though it was the response I should've been expecting. Serenity Holmes was a problem for the future, and 'eyes ahead' was a mantra Grace couldn't help but adhere to. She blinked hard.

"Then be specific."

"Teddy—" I blurted out. "Johnny told me about— what you— all I'm saying is, if you wanna talk about it—"

"I don't," Grace shot back, her voice low. "I really, really don't want to talk about him, 'Liv."

Her breathing hitched, I noticed a redness in her eyes. I offered her a nod before clearing my throat.

"Did you talk to Johnny about the other thing?"

I almost shuddered at my own casualness in describing it. As if there was anything casual about Grace's off-hours fixation on one Elliot Dalton or it informing the haste with which we needed to leave town. As if there was anything casual about the time we'd spent tracking him, about the effort I'd put into gaining access to his Google Calendar. I was hardly a tech savant, but sooner or later any idiot would figure out a password like child's name/asterisk/current year.

She shook her head. "What Jonathan doesn't know is for the best."

"For who?" I asked, raising an eyebrow. The corners of her mouth curled up into a wolvish grin that fit on her face far too well.

"Yes."

---

Maybe the confession is best said in front of the whole class.

Jacob.
JD.
Serenity.

Before we go any further, I think we need to address the obvious. I don't deserve to be here, do I?

Not like you, Jacob. I haven't paid my dues, grinded and gritted my way through the trials and tribulations you've put yourself through to prove to everyone on this roster that beyond a shadow of a doubt you belong right here. I didn't forsake ambition to chase a white whale, only to turn that hunt into a head above the mantle. You deserve this, Jacob. You might deserve this more than any of us.

Though, I'm sure you're smart enough to realize that I'm just buttering you up to be nice.

Perhaps this is blind trust based on how my associate has described you, but I imagine you're clever enough to be looking for the catch. There's a but coming, after all.

No, Jacob, it's precisely because you deserve this more than I do, more than our mutual antagonists do, and the nature of why you do is exactly why when the clock strikes midnight, you're due to turn into a pumpkin.

Because you have to earn this. More than you need the title around your waist, your name on the record books, you have to go out there and leave no doubt. Take no prisoners. And while there's no doubt that you are capable of accomplishing such a task, there's a world of difference between being able to, and staring down the barrel of utter necessity that you do.

After all, I've already said it. I don't deserve to be sharing this opportunity with you. I haven't shed the blood, sweat, and tears that you have and I certainly haven't looked as dominant as you have by this point. And yet, here I am right alongside you.

Because I took it. I ripped from the hands of an Elisabeth Hope who'd have rather taken another reason to cry about me than follow through on any agreements made prior. An act that would've sullied you were you in my shoes. Something I imagine you couldn't bring yourself to do. It's honorable.

But it's why even though my brain has to remind my heart that the thought of your hands around my neck is terrifying, why I shudder to think of what you could do to me, I don't fear you.

I've stared down people like you my whole career. People bigger, stronger, more talented, more deserving of the accolades I'd rip from around their waists and hold just out reach. And one by one, legend and upstart alike, I've watched them tie themselves in knots because they just couldn't figure me out.

I'm so sorry, Jacob.

But at the end of the day — you need to earn this. You need to rip and tear your way through all three of us on the path to your grand ascension.

All I have to do is win.

---

7/1/23

We entered OKC just after 11 AM.

We swapped roles just outside of Shreveport and I napped long enough for us to cross the OK state line before we switched again. We only had one shot, and neither of us could afford to fall asleep on the job.

The plan, as I'd formulated it, was simple. My dear friend Elliott, in an attempt to either follow or get out ahead of me, booked himself a reservation for tonight at Mickey Mantle's Steakhouse — which elicited an involuntary eyeroll when 'Liv mentioned the name of the establishment. I'd allow him his last meal, before gunning him down like the dog he was in a carjacking gone wrong. His position with one of the three letter organizations necessitated such impersonality. While response was sure to be swift regardless, its direction could be influenced and my associate's flair for the dramatic wouldn't point them anywhere comfortable.

'Liv had already taken her position for the task at hand; securing a reservation of her own under a name she'd used for fake IDs in her adolescence. I'd designed her role to keep as much of the blood off her hands as I could — all she'd need to do is alert me of his impending departure.

First, however, he'd need to arrive. One of the nice things about Oklahoma City being a sprawling tar pit was that it offered plentiful parking lots to loiter in as I awaited Elliott.

I felt a tightness in my chest as a car pulled into the lot and came to a stop. I recognized him immediately. Clean-cut, dead-eyed, lantern-jawed. My heart felt aflame, alive with the glory of contempt.

But my breathing hitched when after a beat, the passenger's side door swung open and out popped a woman I assuredly did not recognize as his wife.

This wouldn't do.

Not at all.

---

Loathe as I am to admit it, JD, you deserve this opportunity far more than me. You, with your bloodied face more synonymous with this promotion than anyone. You, with a head full of bad ideas and the stomach to see them become reality. You, who'd see me gutted as a matter of principle for any untowards plotting that ultimately fell apart.

So tell me, why am I not scared of you? I understand that you lack the moral compunction of someone like Jacob — that without hesitation you'd wring my neck if it meant getting your hands back on that shiny we're all in each others' crosshairs for.

And yet, when I look at you, when I listen to you bleat and pound your chest, the only words that come to mind aren't even mine — they're my girlfriend's: God, this guy is such a fucking dweeb. And maybe the worst thing I can say to you is that I think she's right. For all the violence you're clearly capable of, the atrocities you've demonstrated, looking through you to the weak spine at your core is…

Well…

About as easy as fishing with dynamite. All the needless posturing and theatrics for the camera are the bricks in your wall. All the flash and panache and desperate need to remind us all of how much of a force of nature you are just makes me see the urine-stained force of nurture you are under the surface. Because of all the second generation legacy babies in this match, you're the one who most comes off as playing dress up in Daddy's old gear. And that's your curse, your cross to bear, but not in the way you might think.

It's because you're strung up by the same rope as Jacob — you need to be the force of nature you peacock as. You have to destroy everything in your path, make me eat my words along with half the teeth currently in my mouth. You have to put that pesky JJ Slayer down, a feat you've yet to accomplish. You have to punt Serenity all the way to Tulsa.

I don't even have to touch you.

Tell me, doesn't this all bore you? All the wanton cruelty and excess violence — I can understand the appeal of some of it, but day in and day out, doesn't it get as bland and tedious as any nine-to-five? It does, doesn't it?

So please, answer me the question: who are you trying to prove how tough you are to?

Us, Yourself, or the Ghost of dear ol' Dad?

It's all of the above, isn't it?

Disappointing.

---

7/1/23

I ducked into the bathroom when Grace called me, my stomach in knots and its contents halfway up my throat. Which meant I got a clear view of all the tension leaving my body in the spotty bathroom mirror when I answered only to hear "abort current mission," from the other side of the call.

"Wait, what?"

"Collateral damage is unacceptable. He's not alone, he's with a woman I don't—"

I involuntarily grimaced as Grace cut herself off.

"New plan. He's not here with his wife — so how about we make sure we understand the nature of this meeting?"

My voice shook as I offered in response: "I thought the plan was—"

Her voice seemed to rise in pitch, the rough edges of her accent smoothing in an all-too-familiar way as she cut me off. "There's more than one way to skin a cat. And there's more than one victory to be gained from this."

"Okay."

"Stay with them. I love you."

"Yeah, love you too, Ash," I replied without thinking. Then, as the line went dead, my knees went weak and I stumbled towards the sink and vomited.

---

And then there's you, Serenity. If you think this is the part where I get cute and opine that I may deserve to be here more than you, or that this is where I chastise you for 'selling out', you're bound to be disappointed. Frankly, I can't bring myself to care much one way or another about your soul or the sanctity of your convictions.

Of course, to someone like you that might be the more damning admission. Because for as much as I can hold Jacob or JD's feet to the fire for what they need to do to live up to their own self-images, I don't look at you the same way. The fact of the matter is that the jury's still out on their own ability to stomach the exact same thing I revel in; in your case, it's about as settled as it gets.

Serenity Holmes is not built to just win. For all the posturing you've done post-hoc, I've seen livelier attempts to fit a mold from department store mannequins. All it takes to realize the cold truth of it all is your sheer outrage that a crowd didn't line up around the block to kiss her feet when you seized your moment.

Did you think you could have it both ways? Take it from an expert, that's not how it works. Just winning doesn't make friends or influence people, and when the only thing the tightrope act that is your self-esteem can handle is validation, there's no wonder you've petulantly thrown your lot in on performative contrarianism. I get it, Serenity — nobody likes you, everybody hate you.

My heart breaks, truly.

You utter cretin.

My associate and his ex-lover before him were far too soft on you. Call me old fashioned, but there's one bit of the ancient wisdom that rings true here.

Spare the rod, spoil the child. And I know just where to swing.

All you've done is paint the bullseye right on your back. Your temper tantrums and tough girl cosplay exposed your warm, bleeding heart. Now, no matter how much you puff your chest out, we know your gameplan.

We know you think you have to prove you've earned this.

You have to outmuscle Jacob.
You have to be more heinous than JD.
You have to outfox me.

All I have to do to make this whole endeavor so crushingly pointless for you is win.

You should go and ask a couple of those honorary uncles of yours how easy that's historically been for me.