I do not own "Warrior." It belongs to director Gavin O'Connor. Sorry if I made Tommy out to be something of a scheming villain in the last chapter. Believe me, if I thought him to really be one, there would have been a lot more moustache-twirling. That said, he's not done being an antagonizing dick.

Chapter Thirteen: First Test

The next day is the last PT session he'll have with David for another month, and as they work, he says, "So my boss figured on throwing a party in honor of me three-and-a-half months healed, and I figured, since you're the guy who's gotten me there, would you want to come?"

David looks at him, grins a little. "Thank you. As long as I don't count as your date," he adds.

Tommy snorts. "Nah. I'm bringing someone for that." He's sure of that now. He'll take her out again.

"Just out of curiosity, does she have anything to do with the fact that you've been in a much better mood for the past month?"

Oh, fuck, he doesn't want to get into that. David realizes this, raises his hands as if to say, 'not my business. Sorry' and sets up the next machine. At the end of it he gives David the time and address and heads out. Yeah. She brightened his mood for a while. She wrecked it yesterday. And he realizes she might turn him down if he asks her out again. Saying "fuck you" usually means there's not going to be a next time. Then again, he's pretty sure she likes him. And, like his father, she seems so intent on getting approval she'll do anything to get on his good side again.

Does he want her to relapse?

Well…no.

Does he want to see whether or not she's really the person he thought he knew, instead of a shell of a person, acting like some martyr, someone who will snap and start on the bottle again if he pushes her?

He can't help it if that's what he knows, what he's seen.

F

She gets a call Thursday as she's getting ready for work. She hadn't really gotten her hopes up that he would call. A small part of her actually hoped he wouldn't, because, really, this thing they had hadn't gone very far, they hadn't done very much and she figured as long as it's over quickly her life can go back to normal and she can hand in all the complications that dating Tommy entails. There are many. He's a complicated man.

It doesn't work in her favor, though, that she loves the sound of his voice, the roughness of it, and the cadence that makes him seem all the more red-blooded. He sounds oddly formal when he says, "Jane."

She mimics him. "Tommy," she replies in an equally formal tone.

"I, uh, I freaked out at you. And sort of walked away before you really had the chance to talk."

Right. "So you're saying you want to talk?" A man of few words except expletives when it comes to her recently wants to talk.

He hesitates. "I'm saying…there's this party my boss arranged. It sort of has to do with the fact that I'm mostly healed—"

"Congratulations."

"—Thanks. It's pretty much next door to the gym, just across the old tracks. It's Saturday, around eight or nine. I was wondering if you wanted to go with me."

She leans back, thinks, what's the catch here? There is one. She knows this isn't some innocent invitation. "Are you serious?"

"Yeah." There's silence on the other end of the line. "My PT's gonna be there and everything."

Maybe it's pride. Maybe it's a continuing attraction. Maybe it's complete and utter stupidity. But she says, "Sure. Do you want to give me the address so I can meet you there?"

"I'll meet you outside your apartment. I'll walk with you."

"All right." She clicks 'End' without saying goodbye. She's not particularly angry with him anymore, though she feels she probably should be, and would prefer it if he thought she was. Dionne's words stuck with her, and they're all she's thinking now.

You didn't mean to, but you triggered that rage.

If he offers to give it another shot, be careful. That anger towards you is far from gone.

At least he didn't go out of his way to bullshit her with "heartfelt" apologies. He'd know just how full of shit that would sound. A party. She groans. Of course. There will be alcohol there. She's had people drink around her. If people start doing keg stands, she will leave. It's close enough to her apartment and she has a new can of mace. As long as she doesn't have to use it on Tommy—though the idea is somewhat appealing at the moment—she'll be fine.

E

Saturday at nine she meets him outside her apartment, sees he's out early and looks at her with an expression she can't quite place. Somewhere between disdain and curiosity, a look that guarantees he's not interested in continuing what they had; just in making her uncomfortable as hell. They walk together without a word to Colt Boyd's house, a relatively modest place with a warm, bright interior filled with music and people who look like they probably either work out at his gym or work at the Hooter's nearby.

Colt himself doesn't look like a fighter, and as he smiles at her and shakes his hand, doesn't seem like a particularly tough guy at all. Granted, with the business clout he seems to have in the MMA world, he doesn't need to be either.

"I guess you know our boy Tommy here from the Pittsburgh throw-down?" he says.

She's sure her annoyance shows in her face as she says, "Actually, I'd never heard of it until I'd known him for nearly a month," she says. She's not his fan, she's not his groupie, and she's certain at this point that she's not his girlfriend.

His eyes widen at Tommy as if to say, 'Holy shit, there's a girl who likes you for your personality?' He lets them aside and as they both put their jackets in the closet, she notices he's in a short sleeved shirt, one that probably isn't meant to show off his body but does. She feels hopelessly shallow and pathetic as she sneaks a glance at his tattoos on thick, muscular arms and grey fabric covering a sculpted abdomen. It becomes immediately clear that she's not the only one looking. There are women here, most of them in their twenties and maybe thirties, all of them looking at Tommy. All have orange-looking tans in the middle of winter and long, heavily streaked hair. Several of them are wearing Hooter's tops. All of them look at her with unflattering dismay, and she knows what they're thinking: Who is this sad, pale, mousey person and why the hell is Tommy Riordan with her?

She keeps her temper in check when they flirt with him, finding every excuse to touch him as they wish him congratulations, put their manicured hands on his chest or give him hugs. She expects him to flirt back, whether out of genuine interest or simply to piss her off but he doesn't. He slips an arm around her waist and holds her to him, as if keeping her on a leash.

When they escape the throng of Hooters girls she tries to keep the resentment out of her voice when she says, "So do you know them from their work or outside of it?" She won't admit it to anyone, least of all him, that she wonders which one's he's slept with. She doesn't want to be the jealous type when she's sure he feels nothing for her now except animosity.

He looks at her with what might be amusement. "I actually haven't met most of them," he says.

"They all knew your name."

"They've all watched MMA."

He's polite to the men at the gym, but he still seems to intimidate them, and from the way his arm never leaves her waist, in fact wraps tighter around her when she meets them in a clear indication of possession, he prefers it that way. So the men are polite to her, and never flirtatious. Not when Tommy seems to mark her with a silent, Mine.

Everyone offers her drinks.

People clutch bottles of cold beer, beads of condensation sliding down the glass necks and she has to look away often because a part of her wants to lick them away. She shouldn't be here.

A guy in his twenties with short, spiked black hair grins at them both as Tommy guides her to the place she fears most: the booze-laden dining room, complete with cooler. The guy stands next to it and shakes her hand, grinning at her maybe a little longer than he should.

"I'm Fenroy," he tells her. "I work the front desk with Tommy most of the time. Hey, would either of you guys care for a beer?"

"Nah," Tommy says. "I've got my eye on the Jack Daniels on the table."

"Fair enough." He turns to Jane. "How about you? What's your poison? Guinness, Heineken, Corona…"

"Strychnine," she says without thinking. They both look at her and she forces a smile. "Do you have any water in there?"

As he fishes a plastic Deer Park bottle out of the cooler, the ever-helpful Fenroy says, "Not a beer girl?"

She thinks, 'The fuck I'm not. I could drink your candy-ass under the table with any kind of beer.' "Not really," she says, continuing to force that smile and accepting the water. She wants out. She really, really wants out. She feels so out of place here. Like an Amish person at a strip club, she feels like she sticks out like a sore thumb. Which one of these is not like the other? She thinks, watching everyone else laughing and drinking.

"Oh, hey, there's David," Tommy says, and all but drags her to the table, where a tall, handsome Black man in his late thirties, early forties with long braids is talking to a heavily-tattooed guy and drinking a rum and Coke.

Right now what Jane wants is to go home, to tell Tommy to fuck off and stop acting like a man-child; but somehow, stupidly, she doesn't. She wants to see how far he'll test her. She wants to see how he acts. She wants to feel his arm around her waist, slung low enough his hand almost reaches her ass. She hates it. She wants it. She's being reckless, playing a dangerous game as Tommy pours himself some whiskey and introduces her to David.

"Tommy's told me about you," she tells him, smiling as graciously as she can manage under the circumstances—a successful endeavor; she is a waitress after all—as she shakes his hand. "All positive," she adds, since he probably knows just as well as she does that the man who raised hell in the cage is not exactly a ray of sunshine. "You really helped him through a rough time."

David grins a little. "I can't take credit for what he's done in the past few months."

"Yes, you can," Tommy says as he drinks and pours a refill.

"Maybe partial credit," David compromises, "But you're one of the most driven people I've ever known. You got yourself back into excellent shape in less than four months. That's not an easy feat."

"Not at all," Jane agrees. They could be talking about the mating habits of Amazonian insect species and she'd be going, "Uh-huh. Oh wow." Anything to distract her from the bottles in front of her. She looks over at Tommy and thinks; He would be a whiskey man. Rugged, masculine Irish drink. Of course. She feels as though if she disappeared, neither he nor anyone else would care. As Colt comes by and snatches both men up, she tests that theory by heading outside onto the back porch.

It's a small backyard, but it's empty outside and the most welcoming sight she's seen so far tonight. She undoes the top to her water bottle cap and takes a long, thirsty gulp. Takes a gulp of air afterward.

The winter air is fairly mild for late January, and absolutely beautiful. She sits down on the step of the back porch and suddenly feels numb. Feels awkward and ugly as sin. For several minutes she just steeps in her shitty self-esteem and tries to let that distract her from the cravings she's getting. She winces as she hears the back door open. She doesn't want company.

"Hello, Jane," comes David's voice. "Mind if I sit down?"

Thinking; 'at least it's not one of those Megan Fox wannabes' she glances behind her and says, "Not at all. Have a seat."

And he does. She's relieved to see he's no longer holding a drink. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah." Jane rubs her arms. It's not even that cold. "Just got a little claustrophobic in there. I'm not a party person."

"I got that impression. I gotta say though, you've helped him this past month. He was in a horrible mood, was almost trying to get himself reinjured, and since he's met you his outlook has gotten better." He thinks about it. "That punch he threw wasn't the wisest decision, but still…"

"He mentioned me?" she says, not looking up.

"Yeah. A couple of times. He rarely talks, but he's mentioned you."

She snorts a laugh. She's certain David has the best of intentions, but she can't help but find the idea of Tommy seeing her as good for him anymore as ridiculous. "Did he mention I'm a recovering alcoholic?" she says, trying to bite back the scowl in her voice. He's not a bad guy, after all. "I'm a little over a year sober."

She looks up. David looks alarmed. "And he brought you to a party filled with alcohol?" he says.

Jane laughs a little. There's no humor in it, only grim observation. "I think he wanted to see if I'd drink or not." She takes another swig of water. "He, um, had some painful experiences with alcoholics when he was younger. It kind of stained the entire demographic for him, whether they're sober now or not."

"Well that's uh, that's…" he laughs a little, "That's kind of a dick move."

Jane nods, glad that she's not the first one to say it.

David continues. "I mean it though. You helped him."

"How?" Jane asks. She's never once seen him work out. Wouldn't know a thing about helping him do it. She's seen only the results—to a very limited extent, anyway.

"You helped keep his head clear. Gave him something to think about and work out for other than contact sports."

"Come on. A guy working out like that for my benefit? He already knows he's too attractive for me, abs of steel or not."

David tilts his head at her. "You think so?" he says.

"I know it," Jane tells him. "I mean, look at those girls out there. Those girls with the tits and the tans are what ninety-nine-point-nine percent of what heterosexual men find attractive, and they're all hitting on him. I kind of expect him to go home with one of them."

"You do realize he's attracted to you, not them," David says, talking slowly, as if he's addressing a mentally handicapped person. The man just doesn't get it.

She shakes her head and takes another sip of water. "If he was, he's not anymore."

David sighs. "I gotta say; he's being a real asshole right now, but it's not because he doesn't like you. Trust me, if he didn't like you, he wouldn't have bothered to talk to you after you told him, if he finds your addiction that offensive to him personally. He wouldn't have bothered contacting you, even if it is to pull something like this and take you to a place where everyone else is drinking, including him."

"I think he just wants to see me relapse."

A

"To the toughest fuckin' guy on the planet. I don't give a fuck what anyone says." Colt raises his beer and everyone else follows. After cheering and a few people patting him on the back, Tommy scans the room for Jane and can't find her. He brushes past several people who congratulate him, tell him how awesome it would be if he was able to start fighting again this year, a few girls who try to get his attention, and one who evens out his shirt and asks if there's anything she can do for him.

He's in no mood for her. "Yeah, have you seen Jane?" he says.

She looks immediately pissed off. "Who?"

"The girl I came in with," he snaps. Where could she have gone? Did she leave?

Is she drinking?

The idea leaves a lump in his throat, leaves him near-breathless.

"Oh." The girl's pouting now. "She headed outside with your friend David."

And now a thought he knows is irrational but can't help but feel is; 'Oh, she's not just a drunk, she's a whore, too.' And, of course, it's just the reaction the girl wanted. She starts to take his arm but he brushes it off. They wouldn't try anything outside, probably not inside, either. But the thought still pisses him off, makes black clouds in his mind and he heads for the backyard.

R

Jane hears the back door swing open again and she hears Tommy say, "So that's where you two went." His voice is clipped, cold. "You want to come back inside?"

David gets up. "I suppose. Jane?"

She also gets up. "I think I'll just head home," she says.

"You sure?" David asks.

Tommy just watches her, looking predatory, looking at her like she disobeyed some law. Right now, it ceases to intimidate her. She looks back at him, thinking, 'You piece of shit.' "Yeah, I'm sure. I have a lot to do tomorrow morning." She's lying through her teeth, of course, but she shouldn't have to use an excuse. She wants to go.

Tommy says, "I'll walk you home."

Jane dismisses this. "Nah," she tells him. "You should get back to all your fans and admirers. They'll be missing you." She nods to David. "It was a pleasure meeting you," she says, and heads for the door, tucking the water bottle into her purse. She wades past the sea of faces that blur, conversations that come together as senseless, unceasing noise. She used to go to so many of these. She used to be one of these people. She used to get drunk and make an ass out of herself, only to later find herself with a hangover that would bring tears to the mightiest of drinkers and sometimes someone who'd stuck his dick in at least one of her orifices. This used to be her life. She cannot, will not go back to that again. Not for anyone, and certainly not for Tommy.

She feels someone grab her shoulder. She yelps and turns around and sees his face.

"I'm going home," she tells him again.

"I thought all drunks were partiers," he tells her.

She wants to slap him so hard across the face that she leaves a permanent red handprint. She wants to spout off any and every obscenity in existence. "You got most of what you wanted. You made me want to drink. You made me feel like shit about myself. You made me very, very uncomfortable and you really, really pissed me off. But I'm leaving now, because I don't feel like doing what you want. I don't feel like risking it anymore. I'm going. You go on and get one of those Hooters girls to suck you off."

Tommy doesn't even wince. "And risk getting an STD? I don't think so." More quietly, he adds, "You sure you don't want me to walk you home?"

Jane sighs and rolls her eyes. "Sure. We can stop at the liquor store on the way and you can make this night even more enjoyable by making me watch as you pick out a few bottles." She's so fucking mad. She could spit out so much more. But she tells herself, over and over again, that he's not worth the energy. She gets her jacket out of the closet, looks back at him, and says, "You are such an unbelievable prick."

As she storms out and damn-near slams the door behind her, Fenroy comes up next to Tommy with a beer in his hand, grinning after her even after she's out. "You, uh, 'tap' that?" he says.

Tommy gives him a look that roughly translates into: If you don't shut the fuck up you little shit so help me God I will rip out your small intestine and strangle you with it.

A

As she walks home she hates him. And she gets the feeling that hatred will pass. It did the last time she was with him, and this makes her angrier. She wants to stay mad at him, but then again, she sees him and feels a pull, an attraction unlike any she has ever felt. She feels something with him, a kind of energy that's intoxicating. There's something there that goes unnamed, unmentioned, that fascinated her, as does every aspect of him. And she's worried that if he calls again she'll pick up the phone and listen. Because it's like the cliché goes: anger breeds passion.

But all this will gradually come to her. For now, she's simply relieved that she got out of there before she got too close and that she doesn't pass any bars or liquor stores on the short walk back home, because, like before, she's craving it. She's craving it bad.

And, like before, she calls Dionne when she's safe in her apartment, in which the strongest beverage is full-sugared Red Bull.

"Jane? Something wrong?" Dionne asks. "It's a bit late for me."

"I'm sorry, Dionne. It's just…Tommy took me to a party where there was all this drinking and hot girls who wanted to get in his pants. I didn't relapse, but there were times I wanted to and I'm fighting a craving right now. I think the chances are good that I would have if I'd passed any bars or liquor stores on my way home." She takes a deep breath. "What the fuck is wrong with him? He knows what a relapse does to a person. What kind of sick freak would purposefully try to make a person relapse?"

"I think I know what it is."

"What is it?"

"He's testing you," Dionne says. "It's not so much that he wants you to relapse, more that he wants to see how you compare to his father. He wants to see if you'll fail like his father did. He thinks you will relapse, with or without his help. Baby, you should stop seeing this man. If he's putting the pressure on you like this, he's not good for you."

Jane closes her eyes. "I know." And, like a fool, like someone with no willpower, she keeps going. "The thing is, though, right up until he found out about the drinking, I felt something with him. He was nice to me. No guy is nice to me. No straight, young, non-AA guy. And I keep thinking, what if it comes back? I can't stay mad at him. Just walking home I felt nothing but hatred. No matter what shit he pulls though, I end up thinking, he's not that bad. There's some good to him."

"That sounds like all the more reason you should dump him. You're not thinking with your head right now. You're thinking with your pussy."

"Dionne!" Jane cries, horrified.

"Just tellin' it like it is, Jane," Dionne says, unperturbed. "Listen to me, now: you're risking your sobriety with Tommy. If he keeps testing you, you just raise the stakes. I told you one year isn't enough sobriety to be ready for a relationship.

"Now, I know you don't have much experience in the legitimate relationships department, so let me make this clear: people in relationships, particularly in the early stages and whether they mean to or not, whether they realize it or not, test each other. You're testing him for something, too. What are you testing him for?"

"To not treat me like a freak for having an addiction," Jane says.

"And he failed that one, obviously. Anything else? You've told me about boys who took advantage of you."

"Well, okay. I also don't want him to pressure me into sex right away. So far he hasn't. And I…I really hated those girls hitting on him and trying to jump his bones. I don't want him to hit on other girls."

"Did he?"

From what she saw… "No," Jane admits. "He had his arm around my waist most of the night. Was kind of possessive, actually."

"So he's also testing you to make sure you don't flirt with other guys. That's not the important thing, though. We both know, and if he has a lick of sense he knows too that you're not that kind of person. You only have eyes for him, which is part of the problem.

"And, much as I hate to say it, it's natural for him to mistrust addicts if he grew up with one."

"I remember a meeting where Patrick said he relapsed after 'his younger son' said a few things to him that made him lose hope. But I don't think he was trying to make his dad drink again."

"Neither do I, but my guess is that he wants to see if it happens to you. If you break like his father did. And I'm telling you, he's gonna keep testing you."

"When will he stop?"

Dionne pauses on the other end. "When he sees you as a person. Not a drunk. Not a pair of tits, but a real human being with whom he can connect."

Jane clutches her cell phone. "What if that doesn't happen?" she asks.

"You're seriously asking that question? You know what you'll have to do."

"Yeah, I know." Jane looks at a blank spot on the wall, nods to herself. "Bye. Sorry I kept you up."

If it doesn't happen, she'll have to walk out. She's certain Tommy won't. He'll make a game out if it, he'll push her. There's a lifetime of resentment and mistrust with him. There's so much rage, so much pain, and so help her, she's drawn like a moth to flame.