[Amelia Reynolds]

echo 01 ★ refinement

★☆★☆★☆★☆★

She arrived early.

Not particularly because she was excited, because she wasn’t. But simply because she had nowhere else to be. Sitting at Peaks Lounge was not how she imagined her Friday night, but when Phoebe suggested it, she really had no reason to say anything but yes. And besides, it wasn’t like there was a date night planned on the calendar. There never was any more date night planned on the calendar.

Instead, Amelia Reynolds twisted her white blonde hair into some kind of loose bun. She pulled on a dress that hadn’t seen the light of day for  months and shoved her feet into her black Louboutins. She looked at herself in the mirror hesitantly before leaving, glancing at her frame. The dress’ spaghetti straps wove down her chest in a v-neck that showed just enough of her skin without being ostentatious. It was fitted to her frame, like a glove, and held a pattern of mustard, crimson and blue bohemian flower motifs across it. It was stark white, the little flowers dotting out the flared hem.

She clutched her wristlet to the front of her dress as she approached the hostess, slipping out Phoebe’s name. She was sure if she gave someone like Finn’s name to the waitstaff when she was booking, she would have gotten in easily. But Phoebe Reid had charm, a bit of pull and a strange kind of gravity all her own. Not the sort you earned through money or family name – but the kind that came from being seen.

Often.

Loudly.

Repeatedly.

The hostess’s expression shifted the moment she heard it.

“Oh! Ms. Reid has the table by the west windows. Follow me.”

The west windows of the Peaks Lounge overlooked the city of Denver and the Front Range behind it. The peaks themselves sat high above Denver’s lights, a dark kind of monolith always had a foreboding presence. Inside, the room was cool-toned like a lot of the venues in Colorado, blues and greys to match the colors of the mountains. This was the kind of place that couples went to in order to mark anniversaries and executives brough clients they needed to impress.

She hadn’t been here since…ugh, no. Not tonight.

Their table was tucked in the corner of the venue against the glass, the city visible beneath them like a sea of fire. Amelia slid into the booth with a practiced grace from her days as a model, setting her wristlet down on the velour and leather seating next to her, closest to the window. A stemmed wine glass sat at her seat already, along with an iced bucket in which laid a bottle of sauvignon.

She didn’t feel much like wine tonight. Maybe something a bit more spicy.

She leaned back, looking out upon the town. Tried to keep her thoughts from her moody, absent and darkened favorite person in the entire world. Tried not to imagine that he wouldn’t have been amused that she ubered here. Not after the lace incident. Tried not to check her phone and the texts that probably were present.

Amelia waved down lounge staff, requesting something fruity but with a definite mix of zing. What came back to her not five minutes later was a watermelon whiskey drink with blue curacao and a lot of regret. It was sweet, but she knew it packed a punch that she probably would end up sleeping off. The elevator continued to chime behind her, a soft sound that cut through the low jazz and murmuring voices.

Shortly after she finished about half of the drink Phoebe arrived. She didn’t blend, nor did she attempt subtlety. Her outfit was too black, too sharp, too short, with a black leather cropped jacket hanging off her index finger over her shoulder. Her heels could have been weapons. Tattoos curled over her collarbones and down her arms, and her raven hair gleamed under the light. She didn’t belong. But she made it look like everyone else didn’t.

She slid into one of the chairs across from her childhood best friend, hanging the jacket on the chair and slinking into it. “Jesus Christ,” she groaned, her clipped Australian accent breaking into the room, “no one told me that a high-concept shoot at Capitol Hill would end up having zero planning, an inept stylist who forgot shoes and a model who cried the entire time. The photography had a full ass meltdown about lighting that wasn’t even his job to adjust.”

“Did the shoot happen?”

“By the grace of Vivienne Westwood and Prada.” She reached out, noting that Amelia hadn’t taken a drink of the wine, and took her own sip of it. “I swear to God, Ames, the things I can do with a sheet and a secondary lighting source.”

Amelia gave a small smile, swirling her regret-colored cocktail. “Was there a theme?”

Phoebe leaned back in her seat and tilted her head toward the ceiling like she needed intensive divine patience. “Guilt and grace. Which apparently means mostly sheer mesh over rosaries and lip gloss. I had to improvise the sheet, and for the love of god, the only color red that the damned makeup artist didn’t have. Trauma, I tell you.”

Covering her lips slightly, Amelia laughed, shaking her head.

Phoebe grinned widely. “There she is.” She tilted her chin upwards, looking Amelia up and down. “You look good, by the way. Dangerously good. Did you dress up for little ol’ me?”

“You booked Peaks, of all places.”

“True. You’re lucky I didn’t pick a burlesque-themed speakeasy with a password. I’m being classy.” Phoebe’s grin widened slyly. She reached forward, swiping Amelia’s phone away from her. She ignored the gasp, the huff when she opened it with her face ID, and the indignancy when she scrolled to the messages app and opened Dickie’s texts. She scrolled. “I am horrified, Amelia. No nudes. From either of you.”

Amelia tried to swipe for it, but Phoebe held it out of her reach. “Come on, Ames,” Phoebe added, with a smile. “At least send him a picture. He’s gonna regret being all broody and out of reach when you’re lookin’ like a Bunnings snack.”

“A Bunnings snack?!”

“Those men mask their love of good sausages, don’t even. Lean back,” she ordered, “no, on the arm rest. Light chin rest. There it is. Annnnnd…HAHA, I sent it. That’s what he gets. Bitch.”

Amelia groaned, dragging her hand down her face. “You are…literally, the worst.”

Phoebe handed the phone back with a satisfied smirk. “Yet, you’re still sitting here. In heels. Drinking neon whiskey juice.”

“I didn’t know it had blue curacao in it.”

“You never do. That’s why you have me.” Another white toothed grinned as Phoebe sipped the wine in her glass. Amelia rolled her eyes, but there amusement hidden beneath the action. Her childhood friend leaned forward once more, reaching out and tapping a stiletto nail against Amelia’s glass. “I’m not saying you’re not allowed to be sad. Just don’t let it hurt.”

It didn’t take long for the rest of them to arrive. Kallie, her sister-in-law and Kayla Richards piled in next and dropped into seats, Kayla strategically setting herself in between the only two she liked. Kallie wore a sleeved bright pink skater-styled dress that flowed around her thighs and white converse. Kayla, on the other hand, chose the tightest jeggings she owned and a bustier top that pushed “the twins” up towards her chin. She didn’t bother with a jacket like Phoebe, but she did wear heeled boots. Phoebe made a comment about her ass looking fabulous in that, trying to fit in with the Championship Wrestler, but Kayla merely subtly smiled and nodded. Which was essentially a fuck you, but Phoebe didn’t know that.

Barbie came up last, her lavender tube dress riding up as she daintily ran down towards their table, dropping into the final chair with a sigh. “I’m so, so sorry,” she breathed, her accent crushing Phoebe’s just the same. “My first dress ripped as I was getting onto the train and I had to run back.”

They stayed long enough for the jazz to stop playing and the low EDM-trance to begin. The bottle of wine turned into two, and then three, and all of them eventually traded polite table posture for lounging. Phoebe had kicked off her stilettos and was holding her glass lackadaisically with one hand, forgetting it and sloshing it slightly as she gestured wildly mid-story. Barbie had moved on to something bright and floral, grinning when one of the fancier older men looked in her direction. Kayla ordered tequila and didn’t bother with salt. Kallie, the only sober one, had a grapefruit kind of mocktail in a glass nearly as tall as her forearm and looked quietly pleased about it.

She looked at Amelia pointedly, narrowing her eyes. She cut Phoebe off midconversation point. “When did you start wrestling?”

Amelia looked at her sideways.

Kayla looked at her too, almost as if she hadn’t looked at the card and realized that they were in the same division. “Yeah, I noticed that too.”

“I’ve been…” Amelia sighed, biting her lip. If she told them who had trained her, Kallie would jump for joy but Kayla would hate her. And Kayla didn’t need another reason to dislike her, not when it’d taken four years for them to get along. “I’ve been training at Wolfslair for a bit. Got good at it. Figured I’d start up and see if I’ve got Aiden’s talent.”

Kayla didn’t even look up from her drink, just winced as it burned down her throat. “His brain’s been scrambled since birth, so it shouldn’t be too hard to pass him on any talent.” She didn’t make a noise when Kallie gasped and smacked her lightly on the leg. “Just don’t start talking like him, or I’m out.”

“I’ll make a note of that, Kayla.” Amelia smiled. That sounded almost like approval. “I’ll do my best not to develop a sudden craving for wallabies and mid-match karaoke.”

“Honestly, the karaoke might be an upgrade.”

They laughed as a whole, though Kayla rolled her eyes. For a little while, this was the easiest it had been in weeks. Laughter came more freely, the tension she always carried in her shoulders had started to melt, just even a little bit. Beneath the soft buzz of alcohol and the heat of being seen without the weight of who she was attached to.

It was easy. She liked easy.

★☆★☆★☆★☆★

“Looks like this is gonna be it, hmm?”

Seated on the steps of the Greek Ampitheatre in Denver’s Civic Center park is a white-haired blonde that the SCW fanbase has never seen before. Her legs are stretched out in front of her, knee-high combat boots attached with an ease that most people who wear them wouldn’t have. She wears short-shorts and black cropped Dickie Watson t-shirt, a relic from the FIGHT! NYC days. Her tattoos, all black inkwork only, contrast the marble and limestone relic behind her.

“The first time I ever take a step into that six-sided ring in Sin City Wrestling. I’m not gonna lie, this is a big moment for me. The first time I’m ever in the ring without a trainer, the first time I’m ever in the ring in front of a major crowd, the first time I’m standing in the ring instead of outside it as a competitor. A star in my own right. Not just on the outside, but also on the inside. This is my moment to capture somethin’.”

She holds up a singular finger, with a grin, “Just for the record, let’s get the name thing straight. Amelia Reynolds, that’s me, mate. Yeah, you’ve got another one – and I know what you’re all expecting. I know you all see Aiden and see the silliness and the cockiness and the slight ineptitude and are just a tad bit worried that you’re gonna have to deal with it again, just with a really freakin’ cute female figure and lighter accent. Hate to break it to ya, but all of us Reynolds siblings have different attitudes, different creeds, and a bit different way we handle all the things in our lives. Aiden loves to make you all laugh, loves to bring in those movie references and have his bestie with him–”

“I’m sitting here with you.” A voice, light and airy,

“Shhh, you’re my emotional support sister-in-law. Look, as much as Aiden has done in his life, as much as he’s been a frickin’ gem of a man to work here with all of you, I work in a very different way. See. Aiden would say I’m an observer observin’ the observed. I like to watch and I like to listen, and I like to gain a whole bunch of knowledge. Because that way…I can be more calculating than you’d all expect. I was trained by one of the best ladies to ever walk these ropes, and I’ll tell you now that she told me it’s not all about bluster and showy feetwork. It’s also about knowin’ who you face, knowin’ who you’re against, and clampin’ down when you need to.

Someone might say I’m a bit too nice for this, but I will tell ya…they’re wrong. But that’s fine. It’s all fine, ya know? I’d rather surprise all of you than play by your rules. I’m not gonna get up in your face like that…manager girl. Brooke or somethin’?”

“Oh yeah, no, that girl that manages the guy who looks super similar to Dickie.”

Amelia turns her head and looks at the person off camera with a confused expression.

“Who?”

“Uhmmmmm, the guy who beat Aiden for the Roulette Championship.”

“....” Amelia looks at the camera out of the corner of her eye. She purses her lips slightly, waiting for confirmation. She narrows her eyes, seemingly looking at something off stage, likely a phone. She juts her head back and shakes her head. “I don’t see it.”

“They literally have the same haircut.”

“I don’t see it, Kallie. Doesn’t he rawr, rawr, rawr about the whole frickin’ world?”

“...yes.”

“Does Dickie do that?”

There is no response. The person off screen, Kallie Reznik, is likely trying to figure out how to word her answer as a yes, but also as a no. Ultimately, this ends as no response, so Amelia ignores it and continues.

“A-ny-way, like I was sayin’, I’m not gonna get up in your faces. I don’t shove people around in the hallway to prove a point. I show up, I show out, and I will sit there and methodically take ya apart piece by piece…while smiling. Gotta have these pearly whites shine at some point, right?” She grins widely, pointing at her teeth with a nicely manicured nail. “Look, everyone…you don’t have to cheer for me. Not when I go out into that Denver crowd. Not yet. I get it. I’m new, you don’t know who I am…but by the time I’m done, I’ma betcha that you’re gonna wanna do so anyway.
See, I’m not just that girl who comes in, looks cute, and says they’re gonna do a lot of stuff. I have every intention of getting my agendas laid out and executed. I’m not gonna bait and prowl, but I’m gonna make an impression. I have to. So when I step out in the Magness Arena, it’s not gonna be one of those nights where I get maybe a little pop or anythin’ like that. I expect at the end, for y’all to be shinin’ on me.”

She tilts her head a little to the side, her white-blonde hair, like an opal, shimmering in the light. She’s got some good shine spray, that’s for sure. “See, I’m kinda rare. The type of girl that you can take on a date, to your mama, and she’s gonna love me. But I’m also the type of girl that’s gonna turn around and clock you if the opportunity enlists itself.

And my opponent, my first ever opponent, is some chick from Jersey that doesn’t realize Jersey Shore ended almost twenty years ago. Joanne Canelli is a woman with a reputation, and I get it. She surfaced all the way back in 2013 and she was like…the inaugural Bombshell Internet Champion. A big deal. I saw the tapes, ran ‘em back like Finn says you should always do.

Joanne, you’re like a frickin’ legend, right? But like, you’ve got that side business too, and it’s like…a lot of hats that you have on your head. I definitely respect the grind, I do. But to me, it’s kinda like you don’t got a lot of direction. You’ve been out of this business like…since 2015, almost ten years. Girl, I dunno what brought you back to this arena, or if your side hustle isn’t capitalizing. I’d recommend to ya maybe to get hooked up with Feetfinder or OnlyFans, but I mean…I suppose you’d fit a…particular…demographic…that might not be willin’ to pay subscription services. Or they will, on their wifey’s cards.”

A choking sound is heard off camera and Amelia grins slowly into the camera.

“I mean, I’ve heard the whole I’ve been away, but I’m in the best shape of my life thing before. Look at some of your predecessors, hey? Comin’ back and acting like they’re the best in the world only to crash and burn because they don’t realize the time and effort these youngin’s comin’ in have. Look, I am twenty-six years of age and I don’t even know if I’m in the best shape of my life, but I know what my cans are, and I know what my can’ts are. It’s all well and good when you’re sitting there, sayin’ that you fight like the Jersey Devil.

I wanna hold on that for a moment. A Tasmanian Devil is scarier than this goat-ghost-humpin’ thing, I dunno. I have no idea why you’d ever want to compare yourself to that when you’re like…actually pretty in the face, even with those lip fillers, but ya know. To each their own, I guess?

But even more than that, you say you don't have a soul. I dunno how you get into this business and lose your soul unless you’re like a huge sell out, but that…doesn’t connect with the bodyguards and the guidette mentality goin’ on, so…I mean. Beyond that, buildin’ an empire and survivin’ the streets…basically comin’ back from the dead, and like…maybe that’s all true. Or maybe it’s really just something you feel like you have to say so people don’t know what’s missin’.

You made your big entrance back on the fourth of May, right? You had the mob boys and the power strut and all that footage and malarkey to carry you but like…tell me, Joanne. Tell me if your match met the theatrical moodboard you presented for all of us to see. When that bell rang, after all of the accolades from the time of the dinosaurs roamed the circuit, was anyone really like…impressed? The Copenhagen crowd wasn’t too thrilled, and neither was Calaway.”

“Is she ever though?”

“If LJ is involved…teehee.” She clicks her tongue, sarcastically. “But nah, yeah, nah, Joanne, I watched that footage. Saw your shoulder come up at two, saw you yellin’ at the ref like a Karen at a Costco who didn’t get the rebate on the last package of honey buns. I get it, like…frustration’s definitely a real thing, but maybe don’t, like…bank the whole match on weight class and the ~v i b e s~. You can’t really win matches on gougin’ out eyes and clawin’ people. I mean, you do all this stuff that’s prob supposed to rattle a rookie, but it really kinda doesn’t scare me. I’ve studied the old matches and the last one, looked at the footwork, can tell when the hook is comin’. I’ll be honest with you all…I’m not going to be able to out brawl, but I don’t need to. I can out class and out sass this bish.”

She uses a hand to flick her hair behind her shoulder. She then shrugs again with a grin. “Whatcha need to know about me, Joni, is that when you enter that ring with me, it’s not gonna be fists and bodyguards and power. It’s gonna be some elegant footie that’s deliberate in most ways. It’s not gonna be you yellin’ at some ref, it’s gonna be me lockin’ in those submissions and not lettin’ go, doin’ them with a bit of a cheeky kind of inclusion with the crowd. And it’s not just gonna be you throwin’ me around – I learned from the best cruiserweight and I’m gonna make sure that pinpoint precision is in.

I’m not here to knock over your empire, girl. But I’m not gonna kneel to them because you’ve got some sort of critical legacy and muscle backing you. I’m building myself up from the ground, and it’s based on precision and patience, and a whole lot of heart.

Denver isn’t gonna see anything like it for a long time, and I don’t care what kinda match ends up at the end of the night. I’m gonna be watchin with my eyes wide open because the sky is wide, friends, and the possibilities are endless.”

★☆★☆★☆★☆★

They were talking all over one another. Something about Kallie’s cravings, Phoebe’s theory that all bartenders secretly hated making mojitos. The noise wasn’t really aloud, but it was constant. Laughter hummed beneath it. Clinks and breathy sighs. Soft digs and warm glances. Amelia, however, wasn’t saying much anymore.

She was watching instead. Not out of any kind of desire for distance or disinterest. But because…well, it felt safe. Her dress still held its shape, her heels crossed at the table politely. Her hair hadn’t even come loose yet. Everything about her still looked together. For the first time in days, though, she didn’t feel as if she was standing on the wrong side of an invisible fence. No one asked if she was okay, they just let her be. She was eternally grateful. There was a pause – an easy, earned one – where the clink of glasses felt more like a breath as opposed to a toast.

Her phone buzzed. Once. She glanced down. It wasn’t him. Another buzz, and still not him. She didn’t open either, just dangled her third drink between her fingers and looked back up with a small smile. However, Phoebe noticed. Like she always did.

“He’s an idiot,” she said, offhand, like she was commenting on the weather. “Certified, proper, full stop idiot. Like a diploma held in Dumbfuckery.”

Kallie winced into her drink, trying not to laugh. Barbie raised a brow, gently reminding her, “You don’t even know what he said.”

“I don’t need to,” Phoebe replied, waving the comment off with a graceful tipsy flourish.  “Look at her. This…” she gestured broadly in Amelia’s direction, “is beautiful, and unattended in a lounge. With heels. With whiskey. That bruh has no sense.”

“He’s just busy,” Amelia said, trying to weakly defend her boyfriend.

“Oh, do not even give me the he’s busy line.” Kayla cut in, deadpanning. “Everyone’s busy. I’m busy. Finn’s busy with his shoulder. Kallie’s over here becoming a fuckin’ hippo and she showed up. If he wanted to be here, he’d be here. Instead he’s probably brooding in a darkened room with his tragic little sad brain cells firing.”

“Wait,” Phoebe pushed, just slightly, “you’re agreeing with me?”

“I don’t like him.”

“You never agree with me.”

“He’s a twerp.”

Amelia didn’t say anything. But she didn’t smile either.

They didn’t linger long after that. Kallie was yawning into the side of her hand and Barbie had moved to sparkling water. Amelia paid the bill. She always did when no one fought her on it.

She rode back with Kallie and Kayla, chewing on her lip and wondering if he was home tonight. It’d been forever, it seemed. Maybe a couple of days. Or more. She couldn’t remember. It was just sleepless nights at home, waiting for a text saying that he was fine. Or something.

She slipped off her heels as she quietly shut the door behind her, letting them clatter softly to the floor. Amelia wanted to make sure she was quiet, because she wasn’t sure if he was home. She didn’t want to be the reason he stayed awake. She moved with tip toeing grace for the staircase that would lead up to their bedroom, but realized that the light from the living room was on.

She found him perched on the sofa, a baggy shirt over joggers, legs stretched out on the ottoman in front of him all lackadaisical, one bent at the knee and propped against the other. He’d pulled his curly hair up into a bun on the top of his head and was scrolling through his phone with heavily tattooed fingers. Dickie Watson was a man that held bold statements through his speech work, appearance and otherwise aggressive style of ring work that places like Sin City hadn’t seen. But at home?

He was quiet. Careful.

He didn’t look up right away, just tapped something out on his phone. A text to Finn or Aiden. She stood in the doorway longer than she meant to, shifting weight from one foot to the other, waiting for him to say something. Reece would have admonished her for being out so long. She expected he would too, after the arrival of the lace. But he didn’t.

He looked up and gave her a tired smile. “Thought you were staying out late.” His voice was low, like he hadn’t spoken in a while. It wasn’t a question.

“I did,” she said, taking a couple steps forward toward him, her bare feet padding against the rug. She watched as he set his phone face down on the armrest and reached up for her. She took his hand, and he pulled her down into the couch’s cushions with him unceremoniously, her knee awkwardly bending on the cushion. No matter how far she seemed from him, this place was always the easiest. Easier than sitting with her girlfriends on a rooftop lounge bitching about their chosen partners. He’d missed her. And she knew it.

His arm slid around her shoulders as she leaned into him, settling against him with a sigh as her arm came up to lazily lay across his waist. He kissed the top of her head, slow and deliberate. “I saw the picture,” he murmured into her hair.

“Phoebe.” She explained, but her fingers clenched against his shirt lightly.

“She always gets good angles,” he said. When she shrugged, almost as if she didn’t want to put mind to her friend’s boundary stepping, she felt his lips curve into a smile. “I like to see them better in person, though.”

Amelia’s giggled softly under her breath and turned her nose into his chest, inhaling  the mixture of bergamot and yuzu and watermelon. She closed her eyes. She always stole his hoodie to keep his scent around, but she didn’t need the rescue blanket that it’d become. With the tips of his fingers, he slid a lazy line up and down her arm, absentmindedly, as if he didn’t even think about it but knew it comforted her. Even though it was easy there, at the lounge, with the people, it was just as easy here. With him.

“You were quiet this week,” she whispered.

“So were you.”

“I didn’t want to make it worse.”

“You didn’t.”

She didn’t say anything about missing him. He didn’t apologize. They just stayed like that. The quiet enveloped them, saying everything that didn’t need to be spoken into the world. After a while, he extended his arm and pulled the sherpa blanket off the back of the couch, draping it over her legs. She adjusted without thinking, letting her fingers curl into the dark fabric of his Killswitch Engage shirt. She settled deeper into his side, tilting her head slightly. His darkly tattooed hand covered hers, and his mouth found the top of her head again, pressed against the crown of her head.

“You can fall asleep here if you want, I’m not gonna move.” He told her.

“Five minutes.”

“Sure thing, Princess.”

Five minutes lulled into ten, then fifteen, and an hour. She snored softly against him and her grip eased. He stayed, just like he said he would.

And that was enough.