Fighting to Forgive (Fighting Series) (42 page)

The guard stops at a door, and we wait until we’re buzzed in. He walks me down a series of cubby-like desks with phones attached to the dividers, with glass separating the prisoner from the visitor.

“You’re in number seven.” He motions down the row and leaves me to it.

My heart pounds in my chest as I move down. Five, six. I stop and suck in a deep breath. If it’s her… oh, God, I hope it’s her.

One final step and I’m face to face with…
no fucking way.
“General?”

His expression is stony, lips pressed in a tight line, as he takes me in. I drop into the seat and grab the phone, pressing it to my ear and avoiding his eyes. He makes me wait before he picks up the phone on his side.

“Son. Somehow, I knew we’d be here one day. Orange is your color. Much more appropriate than the dress blues of a Marine.”

Of course he’d come to rub it in. Remind me of what a disappointment I am. But I’ve lost too much, and his words have no sting. I lift my eyes to his. “What do you want, Dad?”

He barks out laughter with no humor. “What do I want? I want my son to stop acting like a fucking child. I want you to honor your family—”

“Honor my family? What the fuck do you know about family?”

He flinches so slightly it’s barely noticeable. “I suppose this is where you blame me for your screw ups. Getting kicked out of the Marines, ending up in jail.” He shakes his head, disgust coloring his expression. “You need to take responsibility for what you’ve—”

“You first.” I grind my teeth, biting back the words that fight to be spoken.

“Me? What the hell did I ever do to you, other than try to get you to be a productive member of society?”

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Fury bubbles behind my sternum. “You took away everything. My mom, my music—”

“No, I protected you from the things that made you weak. Your mother coddled you, and that music…” He shook his head. “No man worth his salt plays the piano.”

I can’t believe it. After twelve years, he hasn’t changed. “That’s it, isn’t it? You’ll never see me for the man I’ve become, or the things I’ve achieved. I’ll always represent your biggest failure. You couldn’t turn me into a clone that would follow you around like a puppy, mimicking your every move, eventually becoming the weak, controlling asshole that you are.”

“I’m weak? You’re taking steroids, and you have the nerve to call me weak? I knew you were irresponsible and immature, but a cheater?” His eyes travel from my bright orange shirt to my hair. “I can hardly stand to look at you.”

I shrug. He’s not the only one. I can hardly stand to look at myself. It’s no use telling him that I’d never do steroids. I’d be wasting my time explaining that I think the UFL doctor poisoned me. Shit, it sounds stupid in my head. Saying it will only give him more ammo in his character assault.

“I’m done. Good luck with your life, Blake. I give up.” He slams the phone into its cradle, and the looming presence from the other side of the glass moves away.

“You gave up on me a long time ago,” I whisper.

Hanging up, I push from my seat.

“One more visitor.” My escort hollers down from his position at the door. “Take a seat.”

Another visitor? I don’t want to see anyone else, but I drop back down and wait. Movement on the other side of the glass brings my eyes to a pair that matches my own.

Holy shit.
I rip the phone from the cradle and press it to my ear. My brother, Braeden, sits and raises the phone to his ear.

“Brae, man. Hey.”

His hair is darker than mine and cropped in a military high-and-tight. And he’s huge. Twice the size he was when I saw him last. Looks like he’s been hitting the gym hard. I guess he found a way to channel the caged feeling that accompanies being the son of Duke Daniels.

“Hey, bro,” he says, his smile genuine, but concern in his eyes. “They treating you okay in here?”

“Yeah. How are you?” For the first time in I don’t know how long, the tingle of a smile touches my lips.

“I’d be better if we were sitting at a bar having a beer and not separated by glass.”

Smile erased, I nod. “Sorry you have to see me like this. I fucked up.”

“That’s not the story I heard.”

“No? Well, you need better information.”

“Talked to Jonah and Raven. They told me everything.”

That’s about as accurate as he could get. “Oh, okay.”

“I just have one question.” He leans in on one elbow, putting his face close to glass. “Please tell me you didn’t fuck a stripper on Valentine’s Day when your girl was being held by her ex.” His green eyes dance with humor, and a grin pulls at his lips.

“That’s the shit you want to ask me? Really?” Damn, I miss my little bro. “No. I didn’t. It took me about eight seconds of being in a dark room alone with her to realize I was fucking everything up.”

“I knew it. Jonah owes me a hundred bucks.”

It’s nice to know someone still believes in me.

We chat for a while, small talk that revolves around him and doesn’t touch my jacked-up situation. The guard calls down that our time’s up.

“I better go.” I tilt my head toward the guard. “Captain Powertrip gets pissed if I don’t jump every time he calls.”

“Sounds good.”

“You leaving town soon or…” I don’t know what to say. It’s not like he’s going to stay for a week just so he can visit his big brother in jail.

“Yeah, I’ll be here for a few days.”

“Oh, really? So I’ll—”

“See you tonight.”

“What?”

“Oh, did I forget to tell you?” He scratches his head and takes an exaggerated look around. “I guess I did.” His lips curl into a full smile. “Jonah posted bail.”

My jaw goes slack. Bail was set at fifty thousand dollars.

He taps the glass between us. “Hang in there, bro. I’ll see ya later.”

Thirty-one

Blake

It’s after nine at night when I’m finally released. After a process that included a meeting with my lawyer and a series of signatures, I’m walking out of the jail’s release wing and into a dark parking lot. A familiar black pickup truck is parked and idling.

I should be overjoyed to see Jonah’s truck, but disappointment smothers the good feelings.

Holding on to the hope that I’d walk out and see Layla’s Bronco was a mistake. And daydreaming that she and Axelle would run to me so that I could crush them in my arms wasn’t smart.

With a firm shake of my head to rid it of the hopeful hallucinations, my empty chest echoes with what could’ve been. I mourn the loss of the dream.

“How’s life on the inside?” Jonah asks through the open truck window.

I shrug, swing open the door, and climb in. “Sucks.” But something tells me it’s a whole hell of a lot better than the shit I’m going to face on the outside.

He throws the truck in drive and maneuvers it out of the small lot. Silence fills the cab as if he’s waiting for me to ask the question and allowing me to take my time to do so.

I clear my throat, hoping to hide the emotion that’s riding so close to the surface. “How are they?”

He shakes his head. “Don’t know. Last I heard? Not too good.”

My gaze slides to the scenery flying past my window. “Fuck. They must hate me.”

“She doesn’t hate you, dude. If she did, she would’ve told the cops all that happened that night. She defended you. Down to the last second.”

Fuck.
Why does hearing that make me feel worse? I should be happy that she covered for me. It’s what I’ve always wanted, right? I’ve been carrying resentment around for almost half my life because my mom didn’t protect my music and me.

Sitting in jail these last few days, alone with nothing but my thoughts, I contemplated all the reasons why Layla kept my attack on her a secret. She had nothing to gain by protecting me, and accepting that gift from a woman who’s been programmed to cover up her pain makes me want to throw my ass back in jail.

I rub my temples. My gut churns at the combination of conflicting feelings.

“She stopped answering her phone,” Jonah says. “Won’t answer the door. Killian said he can’t get in touch with Axelle, either. Only thing I’ve heard is that Gibbs gave her a few days off so she could get her shit straightened out.” He exhales a deliberate breath. “That’s another story.”

Consumed by the situation with Layla, I haven’t given much thought to Gibbs or how I’m going to take Doctor Motherfucker down. “Let’s hear it.”

“Your story’s national news. Gibbs is rollin’ like a pig in shit with all the attention the UFL’s pulling in. And now that Doc Z ran, he’s—”

My stomach drops. “Ran? Ran where?”

“Gone, man. Fucking ghost. Day after that shit went down. Office cleaned out, apartment he was renting vacated. Poof.”

A tingle creeps along my skin. The only chance to clear my name is gone.
Poof?
I rake my fingers against my scalp. “Jonah, you know I’d never do steroids, right? That fucking pussy shot me up, or put it in those pills I was taking. Fuck, man, the fact that the asshole ran proves it.”

His eyes stay forward, his jaw ticking.

“Don’t tell me you think I did it.” I can take my fucked-up dad not believing me. Layla’s mistrust is expected, considering what I’ve done to her. But after everything Jonah and I have been through, if he doesn’t believe me, I’m totally fucked.

“It’s a hard sell, dude,” he mumbles.

Burning rage flares in my gut. “I don’t fucking believe this shit.” I punch his dashboard hard. A crack slices through the plastic.

“Damn, dude. Chill out. I believe you. I’m just saying it’s going to be hard to prove.” He eyes the damage to his dash. “You know what that shit’s gonna cost me? Raven’s going to make
that
” —he points to the crack— “an excuse to redo my entire interior.” He groans and slams his hand against the steering wheel. “Shit. I swear if I get hot pink seats, I’m going to beat your ass.”

I stare at him for a few silent seconds before I roar with laughter. What he said was funny as shit. And so true. I’d have broken the thing weeks ago just to watch it all go down. But the relief of knowing that he believes me is what makes me feel lighter.

“Glad you find it funny, asshole.” He glares through the windshield while I catch my breath.

We pull up to my place, and I sit in the passenger seat, dreading getting out. How can I walk through my condo when everything about it reminds me of her? Of what I had. The only room that she hasn’t touched is the guest room. I make a note to spend all my time there. Until I move. I make another mental note to put my pad on the market first thing in the morning.

“Oh, Braeden asked that you give him a call. Said your cell goes straight to voicemail.”

“Yeah, I need to charge it. Thanks for the bail out and for bringing me home.” I push open the door.

“You’d do it for me.”

“I’m looking forward to the day when there’s no need to save each other’s asses.”

He chuckles. “Get some sleep. We’ll figure out how to prove you’re innocent in the morning.”

I move through the parking lot to the stairs. Each step that brings me closer to my door creates a memory that attacks with vicious potency. Key in the lock, I squeeze my eyes closed and push past the vision of her there in her socks and shining smile. Hurrying inside, I hope to dash the echo of the past that threatens to drop me to my knees.

“Fuck, don’t be such a pussy.” I throw my shit on the floor in the foyer, and my gaze snags on the wall where I pressed her body before that first time we… made love. My throat swells, and for a minute, I can’t drag my eyes away.

Forcing myself to walk away, I head to the kitchen. I need to stay focused on my case. I’ve lost her, but I might be able to save my career. Pulling all the bottles and powders from the cupboards, I scan the labels. Memories of Layla in my kitchen doing the same thing push for dominance. I shove them back to the recesses of my thoughts and focus.

“You’ve got to be kidding me.” There’s not a word on any of the labels that hints to a prescribing doctor.

What would be his motive for pumping me with steroids? Did Gibbs doubt my ability to win the fight and think juicing me would give me an advantage? I rub my face. That makes no sense. Gibbs benefits no matter who wins. Not to mention that the Gaming Commission tests all fighters before a fight, and I would have been caught then. That rules out Doc Z placing money on the fight, juicing me up so I’d win and he’d get a huge payout.

My head thumps with an oncoming headache. Jonah’s right. I haven’t slept. I need to think this through with a clear mind. I grab my phone charger from the kitchen drawer and head toward my spare bedroom. My eyes slam closed as I pass the music room, and my chest tightens with an unbearable cramp.

The guest room hasn’t been used in years. The stale smell of dust and abandonment fit perfectly with my mood. I plug in my phone and punch out a quick text to Brae telling him I’m out and headed for bed. I strip down naked, hit the lights, and crawl between the sheets. My head is foggy, exhaustion making it impossible to string together a coherent thought.

And even still, her memory floods my senses. The smell of her hair, the feel of it as it runs between my fingers. Her pleasured whimpers and moans when I’m inside her. The softness of her skin as my lips run along her cheek and down her neck.

Her neck.

My chest hollows out. Crippling emptiness crashes over me in waves. I close my eyes and beg for sleep. And pray that dreams won’t come.

Layla

It’s taken me three days. The decision didn’t come lightly, but after a lot of thought, I know it’s my only choice.

I finally had to let my phone die to keep from answering the calls from concerned friends. I knew if I took even one call, I’d be begging them to tell me about Blake. Just the thought of his name makes my eyes burn.

I need to get over that.

No more sitting in my apartment with Axelle, going over and over all of our options. In the end, we decided together that the best choice would also be the hardest.

But everything good comes with a price.