“I’m fine.” I strip my shirt off over my head and toss it to the floor, then grab the bottle of water next to the weight bench. Tipping it, I down almost the entire contents.
Yeah, I’m tired as hell, but I’ve gone longer than forty-eight hours without sleep before and functioned. Since Jake would probably turn this gym blue with curses if I admitted as much, I keep that info to myself. Sooner or later, my body and brain will crash, and I’ll grab a few hours. The best thing about that coma-like sleep is there are no nightmares of my younger brother lying unconscious on a mat inside an eight-sided metal structure.
“Peddle that bullshit somewhere else, I’m not buying it. And you’re no good to me if you’re exhausted and sick.”
“Good to you?” I ask, bending and swiping up my discarded T-shirt. “What’re you talking about? You want me to help with the Grayson kid again?” Every now and again, Jake taps me to help with a couple of the younger fighters. But Jake, one of the first professional fighters when MMA was young and just being recognized as a sport, is more than capable. After all, he gave me my start.
“No,” he says, then stares at me, his gunmetal gray eyes narrowed. He silently studies me for several quiet moments, and I meet his piercing gaze. Jake is the only person who I don’t have to hide parts of myself from. He’s seen me as an angry, hurting teen, raw and unfiltered. He knew me as the fiercely focused, win-or-die-trying champion. He sat with me, a silent, strong presence, when I sobbed out my grief and rage over Connor’s death.
The only thing I’ve kept from him—from everyone—is my dark, fucked-up obsession with my brother’s wife. Some secrets are too deep, too sinful to share.
“I just got a call from Mitchell Reyes,” he continues, a glint entering his stare. Mitchell Reyes, the CEO of Bellum Fighter Championship. I go still. “He knows we’re close. Wanted me to talk to you about the next BFC event in Reno. They want you in an exhibition rematch against Clarkson.”
Shock rolls through me, encasing me in ice.Bellum Fighter Championship… They want you… Rematch against Clarkson…In Reno. The city where I won my last fight and Connor lost his against death. Still, Jake’s words ricochet off my skull in a rapid-fire report. Israel Clarkson was the last person I fought. My last win. I briefly close my eyes. Beneath the ice… No, I can’t touch what’s stirring beneath it. It’s too sore. Too…starved.
“No,” I state, shaking my head for added emphasis because Jake is already scowling. “I have my shop. The people who work for me.” I shake my head again. “I’m not trying to give that up for a few more years, at most, of fighting. That’s in my past.”
And it’s true. If fighting was a dark, deep ocean, letting me drown in my fifteen- and sixteen-year-old anger and sadness without destroying myself, then my art was the lifeboat, dragging me back to the surface for air.
Yet…
“Do I look like they just popped me off my mama’s titty this morning?” He snorts. “If that was true, you wouldn’t still come in here training like you were preparing for an upcoming fight. Tell yourself what you want, but you haven’t dug that fire out of you. Look me in the eye and tell me a part of you still doesn’t crave it.”
I don’t say anything. I haven’t been training for the grueling five-minute rounds in a metal octagon.
At least, not consciously.
Suddenly, all the weariness and exhaustion that I’ve been fighting death-drops on my chest like a three-hundred-pound free weight. Because I can’t deny what Jake said. The way I retired—walking away—has always left me feeling…unfinished. Incomplete. But there’s no going back. Can’t change that.
“Jake,” I murmur. “I…”
“You think I don’t know why you quit?” he demands. It’s on the tip of my tongue to correct him. Retired. I’d retired. But I don’t say a word. We both know the truth. I did quit. “Martyring yourself didn’t bring Connor back, and he wouldn’t have wanted you to abandon the sport for him like some sort of sacrifice to the forgiveness gods.” He swipes a hand over his head, anger and sympathy an odd, warring combination on his tough face. “Just…don’t say no, okay? Think about it. Give it a few days—hell, a week. You don’t have to give Reyes an immediate answer. Think on it and let me know.”
Before I can reply, he pivots and strides across the gym toward the locker room and his office.
I stare after him, my heart a less-than-steady hammer in my chest, his words ringing in my head.Martyring yourself didn’t bring Connor back… He wouldn’t have wanted you to abandon the sport for him… Think about it…
That flame deep inside me that I snuffed out two years ago flickers to life, demanding to be fed. But I extinguish it before it can burn too bright.
No, I can’t. Fighting took one of Mom’s sons. I don’t know if I could face the hurt or accusation in her eyes if I returned to the sport she blames for his death.
But,fuck.
I want to.
Chapter Six
Eden
Okay, yeah, so I’m standing in the middle of my new apartment on a Sunday afternoon, hands on my hips, and grinning like an idiot.
But I can be excused, because, y’know,my apartment. Just thinking the words has me smiling harder, wider.
The small, ground-level, one-bedroom, one-bath unit in Roscoe Village might not be much by other people’s standards. Truth, it’s not a palatial condo on the Gold Coast. But damn, it’smine. Spinning in a slow circle, I survey the place as if I haven’t walked every inch, peeked into every corner and pine cabinet, mentally filled every spot with real and imagined furniture. A living room takes up most of the space and opens up to a tiny kitchen to the right. A short hallway leads to a surprisingly large bedroom, walk-in closet, and cubbyhole of a bathroom. The true selling points of the place—besides all the utilities being included in the incredibly affordable rent and being just a twenty-minute drive to work—are the fenced-in backyard and small, screened-in porch off the kitchen.
I adore it.
Inhaling, I capture the smell of fresh paint and cleaning products in my lungs. Yesterday, I came over and scrubbed the apartment from top-to-bottom. Not that the previous tenants had left it a pig-sty. I just…I don’t know, wanted to put my stamp on it.
