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I feel bad for the fucker. I know how he feels—wanting something he can no longer have. That doesn’t mean he can just sit here and wait for something that isn’t going to happen. Regardless, I give in to his need to wait while I check my pulse.
When I finish, I pat his big old head and tug him again. “Let’s go.”
We run hard for three miles, and he keeps up, right at my side. When we return to the gym, he’s panting, and so am I.
He walks in, and I unhook his leash. He runs right up to Tatiana, knowing damn well he will get a biscuit, while I walk over to the fridge behind the desk and grab a protein shake, giving my body what it needs.
“Fight night tonight,” Jagger says with a nod.
I nod back. “Tito’s ready, and a couple of the other guys are looking really good, too.”
“Buck’s come a long way,” Jagger says in a huff. “Damn kid hates me.”
“He’ll come around,” I tell him after wiping my mouth.
“He’s a good dog, huh?” Jagger laughs when the mutt sits his big ass on my sneaker.
I shake my head. “He’s something for sure.”
“You doing okay?” he asks. When I raise an eyebrow, he laughs. “That woman loved your ass, Kid.”
“You’re stepping over that line, Caldwell.”
“Always was one to push limits. So let me tell you that I know damn well you’re in love with her, too.” He narrows his eyes at me.
My chest tightens, and I feel my blood boil. “In my world, love’s like everything else—it dies.”
“That’s where you’re wrong, and you know it, Kid. Love never dies.”
I feel my jaw tighten. I’m ready to chew his overstepping ass, when the postal worker walks in to deliver the mail.
“Michelangelo Mazzini?”
I nod.
“Can you sign here?” He holds out some electronic tablet, and I sign. Then he hands me a thick envelope that’s addressed from PRH, Manhattan, NY. There is only one person who would send me anything from New York.
My chest tightens painfully as curiosity mixes with the frustration that she doesn’t seem to simply go away.
I walk to the back of the gym, Muttley hot on my heels, and walk into the office. I sit at the desk and open the thick padded envelope. Pulling out the contents, I fight the urge to dive into the manuscript, aching for her words.
I lean forward and read the first piece of paper.
To: Michelangelo Mazzini
From: Melanie Quinn, Sr. Editor at PRH Publishing LLC.
Enclosed, you will find a document to sign away any rights to the enclosed manuscript.
Miss Longley has been insistent that some things not be changed in the chapters you allegedly assisted her in crafting. In order to avoid a delay in publishing, we would like for you to sign and return the enclosed letter, waiving your rights to this work.
By signing, you also agree not to discuss your involvement to anyone, including, but not limited to, press, social media, or the author, T. Longley.
Enclosed is a check for ten thousand dollars for your assistance to the author, Tatum Longley, in this project’s research.
Thank you for your time, anticipated acceptance, and quickly returning the legal document needed to move forward with publishing this work.
Best Regards,
Melanie Quinn
Sr. Editor at PRH Publishing.
I’m pissed. I feel like I have not only been used, but treated as a whore.
Fuck the money. Fuck the legal bullshit. Fuck this.
I stand and pace back and forth in the tiny office space, trying to ignore the fact that I am hurt. Yes, fucking hurt that she would think I would go after her, her book, her money. I want none of that. I wanted her. I still fucking want her.
I sit back down and pull out the paper with little fucking Post-it flags, showing me where to sign. I put my M.M. on every spot it needs initials, and then sign my fucking name at the places that say to sign. Then I push it off the pile of papers and see a self-addressed stamped envelope and fold the damn thing up and shove it inside.
Next is a big fat check for ten Gs.
I rip it to shreds and toss it in that fucking envelope. Then I lick it and seal it up.
“Let’s go fucking end this shit, Mutt,” I growl at him, and he wags his damn tail.
Chapter Twenty - Nine
Four Weeks Later...
“With us today is New York Times bestselling author, Tatum Longley.” The reporter smiles at the camera, and then back to me. “Thank you for coming in today to talk about your next release.”
“Thank you for having me.” I smile, although it’s hard to do so when I have held his words, my words, our desires so close because that’s all I have of him, and now sharing it with the world feels so wrong.
