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He motions his head toward my chest. “Your dog tags,” he says, before patting my shoulder twice and walking away.
I watch as he weaves through the crowd, hands in his front pockets—as if he doesn’t have a single care in the world.
Too bad for him—I’m about to change all of that.
3
I’M USED TO wearing an ambiguous mask. Which helps, especially when Nate DeLuca walks into the bar and takes the stool next to mine.
“You want to fight?” are his opening words.
I nod and focus on the row of bottles lined up behind the bar.
“It takes months,” he adds.
“For what?”
“You saw the fights, right? They’re not amateurs. Months of training just to get looked at, and even longer just showing up to every fight, getting to know the process, the competition...getting to know me...Building that trust...”
Perfect, I thought. I want to build his trust. I want to get to know him, the process...all that shit. But the competition? I couldn’t give a fuck about that. I turn to him. “You think I’m untrustworthy?”
“Here’s the thing,” he starts, turning on his stool to face me. “Normally, we see the prospective fighters around on fight nights. They watch, they learn, and after a while, they get the balls to ask what they need to do to get in that cage. You? You show up out of nowhere, and you just ask.”
My eyes lock with his. “I just want to fight.”
“Why?”
“Why?” I repeat.
“Yeah. Why?” He sighs and rubs his jaw. “Why do you want to fight?”
I give him an answer I know will intrigue him. “Because if I don’t beat someone’s ass in a controlled environment, I’ll end up killing someone. That’s why.” And with that, I stand up, throw some cash on the bar and head for the door.
“Wait for the text,” he shouts.
Raising my hand, I let him know I’ve heard him. I pass Tiny—arms crossed—just inside the entrance.
I wait until I’ve walked a few blocks away before calling Jackson. He tells me to meet him at my apartment. I’m about to ask him how the fuck he knows where I live, but then I remember who he is now. A knot forms in my stomach, slowly releasing the guilt I’ve been repressing for years.
I should’ve been there.
I should’ve known the man he’d become.
KY
Age Sixteen
For days after my sixteenth birthday, I refused to talk about what happened. Jax’s parents walked on eggshells around me. Christine tried to make me feel as at home as possible, but it was hard. I wasn’t used to the attention and I didn’t know how to act. After a few nights of Jackson tip-toeing around me, I finally caved and confided in him. “My dad found out I wasn’t his,” I told him, sitting on the edge of the bottom bunk.
“You didn’t know?” he asked.
I took one more look at the framed picture of Jackson and I sitting on his bookshelf. Then I let out a bitter laugh. How did I not know? I glared intently at myself in the picture, smiling and dimples on show, my blue eyes reflecting the sunlight. Neither of my parents had dimples or blue eyes.
I shook my head in answer to Jackson. “He beat the shit out of Mom and I. Mom got in her car and took off. She just left me there, Jax. She left so that he could take it out on me. Steve doesn’t know.”
“Who the hell is Steve?”
“My brother,” I said incredulously, like he was a dumbass for not knowing. “Or half-brother, I guess.”
He shook his head slowly. “I’ve known you over a year now, Ky. I’ve never seen this Steve guy around, and you’ve never mentioned him.”
“He couldn’t put up with Dad’s bullshit and left years ago. He used to come around to check on me...” I cleared the lump in my throat. “He wasn’t there to protect me. And I’m not even mad because I should be able to protect myself.”
“You’re a kid,” he told me. “It’s not your job to protect yourself, especially from your family.”
“But they’re not,” I stated.
“Not what?”
“My family. I have none.”
He huffed out a breath and sat down next to me. “We’re your family now.”
***
Jackson barely steps foot in my apartment before doing a slow turn in the middle of the living room, hands in his pockets and his gaze everywhere. “This is...”
“It’s enough,” I interrupt, walking to the kitchen and pulling two bottles of water from the fridge. I lift one in offering, but he shakes his head.
He moves on from his appraisal of my furnishings or lack thereof, and sits on the couch. “You probably have to train now, right? I mean, throwing punches at drunken assholes is one thing—but being in a competition...” he trails off.
“Leave that to me. I’ll handle it.” I lean back on the kitchen island, watching the back of his head, and wait for him to go on.
“So you’re fighting soon?” he asks, half turning to me.
“No. He said I needed to see a few more fights, get to know the process, get to know him...”
He smiles. “That’s perfect.” He pulls a phone out of his pocket and throws it at me.
I catch it. “What’s this?”
“Your new phone. Department issued. We can listen in on your calls and track you.”
“Are you fucking kidding me?”
