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“This isn’t a walk in the park, Parker.” He grins. “Oh, and there’s one other thing,” he says, scratching his jaw. “The department needs you to do one more thing.”
“What now?”
He sucks in a breath with a hiss.
I already know I’m going to hate what he says next.
“Anger management therapy.”
“You and your department issued phone and therapy can fuck off.”
He shrugs lazily, but I can see the hesitation in his eyes. “Looks like jail time for you then,” he says, standing up and making his way to the door. “Oh, and call Mom.”
My gaze snaps to his. “Did you tell her I was back?”
“And have to deal with the wrath of my mother? Fuck no. I’m good. But don’t be a dick, Ky, call her.”
I stay silent.
“I’m serious, man.” He opens my door and gives me one last disapproving look.
A second later a text comes through on my non-department issued phone.
DeLuca: All my fighters train at Xtreem MMA gym. Be there in ten. Gunner’s your man.
Ky: Got it.
***
Ky: Got a text from DeLuca—I’m training at Xtreem MMA gym—it’s only a block from me. He says it’s where all ‘his’ fighters train. I kind of hate this guy already. I’ll be there in ten. Call you after.
Jackson: I know the one. We’ve seen him go there a few times. Thanks.
Jackson: By the way, I’m sorry about the therapy thing, but it’s out of my hands. Who knows? It might do you some good. I’ve made an appointment with the therapist. Trust me. You’ll like her.
***
I wasn’t expecting to see DeLuca at the gym—but here he was. So too, of course, was Tiny. I bump fists with him as I enter, attempting to build some form of camaraderie. He jerks his head in a nod, then continues his stance—arms crossed over his fat gut.
“You his bodyguard or something?” I say, motioning my head toward DeLuca.
“Something,” Tiny answers—his deep voice lacking any trace of humor.
My gaze moves back to DeLuca—his eyes squinted, focused on a laptop on the table in front of him. He’s leaning forward; rubbing his chin as his eyes move from side to side.
“Boss Man,” Tiny shouts, and DeLuca’s eyes snap up. He smirks when he sees me, shuts the laptop, and carries it under his arm as he makes his way over to me. He hands Tiny the laptop, which Tiny locks securely in a briefcase. Then he pats me on the shoulder and says, “I hope you don’t mind. I like to keep all my fighters in one place. That way I know who I can trust.”
“Whatever.” I shrug. “Just tell me what I need to do to fight.”
Tiny’s deep chuckle has us both turning to him. “Sorry, boss,” he says, his slight smile still in place. “This kid’s hungry. I like it.”
DeLuca’s eyes trail back to me—his head tilted to the side. “Me too, Tiny. Me too.” He shoves his hands in his pockets and takes a few steps toward the cage in the middle of the gym. After a beat, I put one foot in front of the other and follow behind him.
“Let me introduce you to Gunner,” DeLuca says over his shoulder.
***
Gunner is, without a doubt, a hundred percent focused on training. He quickly makes it known that DeLuca is his boss, and he was paid to train me.
Nothing more.
Nothing less.
Which is kind of perfect.
He tells me I’ll be training five days a week. Three of those days will include two sessions. I have no idea how people with real jobs train to this extreme but, obviously for them, the fights mean enough to find a way to make it work.
Gunner’s good.
Real good.
Even after one sparring session I can tell that my fists and the hand-to-hand combat training the army provided isn’t enough to get me through my first fight. With a drunk at a bar? Maybe. But not with a professional.
I had a lot of work to do.
DeLuca: How’d your first session go?
Ky: Fine.
DeLuca: Good.
I call Jackson, who answers first ring.
“How was it?”
“Fine.”
“Get anything?”
“You’re gonna have to either give me some time or at least some pointers, because—”
“Just tell me what it was like...how many people were in there?”
“A couple coaches, same number of fighters, I guess. . . and DeLuca and his bodyguard Tiny.”
“They were there too?”
I open the doors to my building and stop in my tracks. “Yeah,” I answer, distracted by the girl standing in front of the mailboxes, kicking the shit out of the wall and cursing.
“What were they doing?” Jax says.
“Can I call you back?”
“No. Why?”
“I’ll call you later,” I say, and then hang up.
MADISON
Footsteps behind me coming closer and closer causes my heart to race and my hands to shake. I do my best to turn the key in the lock, praying I can get inside before whoever it is can get to me. I twist left. Nothing. Right. Nothing. “Fuck.”
I sense the person beside me now, their presence causing a shadow to cast over me. “Do you need some help?” a deep male voice says.
He sounds genuine. Not at all intimidating as I’d feared. I relax my shoulders, hoping it’ll make me seem somewhat normal when I finally turn to him.
Clear blue eyes stare back at me. His smile falters, but only a moment before he goes back to showcasing the deepest dimples I’ve ever seen. Words catch in my throat.
