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No questions asked, he opens a different door, and I follow him down a set of stairs to a state-of-the-art gym. My eyes trail over the heavy bag hanging in one corner and the free weights stacked neatly near a bench in the other.
“You want some help down here, King?” Dixon removes his jacket, ready to roll up his sleeves and help however I need, but I shake my head no.
“Can you just make sure Maddie’s okay?” I ask, not at all in the mood for company.
* * *
“You coming upstairs any time soon?”Cade asks as he walks down the basement steps.
I drop the hex bar at my feet, having lost count of my reps an hour ago. “Wasn’t planning on it.” I wipe the sweat away from my eyes and stare back at my coach.
“Hudson... this wasn’t—”
“Save it, Cade. I don’t want to hear it. Not now. Can you just get everyone out of here? Can I deal with the crisis PR mode tomorrow? Because tonight, I can’t fucking deal with the war room I have no doubt my sister set up upstairs.”
I grab the bar in both hands, ignoring the sting of the open-blistered calluses on the pads of my palm.
“Hudson.”
“Tomorrow, Saint. Help me get through the fucking night with this blood on my hands and get everyone out of this fucking house. Do it for me, like you know I’d do it for you,” I plead.
Fucking exhausted.
But not tired enough to forget.
“Imogen’s been calling all night.” His voice is softer when he mentions his sister.
One more person I let down.
“Tomorrow. Please, coach.” I pick the hex bar back up and start another rep of deadlifts instead of waiting for him to answer.
Cade stands there watching me for a while, his arms crossed over his chest and leaning against a pillar by the stairs, before eventually accepting that I don’t want to talk and finally leaving me alone.
I’m not sure how many hours go by or how many reps I do before I give up.
The anger doesn’t pass. It’s there under everything.
The pain hasn’t stopped. It’s just dulled.
But I still see that hit over and over in my mind.
The way my knee made contact with his face.
A quiet gasp catches me off guard as I turn around and wipe my hands on my pants. Maddie is sitting on the bottom step, her arms wrapped around her knees and silent, fat tears clinging to her dark lashes. She rushes toward me and grabs a towel from a shelf, then wraps it around my bloody palms. “You’ve gotta stop, Hudson. I refuse to sit here and let you hurt yourself.”
This woman is so good and pure that, for a moment, I let her clean my hands, then tuck herself against my chest. Soaking her in before I push her away.
“Hudson?” Confusion glistens in her bright blue eyes as they flash with hurt.
I answer her quietly, not wanting to hear my own voice. “I need to go home, Mads. I can’t stay here.”
Even if I want to.
Even if I wish I could.
The questions torturing me since I heard the news of McGuire’s death play on a constant loop in my mind. How am I supposed to live with the fact that I killed a man? Could I have done something different? How can I ever touch her with hands that ended someone’s life?
Maddie presses her lips to my sweat-drenched chest before lifting on her toes and wrapping her arms around my shoulders. “If you want to go home, I’m going with you.”
