53. Chapter Fifty-Three
Chapter Fifty-Three
Jordan
“Here are the keys, Mr. Kauffman.”
I swallow hard as the cool metal drops into my waiting palm. The realtor’s back retreats after a mumbled thanks and I just stand there next to the reception desk with my hand in the air for way too long.
This is it.
The foundation on which I plan to build the next chapter of my life laid out before me on mat-covered hardwood.
Three sturdy floors.
A hefty brick exterior.
Original stained glass windows set into the side.
Enough equipment to keep the gym rat side of my brain occupied, and several repairs that will need my attention between that.
It’s my fresh start. The one I needed so that I could leave all the old things in the past.
A rush of something almost warm and familiar breaks through the fog as I wander the floor, run my fingers over the ropes to the boxing ring, then hoist myself up to just sit on the raised platform and stare.
I did it. I did something for me.
So why does it feel like I’ve made yet another bad decision?
Pushing out a sigh, I fish my phone from my pocket and dial the one number I’ve been dreading.
“What?” my boss snaps over the line on the second ring, his gruffness out in full force.
It makes my palms slick over, even though I know it’s just a cover for how much he cares, and swallow.
“You got a second?”
His deep sigh echoes over the line and when he remains silent, I take it as my cue to go ahead.
“I … this is—”
“Spit it out, kid. I gotta get this crowd cleaned up.”
I lick my lips and drop my gaze to the floor.
“I quit,” I rush out before I can stop myself and knock the fucking wind out of my own lungs.
“Come again?”
“I … I’m giving you my notice, Ian. I’ll stay long enough for you to find my replacement, then I need out.”
He huffs out a grunt.
“Call Mac.”
I bristle at the mention of the drummer and scowl. “What? What’s he got to do with—”
“I don’t rehire, Jordan,” Ian grinds out.
The room suddenly feels too small, the ropes at my back too stiff.
“I don’t understand.”
“The night the video leaked, I fired you.”
I swallow, something deep and heavy settling in my chest at the reminder of the spoof video that got me canned, only to be brought back. There was a guy that looked an awful lot like me getting what looked like head, inside Mac’s hotel room. Except it wasn’t real. None of it was, except for the footage of the room itself. “That was years ago.”
“Uh-huh.”
Popping to my feet, I tug on the collar of my Sentry Security shirt when my throat feels too tight. “What are you—”
“I wasn’t the one that brought you back after that fucking fiasco. Mac did.”
All I hear is wooshing in my ears. All I feel is that festering wound in my chest spreading.
Mac did?
I look down, if only to see the logo printed on the shirt, confirming its mark over my left pec.
“Call Mac,” Ian repeats but all I hear is …
Let him go.