Chapter 34
Chapter thirty-four
PIERCE
The list from Alexei sits folded in my palm.
I squint at the street signs through my windshield, hunting for the turn that’ll take me deeper into Nashville’s worst neighborhood.
I touch my nose, testing the edges of the medical tape.
Still tender. Still can’t smell worth shit.
The radio hums some country ballad about regret and lost chances.
I snap it off. Fucking country music. I might be white trash, but I’m headbanger white trash, not gun racks and cowboy boots white trash.
Four bars on the list. Four shitholes known for their back rooms where the real action happens, where guys like Randal Voss would feel right at home.
With Beckett traveling with the team, I’ve got time to hunt properly.
The Last Ace is first. Alexei described it as “a place where hope goes to die, but bets go to thrive.” Said like he was impressed with his poetry.
As I pull into the parking lot, I would totally agree with that assessment.
“Don’t break your fucking nose again,” I mutter to myself as I pull open a door that feels sticky.
The Last Ace greets me with a wall of stale beer and smoke.
They have an actual jukebox, so that’s fun.
It probably hasn’t been updated since the 90s.
At least country music was better in the 90s.
The vinyl booths are split and patched with duct tape.
It’s the kind of place where nobody makes eye contact unless they’re looking for trouble.
Perfect.
I slide onto a bar stool, keeping my back to the wall. “Whiskey. Neat,” I tell the bartender, whose nose has been broken more than mine.
He slides the drink over without a word. Good, I’m not in the mood for a chatty bartender. I take a slow sip, letting the burn replace the taste of anxiety in my throat. I need the liquid courage before I take a spin around the room and look for Randal Voss.
“Holy shit. Pierce Dawson.”
I turn, trying not to look as startled as I feel. A man approaches, silver threaded through his once-black beard, and an extra fifteen hanging out right on his belt line.
“Mickey Esposito.” I’m genuinely surprised. “What the fuck are you doing in Nashville?”
“Could ask you the same thing, kid.” He claps a hand on my shoulder. “Got a buddy that owns a gym here. Training some new kid that’s all piss and vinegar, but he’s got promise. Like you did back in the day. Still pissed you left me high and dry.”
“Yeah, man, sorry. Detroit’s fight scene wasn’t for me.
” The fighting was great. The publicity wasn’t.
All it took was one hot new story about my undefeated string and I was out of there.
We had just moved in with Beckett and were still looking over our shoulders for the police to piece together what happened to Reed. Or for Voss to come and shake us down.
“Is that right? What happened to your face?” he asks, gesturing to the tape across my nose.
“Hockey fight.”
He laughs, that same barking sound I remember from countless sparring sessions. “Grab your drink. Let’s catch up.”
Part of me wants to refuse. I’m here on a mission, not a reunion. But I follow anyway. The vinyl seat squeaks as I slide in across from him. From here, I can still watch the door just in case Randal decides to make my day and walk in.
“So,” Mickey says, taking a swig of what looks like club soda. “You gonna tell me what’s got you wound tighter than a championship match, kid?”
“Just catching up with an old friend.” I keep my face neutral.
“Bullshit.” He sets his glass down with precision. “Your shoulders are up around your ears, you’re scanning exits like you’re expecting a SWAT team, and you’ve touched that broken nose six times since we sat down.”
My hand freezes halfway to my face. Fuck.
“You always did carry your stress in your body. Could read your mental state from across the gym.”
“That’s a fucking lie. I have a great poker face.”
“You know,” he says conversationally, “I got a therapist now. Processing all that childhood trauma shit. You’d be surprised how much baggage we lug around without realizing it.”
“You? Therapy?”
“Don’t look so shocked. My omega got tired of me going off half-cocked all the time. Good for the soul, you know.”
“I just can’t picture you talking about your feelings.”
“So, what is it? Money trouble? Pack issues? You got that same look you had before your first professional fight, like you’re about to either puke or punch someone.”
The familiar way he cuts through my bullshit creates a crack in my armor. Maybe it’s the way Mickey’s looking at me like he already knows the answer and is just waiting for me to catch up. Or maybe I’m just tired of carrying it all alone.
“You ever…” I start then stop, unsure how to continue. “You ever do something you can’t take back? Something that follows you no matter how far you run?”
“We talking hypothetically, or is this confession hour? I ain’t no trained shrink.”
I trace a water ring on the table with my finger. “There was an accident. Years ago. In Florida.”
“The one that made you disappear overnight?”
I nod, throat tight. “A friend died. I was there. I…” The familiar pressure builds behind my eyes. “I ran. Afterward.”
Mickey doesn’t push, just waits. Another thing I’d forgotten about him, he knows when to shut up and listen.
“I thought I’d dealt with it. Packed it away. But lately…” I take a long swallow of whiskey. “There’s this omega. Dating my packmate.”
“And?”
“And she’s got me feeling…” I cut myself off, frustrated at my inability to articulate the storm inside me. “I don’t know what the fuck she’s doing to me. I can’t think straight around her. Can’t sleep. Can’t focus. And I can’t figure out why.”
“Scent match’s a bitch,” Mickey offers.
“She’s not my fucking scent match.”
“So, she’s the past that’s come back to haunt you?”
“No.”
“Spit it. I ain’t got all day?”
“Is this what they teach you in therapy? Bully old friends over drinks?”
“Nah, I was always good at that.”
I spin my glass on the table top. What the fuck am I doing here? Ash has nothing to do with anything, and she’s not my fucking scent match.
Mickey sighs, leaning back. “Look, I don’t know what happened back then. But revenge won’t ease your conscience. Trust me on that.”
“Who said anything about revenge?”
“I’ve seen that look before. Usually right before someone does something real stupid. And it always ends in orange jumpsuits.”
I stare into my glass, watching the amber liquid catch the dim light. “Maybe it’s not revenge,” I say, almost to myself. “Maybe it’s answers.”
“What kind of answers?”
“That night, when he died, it’s not… clear.”
Mickey makes a “get on with it” gesture, and I roll my eyes.
“I was drunk. There was a fight. And then he was just… gone. And I was running.” I look up at Mickey, suddenly desperate for him to understand. “I’ve been pushing it down for so long that I don’t know what’s real anymore. What I did. What I didn’t do.”
“And you think finding whoever you’re looking for will give you those answers?”
I nod, not trusting my voice.
“And this omega? How does she fit in?”
“Look, drop the omega. That’s a totally separate problem.”
“You ever consider that maybe you’re not as okay as you pretend to be? That maybe all this,” he gestures vaguely at me, “is you finally dealing with shit you should’ve faced years ago?”
Reed’s dead. It’s my fault however you slice it. And I ran. Leaving that all behind. And I dragged Liam with me. I’ve been bullying him for years not to talk about it, not to mention it, not to even think about it.
“Your friend,” Mickey says carefully. “Would he want you tearing yourself apart like this?”
Reed’s face flashes in my mind, not bloodied and still as I last saw him, but alive, laughing, eyes bright with that fierce protectiveness he carried for everyone he loved.
For his sister, for me, for Liam. What would Reed have done?
He wouldn’t have run like a chicken, or lied his ass off and be facing down the barrel of blackmail now.
I stand, unable to sit with these questions any longer. “I’ll figure it out.”
“Pierce.” Mickey’s voice stops me as I turn to leave. “Whatever happened back then, whatever you did or didn’t do, you were just a kid. Remember that.”
I nod stiffly, something thick and painful lodged in my throat. “Thanks, Mickey.”
“Don’t be a stranger this time,” he calls after me.
Outside, the night air hits me like a splash of cold water. I lean against the brick wall of the bar, letting my head fall back with a soft thud. Mickey saw right through me. And he’s right. I’ve been pretending I’m okay for so long that I almost believed it myself.
I pull out my phone and bring up Beckett’s number. He’s still on the ice if he’s playing or cheerleading from the bench. I can’t fuck up his game like I’ve fucked everything else up.
But I have to make that right. Even if I lose everything.