Chapter 18 Cut Loose #2
But none of that made the fear go away.
The afternoon crawled by. I saw three clients. Worked through the treatment plans with Sarah. Answered the emails that had been piling up. Tried to pretend everything was normal even though my ribs screamed with every movement and my brain kept drifting back to Troy.
I fucked up the Johnson file. Mixed up his treatment dates with another client's and didn't catch it until Sarah pointed it out. She'd looked at me with that same concerned expression and asked if I needed to take the rest of the day off.
I'd said no. Said I was fine. Said I just needed coffee.
The lie tasted bitter.
By five o'clock, I was done. Physically and mentally tapped out.
Mara appeared in my doorway. “You leaving, or do I need to drag you out?”
“I'm leaving.” I shut down the computer and started gathering my things.
She walked in, closed the door behind her, and sat in the chair Rafael had occupied earlier. “We need to talk about your fight.”
My stomach sank. “Mara—”
“Don't 'Mara' me. Your fight is in two weeks, Declan. And you've been training like shit for the past two weeks.” She crossed her arms. “When's the last time you did a full training session?”
I tried to remember. “Before Troy came back.”
“Before Troy came back.” She repeated it like I'd just confirmed something terrible. “So you've been half-assing your prep for two weeks while juggling whatever the fuck is happening in your personal life.”
“I've been busy.”
“You're going to get hurt, Declan. Not might, but will, because you're exhausted, distracted, and trying to do too much.”
“I can handle it.”
“No, you can't.” She leaned forward. “I've seen you fight. And right now, you're not doing it properly. You're going through the motions while your head is somewhere else.”
“What do you want me to do? Cancel the fight?”
“I want you to be honest about what you can handle.” Her expression softened slightly. “Look, I get it. Your life is complicated right now. You're dealing with more shit than any one person should have to. But pretending you can just push through it without consequences is stupid.”
“I don't have a choice.”
“Then you'd better start training like you mean it. Because going into the ring half-prepared is how you end up with permanent damage instead of just bruises.” She stood up.
“I'm scheduling you for a full session tomorrow morning.
Six AM. You show up ready to work, or I'm pulling you from the card myself.”
“Mara—”
“Not negotiable.” She headed for the door and paused. “And Declan? Whatever the hell is happening between you and Troy, make sure it's worth what you're risking for it.”
She left before I could respond.
I sat there in the quiet office trying to figure out how everything had gotten so complicated so fast.
My phone buzzed. I grabbed it too fast.
Troy
Security just did a sweep. Everything's clear. Dmitri made dinner. It's terrible but edible.
Declan
Be home in twenty.
Troy
Drive safe.
The drive home should have been straightforward. Twenty minutes through the Chicago traffic. The same route I'd taken a thousand times.
But halfway there, I saw the lingerie shop.
It was small and tucked between a coffee place and a bookstore, the type of shop I'd walked past dozens of times without noticing.
Today I noticed.
I pulled over and sat there in my truck staring at the window display. The delicate fabrics in colors that caught the fading afternoon light. Lace and silk and things I had no business thinking about.
Except I was thinking about them. Thinking about Troy in the black lace I'd found in his laundry. Thinking about the way it had looked against his skin. Thinking about buying him more. Something new that was just for us.
The impulse felt insane and reckless. But I was already getting out of the truck, already walking through the door before my brain could talk me out of it.
The shop smelled like perfume and fabric softener. The woman behind the counter looked up and smiled. “Can I help you find anything?”
“I'm looking for underwear in black.” The words felt foreign coming out of my mouth. “Lace, maybe. Or something similar.”
She didn't blink. Just gestured toward the back. “We have a small men's section. Let me show you.”
I followed her through the racks of women's lingerie to a corner that held exactly what I was looking for. Boxer briefs and briefs in lace and mesh and materials I couldn't name. They were mostly black, with some in dark blue and a few in deep red that caught my eye.
“What size?” she asked.
I told her. She pulled a few options and held them up for inspection like this was perfectly normal, like men bought lingerie for other men in her shop all the time.
Maybe they did. What the hell did I know.
I picked three. Black lace. Dark blue mesh. Deep red that was almost burgundy. All of them delicate and expensive and completely inappropriate, which made them perfect.
I paid. She wrapped them in tissue paper and put them in a discreet bag. I walked out feeling like I'd just crossed another line I couldn't uncross.
I got back in my truck. The purchase sat on the passenger seat in its discreet black bag. The tissue paper crinkled when I set my keys down next to it.
This was intention and commitment. Making what had happened between us real in a way that went beyond just sex and desperation. Making it mean something when everything else felt like it was spinning out of control.
I needed this. Needed something between Troy and me that felt normal and chosen and ours.
I started the engine and pulled back into traffic.
The unease started about three blocks later.
Nothing I could point to specifically. Just a feeling.
I checked my mirrors. Scanned the street. Looked for anything out of place.
Nothing obvious jumped out at me. Just the normal Chicago traffic with cars and pedestrians and the usual chaos of late afternoon.
But the feeling wouldn't go away.
I turned back toward home. Five minutes out now. Close enough that I could see the familiar landmarks. The park where Troy used to play as a kid. The corner store where I bought coffee most mornings.
The stoplight ahead turned yellow. I pressed the brake.
Nothing happened.
I pressed harder. The pedal went to the floor with no resistance and no slowing.
The light turned red.
I pumped the brakes. Once, twice, three times. Still nothing.
Traffic was crossing the intersection ahead of me. Cars and pedestrians and bicycles all moving through the space I was about to barrel into.
My heart slammed against my ribs. The adrenaline flooded my system, turning everything sharp and clear.
I yanked the wheel and swerved right. Narrowly missed a sedan. The driver laid on their horn. I kept going.
The parking brake. I reached for it and pulled hard. Felt the back end of the truck start to drag, but it wasn't enough. I was still going too fast, still heading straight for the intersection.
I swerved again. Left this time. Jumped the curb and felt the truck bounce hard over the concrete.
There were trees ahead. A whole line of them planted along the sidewalk.
I aimed for the biggest one. Better to hit something stationary than to plow into traffic and kill someone.
The impact was instant and total.
Metal crunched. Glass shattered. My seatbelt locked across my chest hard enough to knock the air from my lungs. My head snapped forward then back. The pain exploded across my ribs where the bruises were worst.
Then everything stopped.
I sat there gasping with my hands still gripping the wheel hard enough to make my knuckles white. My heart was hammering so hard I could feel it in my throat.
The airbag hadn't deployed, which was a small mercy. But the front end of my truck was wrapped around the tree trunk that had punched through the hood like it was made of paper.
Steam rose from the engine. The smell of coolant and oil filled the cab.
I tried to move. Everything hurt. My ribs were screaming. My head felt like someone had taken a hammer to it. My hands were shaking so badly I could barely unbuckle my seatbelt.
But I was alive.
I'd crashed into a tree doing maybe thirty miles an hour and I was fucking alive.
People were running toward me. I could hear the voices shouting, someone asking if I was okay, and someone else on the phone calling 911.
I pushed the door open. It groaned but gave. I half-fell out of the truck onto the grass.
My house was two blocks away. I could see it from here if I looked past the gathering crowd.
Two blocks. Close enough that I should have been home already. Close enough that Troy was probably wondering where I was.
I needed my phone.
I reached back into the truck and found it wedged between the seat and the center console. The screen was cracked, but it still worked.
I pulled up Troy's number and hit call.
He answered on the first ring. “Declan? Where the fuck are you? Security said you left work an hour ago. You should've been home by now.”
“My brakes failed. Two blocks from the house. Near the park.”
There was silence on the other end for a beat. “Are you hurt?”
“Yeah. But I'm alive.” I leaned against the truck and tried to catch my breath. “Troy, this wasn't an accident. Someone cut my brakes.”
“Stay where you are. I'm coming to get you.” He was already moving. I could hear it in his voice. “Dmitri! We need to move now!”
The call ended.
I stood there shaking while the people crowded closer. A woman in a business suit kept asking if I was okay. A kid with his phone out was filming the whole thing. An older man was trying to direct the traffic around the scene.
“Sir, you should sit down,” the woman said. “You're bleeding.”
I touched my forehead. My fingers came away red. I must have hit my head on something during the impact, adding another injury to the collection.
“I'm fine,” I said. It wasn't true, but I needed these people to back off, needed the space to think.
“The ambulance is on the way,” someone else called out. “Just hang tight.”