Chapter 4
4
ATLAS
A strid takes measure of my plate with scrutiny as I add another helping of lasagna and four more pieces of garlic bread to the already heaping pile of food. “Are you really going to eat all that?”
I scowl at her and cut into Nana’s most famous dish, slicing through the layers of pasta, meat, and cheese, then shovel a bite into my mouth before I answer around it. “Fuck yeah, I am.”
“Atlas!” Nana glowers at me from the head of the table, her old, hard eyes holding a harsher reproach than even her sharp voice did. “Language!”
Coen snorts and shakes his head, his gaze cutting to Viviana next to Isaac, baby Giovanni in Jack’s arms, Benjamin where he sleeps on Pope’s shoulder, and over to Charlotte where she sits between Cass and Kennedy on the other side of the long table. “Oh, yeah, wouldn’t want the kids to hear such foul words they certainly never do at home…”
Uncle Savage can’t contain his chuckle. He takes a sip of his wine to try to cover it and ensure Nana doesn’t see him laughing at her ridicule and Coen’s observation. Most of the table does the same, trying to conceal their humor, but Uncle Stone offers his youngest son a scolding look.
I finish chewing and swallow, watching Coen shift uncomfortably under his father’s stare, then chug my beer. “I start training camp tomorrow. This is my last chance to have a decent meal for the next three months. I plan to enjoy it.”
As much as I can with the entire family watching me like…well…a hawk…
Astrid elbows me in the ribs, and I twist toward her and glare.
“What?”
She purses her lips and leans in closer while the rest of the family continues to eat and chat. “You’ve been avoiding me.”
Fuck.
“Have not.”
I take another huge bite, giving myself time to consider a way to dodge and weave my way out of this interrogation. Of course, she waited to do it at Sunday dinner, knowing I would never miss it and would be stuck sitting next to her where I couldn’t escape.
Devious woman.
She pinches the sensitive skin on the back of my bicep, and the sharp sting makes me flinch and jerk away from her.
“What the hell, Astrid?”
All eyes at the table dart to us, and I swallow the rest of my bite and clear my throat, trying to think of an explanation.
Astrid plasters on a bright smile, playing on her generally sweet nature to convince everyone everything is fine. “Sorry, twin stuff!”
Dad knows better than to believe nothing is going on and shoots daggers at us from across the table with hard emerald eyes while Mom hides her laugh behind her hand. Of anyone seated around us, she understands the unique relationship I share with Astrid, and she also knows that when my dear sister has something on her mind, her reserved shyness suddenly disappears and she becomes a force to be reckoned with.
I lean closer to her, growling between my clenched teeth. “Will you knock it off? I’m not avoiding you. I’ve just been busy.”
Her blond brows rise. “Oh, really? Because I stopped by the gym Friday morning, and Jenkins said you were there Thursday but then bailed Friday and told him you weren’t feeling well…”
Fucking hell.
The old man ratted me out.
I tear into my garlic bread, chewing deliberately slowly as I scan the table to see who else might have overheard that little tidbit of information. But thankfully, everyone is engrossed in various conversations or bickering about something petty like we always seem to at these Sunday dinners.
Pope and Alessandra fawn over Benjamin in her arms while Storm holds out hers to try to take him from them…
Caroline and Saint are deep in a discussion with Bishop that has her rather animated and obviously annoyed…
Stone and Nora talk with Coen, who looks anything but pleased with the topic of conversation…
Angelina and Jude chat with Storm and Landon while Byron and Luca engage in their own private tête-à-tête…
Jack and Isaac struggle to keep Viviana focused on eating when she wants to go play with Charlotte, who isn’t listening to Kennedy or Cass…
Dani leans in to whisper something to Savage, who seems to be taking everything in the same way I am…
And Nana watches it all quietly while eating leisurely, appearing unconcerned with the chaos around her.
But I don’t let that innocent, quiet fa?ade fool me.
The matriarch of the Hawke family hears and sees everything. Which means I need a legit excuse for why I skipped my workout Friday and stayed holed up in my place all day—and yesterday, on top of it—binging reality TV instead of suffering another catastrophic failure against the bag.
“I had a migraine. I’m good now.”
Astrid sits back, crossing her arms over her chest. “Mhmm.” Her lips press together firmly. She examines me a moment before she shifts closer, lowering her voice. “And that prevented you from taking my calls?”
Frankly, I’m surprised she didn’t show up at my place and force her way in.
It certainly wouldn’t have been the first time she—or others—have done it. Boundaries don’t exist for the people around this table. Typically, it’s a good thing to be so close-knit and to know I can always rely on every single member of the family for anything at any time. But when I just want to wallow in self-pity and ignore my problems…it makes it really fucking hard.
If not impossible.
So, the fact that Astrid didn’t show up at the condo means someone must have intervened on my behalf.
My eyes drift to Dad and Mom. She gives me a little nod and a knowing smile while he offers a worried look that seems to be permanent any time we’re in the same room together lately.
She must have said something to Astrid to keep her from seeking me out.
It’s nearly impossible to disappear for any amount of time with the number of people intimately woven into the fabric of our lives, but Mom knew I needed a break from it and gave it to me.
Bless that woman.
Inclining my head toward her, I wrap my arm around Astrid’s shoulder to draw her closer to me. “I needed quiet and darkness, which I wouldn’t have gotten with you yammering in my ear, asking if I was okay or needed anything every five minutes.” I press a kiss to her cheek. “But I’m fine. So, please, drop it.”
She considers me for a moment with eyes that match my own, then finally relaxes and nods. “Okay…”
Relief floods my system as I tug my arm away and dig back into the plate piled high on the table in front of me.
My final meal.
At least, that’s what it feels like.
Sitting on death row with an execution date three months from now when the hotel opens and I step into that ring and get my ass handed to me.
Every day between now and then is going to suck.
Watching what I eat, training relentlessly, having to hide how debilitating my injury has become. That last one being the hardest.
By this point in my career, I’m used to training camps and what it takes to prepare myself mentally and physically for a fight, but I’ve never faced an uphill battle that’s more like Mount Everest.
When that bullet tore into me, I was at the top of my game, ready to take down any opponent who met me in the ring. Now, it feels like no matter what I do, I’m going to come out on the losing end—
“Atlas…” Nana’s voice cuts through my haze of self-pity and carbs.
“What?”
She raises a white eyebrow at me. “Didn’t you hear the topic of conversation?”
I shake my head and take a sip of my beer to wash down my final bite of lasagna. “No. Sorry.” Scanning the table, I try to figure out what I’ve missed, but everyone just looks at me expectantly. “What were we talking about?”
A coy smile curls Nana’s lips. “I heard Jimmy’s granddaughter is back in town and opening some sort of business next to the gym.”
The mere mention of Wren ignites a strange heat in my chest that has nothing to do with the red pepper in Nana’s sauce or the alcohol I’ve already consumed today.
I nod. “Yeah, I stopped in and saw her a couple of times already. Looks like she’s trying to open her Pilates studio a week from tomorrow.”
Nana’s eyes widen. “That’s quick.”
Kennedy brushes a lock of blond hair back behind her ear. “I stopped in yesterday to say hello and welcome her back—”
The wheels in my head start turning, and my hand freezes with the fork halfway to my mouth, loaded with baked ziti this time. “Hold on a second…if she’s renting that space, then she must have signed a contract with Hawke Enterprises.” I cut my gaze to Uncle Savage and Dad. “Did you all know she was coming back and not say anything?”
They shake their heads, and Kennedy laughs.
“No. Only I did.” Her bright-red lips twist into a smirk. “When Jenkins contacted me about the possibility of her taking the space for a studio, I assured her I wouldn’t tell anyone else so she could make it a surprise.”
It certainly was that…
The last few days, while I tried to forget what was happening in the gym, my mind kept drifting to Wren. To our shared past. All the laughter and joy. The hurt and excruciating pain we’ve both suffered. This intense connection I still feel with her despite the time and distance that kept us apart.
Kennedy keeps yammering on, and I try to focus on her words instead of getting lost thinking about Wren again.
“Things are coming along quickly. She has already repainted and has a logo on the wall. Her machines were delivered, and she’s going to build them this week.” She shrugs and grins. “I honestly didn’t know that space could look so damn good. It’s kind of always been a shithole, like the gym.”
Nana tsks and shakes her head. “You children and your potty mouths.” She casts an annoyed glare over the table at her children and their spouses, grandchildren, and adopted family members. “The gym isn’t a ‘shithole.’ Jimmy is an excellent trainer and focuses his efforts there, not on housekeeping.”
Is Nana actually defending Jenkins?
In the years I’ve been training with him, all she has ever done is complain and voice her concerns and displeasure over my choice to take after Grandpa and enter the ring professionally.
I guess I can’t blame her, though. She thinks boxing took him from her, and Jenkins was the man who helped keep Sam “The Savage” Hawke fighting by training him. Which makes her comment even more surprising—and not solely to me.
All eyes at the table cut to her in question.
Dad raises a brow. “You finally coming around?”
Nana scowls at him, crumpling her napkin in her hand beside her plate. “I will never agree with Atlas’ decision to take up boxing, nor your encouragement of it, but I know him”—her old gaze drifts to me, and she offers a tight smile—“and Atlas was never going to do anything else, no matter my or anyone else’s objections. So, if he insists on fighting, Jimmy Jenkins is the best person to keep him safe in the ring.”
Even if he couldn’t keep Sam safe.
Those words aren’t said, but they still ring through the air and settle over everyone at the table.
My chest tightens, and the filled plate of my favorite food on the planet suddenly seems a lot less appetizing.
I’m lying to her.
I’m lying to Jenkins.
I’m lying to all of them.
And while what happened to Grandfather was a freak accident—a one-in-a-million thing that is so highly unlikely to happen again that it isn’t even worth worrying about—there are a hundred ways to get hurt or worse in the ring other than a brain aneurysm bursting.
Me not being at one hundred percent makes that possibility even more of a threat.
Everyone knows it, and all the people seated around this table watching me now who have seen me in action since I was cleared to fight again know that I am not the same Atlas “The Hurricane” Hawke that I was before the shooting.
They just would never tell Nana and worry her even more.
Neither will I.
I have three months.
That’s enough time to figure out a way to fight through the pain and get back to where I need to be for the title match.
It has to be.
WREN
Plastic reformer frames, leather-covered machine beds, bags of straps and ropes, and dozens of boxes of other various equipment for classes clutter the studio. Crammed into corners. Stacked three high in places to try to fit it all into such a tight space.
What a fucking mess…
I release a frustrated groan and shove my hands through my hair, tugging out the tie that has kept it back from my face all morning. The dull headache forming at the base of my skull ebbs somewhat, and I rub at the spot, considering my situation.
After painting on Friday, receiving all the deliveries, and spending the weekend trying to organize the chaos, it feels like I haven’t gotten anywhere but into a bind I can’t find a way out of.
Literally, nothing is going as planned.
Everything arrived about the same time, giving me zero ability to actually organize any of it, which means I can barely even walk through the studio, let alone get anything unboxed or set up.
Why did I think this would be quick and easy?
It’s the same question I’ve asked a dozen times in the past few days, and the same answers always seem to come.
Because I’m deluding myself.
And I need it to be.
I don’t have the time or money for this not to work. If I can’t get the studio open and running—and actually turn a profit within a month, maybe two—I’m going to be in big trouble.
Every single dollar I’ve managed to save over the last ten years has gone into my move and setting up this place. Every credit card is maxed out on top of that. If Gramps’ apartment complex wasn’t for seniors only, I would be crashing on his couch as long as I could to save both of us money. As it stands, my shitty one-bedroom apartment is at least somewhere to lay my head at night. It’s better than nothing, but it isn’t ideal by any means.
So that means this daunting task has to be ready in six days, and I have to figure out how the hell I’m going to get clients in here, or I’ll have a beautiful studio and equipment but no one to use it.
And I’ll end up in bankruptcy court.
That vise that constantly threatens to cut off my airways anytime I let anxiety take control tightens around my chest again, and I slam my fists against the floor as I sit between rows of boxes. “Fuck, fuck, fuck—”
“Everything okay?”
I jerk upright and peek over the box to my left at Atlas standing over it, concern furrowing his brow. “Shit, you scared the crap out of me. I didn’t even hear you come in.”
He smirks. “Float like a butterfly…”
A laugh bubbles up my throat. “Oh, and I already know how you sting.”
His brows wing up. “Really?”
Shit.
Way to go, Wren.
I might as well have just explicitly admitted I’ve been internet stalking him and following his career. Clearing my throat, I avert my gaze and pretend to scan the boxes before peeking up at him again. “Uh, yeah. I’ve caught a few of your fights on TV.”
He leans a shoulder against a stack of boxes next to him that thankfully doesn’t topple with his weight pressed against it. “Have you now?”
Shiiiiiiit .
Underlying that playful tone is the smug realization of the thing I so desperately wanted to hide—that even though I may have left New Orleans such a long time ago, I definitely never left Atlas behind.
He has occupied my dreams and remained in my heart, despite my best efforts to vanquish him.
I refocus on the instructions laid out on the floor in front of me rather than meet his penetrating gaze that heats my skin. “This should be easy. Simply clicking a few pieces together, and I worked with these machines all the time at the old studio—”
“Wren…” He doesn’t say anything else, just waits until I lift my gaze to meet his again, a smug smirk curling his lips. “You were watching my fights?”
I swallow thickly and nod because, at this point, denying it would only make things more awkward. “I couldn’t be there to support you, but…”
He squats in front of me, the movement sending a rush of air floating across the tight space between us that carries that mix of clean shower and the gym that will always cling to him. “That’s all it was, huh? Trying to support me?”
“Yep!”
I nod, hating how fast that answer came and how ridiculous it sounded. Thankfully, he doesn’t press any further. He merely continues to grin before his gaze drops to what’s in front of me.
“It looks like you could use some help.”
You have no fucking idea.
I wanted so badly to do this quickly and on my own, to not have to rely on the Hawkes to make it happen. But looking around, that would be impossible. Plus, not accepting help would make me the asshole and get me nowhere. “Yeah, it’s a lot to do, but don’t you need to be in the gym?”
He slowly lowers himself onto his ass, his legs crossed in front of him, and shakes his head, motioning over his shoulder with his thumb. “Done with my workout for the day.”
“Oh.”
So, no excuse to tell him to get out of here.
It also means I’ve been sitting here, lost in thought and borderline panicking, for far longer than I thought.
“You know”—he dips his head until his eyes meet mine—“asking for help isn’t a bad thing, Wren.”
I lock gazes with him, staring into the icy-blue waters I could drown in so easily if I let myself fall in. They hold so much promise but also that hint of uncertainty and pain I caught in them the other day. I am not the only one struggling.
Atlas puts on a brave front, but he’s suffering and can’t hide it under all that ink and attitude.
“ I know that, Atlas, do you ?”
He recoils slightly as if I’ve slapped him, the humor fading from his face. It takes him a second to recover and get that impenetrable fa?ade back in place, and then he climbs to his feet, brushing off the back of his jeans with his hands. “Just tell me what you want me to do, and I’m yours.”
I’m yours.
God, why do those words sound so good?
Why do I want them to be true?
I barely know Atlas anymore, and he certainly isn’t the kid he was at eight when I left. We’ve both been through things that have changed us immensely. Yet that same feeling lingers that consumed me back then when he kissed me at the “wedding”—desperation for him to press his lips to mine again.
It was my first kiss. From the first boy I ever had a crush on. And now, at nearly thirty, my heart still beats erratically every time he looks at me. After hearing him say he’s mine, it’s almost blasting straight out of my breastbone. And I want him to kiss me.
I want to know what he feels like against me, what he tastes like, if he’s as brutal and unyielding when he kisses as he is in life and the ring.
But now isn’t the time to obsess over things far out of my reach.
There’s enough to worry about.
“I’m trying to get these reformers together, but all the other boxes are in the way. I don’t have enough room. There isn’t anywhere to put them all, though.”
He examines the various piles, rubbing his hand on the back of his neck. “There is. I’ll move them into the gym long enough for us to get the machines up. Then we can empty them out of there, where there is much more workspace.”
“Are you sure Gramps won’t mind?”
Atlas barks out a laugh. “I think your grandfather would let you commit murder over there and wouldn’t give a shit. Plus”—he winks—“I own the place.”
Crap.
I somehow forgot that little tidbit…and now I look like an idiot. “Shit, I’m sorry, Atlas. I didn’t mean to suggest that—”
One of his blond brows lifts. “That your grandfather runs the place with an iron fist?” He grins. “He does, regardless of whose name is on the deed. But seriously, Little Bird, it won’t be a problem.”
But you will be for me.
It’s so obvious now how stupid I was to think that I could come back, that this would ever be easy or okay. That seeing him every day wouldn’t affect me the same way it did two decades ago. “Should you really be doing that? Lifting boxes while you’re training for a title fight?”
He raises his brows. “If lifting a few boxes hurts me, then I shouldn’t be in a goddamn title fight now, should I?”
It’s said as a joke, but there’s a slight edge to his tone that makes me bristle. That man is teetering on the edge of collapse, and it won’t take much to push him over it.
One well-placed blow.
He turns away and stalks back over to the door that’s mostly blocked by the boxes. I climb to my feet and brush off my ass as he disappears into the gym, then returns with something to prop open the path between the spaces.
Atlas grabs the closest box and lifts it. Anyone else might miss it, but I catch the slight tightening of his jaw as the weight undoubtedly tugs on his shoulder that’s likely already sore from his training session this morning.
He absolutely should not be fucking doing this, nor should he be in that ring.
It isn’t your place to say anything, Wren.
I suck in a deep breath and release it slowly, fighting the urge to let my medical training override the desire to say something as a friend when it will upset him more.
Why is Gramps letting him fight like this?
It doesn’t make any sense.
He has to see what I do, how much pain Atlas is in.
Is everyone really so afraid of him that they refuse to confront him about it?
I watch him disappear into the gym, then return and grab another box, this time managing to mask his pained response a little better. Three other sweaty guys in gym gear appear and start working their way through the boxes.
The insurmountable piles vanish so quickly that hope starts to warm my chest. Maybe with their help, I can actually get this done in time.
I move out of their way, pressing myself up against the mirrored wall and making myself as small as I can so they can come over and grab the stacks close to where I was sitting.
Within ten minutes, the entire studio is clear of the boxes, save for what I need to assemble the reformers, and I can finally start to breathe again without the crush of everything around me.
Atlas returns, brushing off his hands, and spreads his arms wide. “Where do you need me next?”
God, he has to stop talking like that, or I’m never going to be able to focus.
Images of him helping me with other needs flood my head so quickly that I don’t stand a chance of keeping them at bay.
Heat rushes through my body, and I swallow thickly, trying to banish the very inappropriate fantasies. I force myself to motion to the reformer frame on the floor next to the pieces that help raise it. “I need help to get these risers underneath the frames so they’re higher off the floor.”
He steps up to me, stopping mere inches from his body touching my own, and another one of those panty-melting grins pulls at his lips. “You show me what to do, and I’ll do it.”
Get out of my fucking head!
That would make all this so much easier.
So will putting a little distance between us.
I bend down to arrange the riser near the side of the reformer, ready to put it in place. “If you can lift the frame, I’ll slide this under.”
He steps up behind me, so close his body heat radiates into my back, and I almost groan at the delicious sensation.
There are a dozen other places he could stand to accomplish this task, but he bends so his chest presses to my shoulder blades. His warm breath flutters against my ear, and his crotch brushes my ass. He wraps his hand around the frame above mine, brushing his warm skin along my own, and lifts it easily, raising it high enough for me to slide the riser under it.
“Like that, Little Bird?”
Christ…
My whole body vibrates, and my brain practically short circuits, trying to form a response.
I gulp. “Yep, just like that .”