Chapter 1 #2
I glance at my watch. 5:47 am. Sarah opened the gym for me this morning when I called to tell her I’d be late.
She’s been working with me almost six years now and knows the place nearly as well as I do.
I trust her completely. But years of the same routine doesn’t let go easily, and part of me is itching to get back where things make sense.
I’m not entirely sure why I followed the ambulance here in the first place. The guy’s a stranger, and I don’t owe him anything beyond what I already did.
But the way he looked so much like my brother Calvin unnerved me.
A reminder that the people you love can be gone in an instant, that nobody’s invincible no matter how much you want them to be.
If anything like this ever happened to one of my brothers, I’d want someone to stick around long enough to make sure they were okay.
“Mr. Midnight?” The cop clears his throat.
I realize I’ve missed his question entirely. “Sorry. What was that?”
“The other driver,” he repeats patiently. “You mentioned he seemed intoxicated. Did he say anything to you when you pulled him out?”
“Nothing coherent. He was mumbling, maybe trying to thank me, maybe telling me to go to hell. Hard to say.” I shrug. “I got him clear and went back for the other guy.”
He nods, scribbling. “And Mr. Navarro? Was he conscious at any point?”
Mateo Navarro. I’d found his wallet while waiting for the ambulance, desperate to find someone to call, but there was no emergency contact listed anywhere.
The only things I know about him are that his address is in Boston, he’s twenty-seven years old, and based on the certification cards tucked behind his license, he does fire and rescue work.
Ironic, that. Being on the other end of a rescue. Life has a dark sense of humor sometimes.
“Briefly,” I say. “His eyes opened for a second after I got him out, but he couldn’t speak. Then he was out again.”
The cop nods, scribbling, and then flips his notepad closed. “The drunk driver already admitted fault. Crossed the center line coming around that curve. Mr. Navarro wouldn’t have had time to react.”
I nod, but say nothing.
“You saved his life, you know, from the fire.” The cop stands and tucks his notepad away. “He’s lucky you came along when you did. Gonna have to write you up as the local hero in my report.” He grins. “Gym owner pulls man from burning wreck. Has a nice ring to it.”
“I just happened to be there,” I say, standing and tossing my cold coffee in the trash. I’ve never been comfortable with praise. “Anyone would’ve done the same.”
“You’d be surprised,” he says. He reaches out to shake my hand. “Thanks for your time, Mr. Midnight. We’ll be in touch if we need anything else.”
I watch him head for the exit, then take one last look at that creepy clown painting before I follow. I’ve done what I can here. The guy’s going to be fine. There’s no reason to stay.
The morning air hits my face when I push through the doors, cool and damp, the fog mostly burned off. Everything looks gray and ordinary, like nothing happened, like there wasn’t just a car smoldering somewhere on Harbor Road.
I climb into my BMW and start the engine, checking the rearview as I shift into reverse. The parking lot is mostly empty this early, just a few cars scattered near the entrance and an ambulance idling by the emergency bay.
I’m halfway out of the space when a silver sedan comes flying around the corner and screeches to a stop inches from my bumper.
I slam on the brakes. Adrenaline spikes through me for the second time this morning, my heart rate rocketing from zero to a hundred in half a second.
I just pulled a man out of a burning car. I do not have the patience for this.
I shove my door open and step out, leaving the engine running, already composing the verbal assault I’m about to deliver to whatever idiot nearly took out my car at six in the morning in a hospital parking lot.
“What the hell do you think you’re—”
The driver’s door of the sedan swings open and Brooke Bennett steps out.
The words die in my throat. Every single one of them. Gone.
It’s been almost fifteen years since I’ve seen her in person, and almost fifteen years since she wrote the article that destroyed my career.
I’ve thought about what I’d say if I ever ran into her again and rehearsed it in my head more times than I’d ever admit.
It was going to be scathing and devastating, the kind of verbal takedown that would leave her speechless for once in her life.
Instead I’m standing here in a hospital parking lot at six in the morning, smoke probably still clinging to my clothes, staring at her like I’ve forgotten how to form sentences.
She looks good. That’s the first thing I notice, and I resent every nerve ending that registered it. Long dark hair blowing in the morning breeze, olive skin that’s always made her look like she just came back from somewhere warm, and legs that go on for days in red heels.
I’ve spent years hoping she’d aged terribly, that karma would catch up with her in the form of something. But no. New York has clearly been good to her.
Figures.
“Dominic,” she says, her voice cool as she steps toward me.
“Brooke.” I shut my door and cross my arms, leaning back against my car. “I’d say it’s good to see you, but we both know I’d be lying. Thanks for almost taking out my bumper, by the way.”
She waves a hand dismissively. “I had plenty of room.”
“You had inches.”
“Inches are room.” She stops a few feet away, close enough that I catch the faint scent of her perfume. Tom Ford something, the same scent she’s worn since high school. For a split second I’m eighteen again, pressed against the bleachers in the dark, her breath warm against my neck.
I shove the memory down hard. “How did you even find me?” I ask. “My own family doesn’t know I’m here.”
“Relax, Dom. I didn’t bug your car.” The corner of her mouth twitches. “I was hoping to catch you early at the gym before the crowd of people showed up, and after a bit of digging they said you were here.”
“Sarah told you where I was?” I had in fact told Sarah where I was when I asked her to cover for me, but I find it hard to believe she’d tell someone she assumes is a stranger that her boss is at the hospital.
“Sarah wouldn’t give me the time of day.” There’s a flicker of irritation in her voice, and it sends a spark of satisfaction through me. Nice to know my operations manager can spot a snake when she sees one. “But your front desk kid was more helpful.”
Frankie. He’s just a high schooler and I’m not going to hold it against him. Brooke has a way of making people crumble when she wants something from them. It’s part of what makes her such an effective journalist, and such a dangerous person to have around.
“Well, you found me.” I don’t move from where I’m standing.
“Congratulations. And I have zero interest in whatever story has you slumming it outside the big city these days. Now how about you move your damn car and go do your vulture thing somewhere else. I’m sure someone’s having a bad day you can profit off. ”
Her eyes flash with annoyance, and it’s nice to know I can still get under her skin.
“My vulture thing.” She lets out a short laugh.
“I’m here to do a profile on Roman Kincaid, actually.
Your hometown fighter is getting quite a bit of buzz, especially once people caught wind that his coach is the infamous Dominic Midnight.
” She tilts her head, studying me. “I would think you’d want the coverage for your fighter’s sake at least. Unless you’ve got something to hide. ”
“I’ve got nothing to hide.” I reach for my car door, even though some stupid part of me doesn’t want this conversation to end and wants to keep lobbing grenades back and forth just to see who runs out of ammunition first. “What I’ve got is zero interest in playing your games.”
“I’ve already talked to Roman’s former training partners,” she says, and her voice stops me cold.
“I have interviews lined up, sources ready to go on record. This story is happening whether you cooperate or not.” She pauses, letting that sink in.
“So if you want any say in how you come across, I’d suggest you reconsider. ”
“I’ll think about it,” I say.
“No you won’t.” That almost-smile again, infuriating in its confidence. “You already know I’m right. You just hate admitting it.”
“You don’t know me as well as you think you do,” I say.
“Please.” She waves a hand, her rings catching the morning light. Always with the rings, even back in high school. She used to twist them when she was nervous, though she’d never admit to being nervous about anything. “I’ve known you since we were seventeen.”
“Right. So what’s the play here, Brooke? You show up, threaten me with a story, strong-arm me into giving you access?” I shake my head. “Sounds like blackmail.”
“It’s not blackmail,” she says, crossing her arms and mirroring my stance. “This is just me telling you how it’s going to be. There’s a difference.”
“A difference.” I laugh. “You always did have a way of making things sound reasonable when they’re anything but.”
“And you always had a way of making everything harder than it needs to be,” she says, holding my gaze without flinching. “So do we have a deal or not?”
I should say no. Every instinct I have is screaming at me to get in my car and drive away and never look back, to let her write whatever she wants and twist the story however she sees fit.
But that’s what I did last time. I refused to engage, refused to dignify her questions with answers, and she took that silence and filled it with whatever narrative suited her. It was one bitter source and a bunch of speculation, and suddenly my career was in flames.
At least if she’s at the gym, I know what she’s hearing. I can help protect Roman and make sure he doesn’t say anything that gets taken out of context. And maybe, just maybe, I can steer this thing toward something that doesn’t end with my reputation in a dumpster again.
And underneath all that logic, there’s the old familiar buzz starting up in my veins, that electricity that only ever happened around her, back when we were young and stupid and couldn’t keep our hands off each other.
I thought it was dead. I thought all these years of hating her had killed it. Apparently not.
I sigh. Keep your friends close and your enemies closer. Isn’t that how the saying goes?
“Fine,” I hear myself say. “You want access? I’ll give it to you. But you come to the gym, you ask questions where I can hear them, and if I find out you’re going behind my back, we’re done.”
“Fair enough,” she says.
“And try to stick to the facts this time.”
Her expression hardens. “I don’t print things that aren’t true, Dominic, and I never have.”
“That’s funny,” I say. “Coming from you.”
Her eyes flash, and there it is. That spark between us. She can still get under my skin faster than anyone I’ve ever met.
“Tomorrow morning,” she says, her voice clipped. “Eight o’clock.”
“Looking forward to it,” I say flatly.
She holds my gaze for a moment longer, then turns without another word and walks back to her car. I watch her pull out of the space and head for the exit, her taillights disappearing around the corner, and the morning goes quiet around me.
I get in my car and slam the door harder than necessary. My jaw is tight and my hands are gripping the steering wheel. She’s unbelievable. She’s absolutely infuriating.
But underneath all that anger there’s a buzzing I haven’t felt in years, an alertness, like I’ve been half-asleep and someone just dumped cold water on my head. I pull out of the parking lot and head toward the gym, and the whole way there I can’t stop replaying the conversation.
She’s wrong about me. She’s always been wrong about me.
And some small, stupid part of me is almost looking forward to proving it.