Chapter Seven
Brooks
“Or,” Mrs. Richards says, turning away from the counter, “you could be a big brave Valla and just call him. I mean, really, Brooks. He's just a man. You know it was him who called you, and you know it was him on the sidewalk.”
“He hung up before I could say anything.”
“He got nervous. Stop being a baby.”
I have replayed that call so many times. It was barely two words, but they have been on a loop in my head for weeks. Over and over again. I didn't even get a full look at his face. But that was his voice, trembling as it was.
Why did he sound so shaken? That's what's been weighing on me more than anything else. His voice was actually shaking. Halting. Weak. Like there was something wrong.
I couldn't help him before and I can't help him now.
There was no help for him back then, no help that he wanted.
And I wouldn't know where to even begin helping him now, considering he's inclined to accept it.
But why do I feel this heaviness? Why do I feel such a deep need to save someone who has never wanted to be saved? Will I always be haunted by him?
“Just make the call. Your pride will keep you in bed with misery if you let it.”
I bristle. “It isn't pride.”
“Hurt, then.” She sits down at the table beside me and wraps her small hands around my larger ones. “Don't let old hurts keep you from seeking new happiness.”
“You don't know him,” I say, staring at our hands. “You don't know how he is— how he was.”
“It's alright to be scared. It really is. But you can't let that fear rule you. Call him. At least you'll know.”
I sigh.
“Maybe he lives there now. Maybe you'll see him again when you go up to check on your project.”
I did think of that. I don't know what I think of it, but that potential did cross my mind.
I tip my head back and blow a breath at the ceiling. “That might be worse than just calling him.”
“Well,” she pats the back of my hand, “there you go.”
I'm not calling him. I'm not doing that to myself. There's still a minuscule chance that it wasn't him that I saw and it wasn't his voice on the other end of the call, and I intend to cling to that chance until it's no longer an option.
I leave tomorrow to go back up for Shane's first fight.
I'm trying to be excited about it. The idea of coming face-to-face with Laz when I'm in a situation that I can't walk away from makes me feel tight in the worst possible way.
Even if I have a full-body collision with Laz, I'm not abandoning Shane on his big night because I'm uncomfortable.
He's worked too hard. If I see Laz while I'm up there for the fight, I'll just push through whatever I'm feeling.
Then I'll get on the first plane home and stay in seclusion for the rest of my life.
Nothing is worth the turmoil currently ruling my inner thoughts.
Any other time, the twenty-four hours before a trip drags on.
This time it has passed quickly. I've had blinks that lasted longer than this.
And now I'm getting into the car that will take me to the fight.
Good god, I hope I don't see Laz. I can't convince myself that it wasn't him when I was here before, but I know the devastation that seeing him would bring, and I don't want it. I don't know if I'll survive it.
I have a box seat. I was going to buy box seating anyway, but Grady told me that sponsors automatically get it.
I'm glad. This seat gives me the best view of the ring.
It also gives me a phenomenal view of the entire arena, and it provides a distinct barrier between me and the general admission seating.
I saw Shane briefly before I came up to the box.
Grady sent a text letting me know that our guy was a little nervous and he would feel better if he knew for a fact that someone was in the stands cheering him on.
I don't know why my cheering holds so much weight with him, but if my support helps, he'll have it.
The fight is scheduled to start in ten minutes. From this vantage point I can watch the crowd moving. Bets are being placed. Popcorn is being sold. Beer is being spilled. Energy buzzes through the building in a great crescendo as people wait for the bell to ring.
I catch quick movement in a clump of people.
A small fight breaks out around a woman in a bright red dress.
She's thoroughly pleased with being the center of such attention, which is to be expected.
Security breaks up the fight quickly, and no one is removed from the venue, but something else catches my eye as I watch one of the security officers push his way through the crowd.
It's another woman in another red dress, a darker shade. Laz is sitting right next to her. And he's staring right at me.
The longer he holds my gaze, the paler he becomes. By the time the woman next to him squeezes his thigh to get his attention, he's lost so much color that he looks a little gray. Or green. The woman leans in close to say something into his ear. He tilts his head, but he doesn't look away from me.
His gaze has an immediate effect, and it isn't the anger or hurt I expected. It's immediate connection and heat. Even after all the hurt, after all the anger and utter grief, I want him. Looking into his eyes brings that fact into sharp focus. I want him.
And I still love him.
I need to leave.
The woman slowly follows his gaze until I feel her looking at me, too. I watch her red lips curve into a smile before she says something else to him.
He breaks eye contact with me to shake his head sharply at whatever she said to him.
I watch them have a brief conversation before his shoulders rise and fall with a heavy sigh. Then he gives me his eyes again.
I need to go.
He blinks, the movement sluggish, but he doesn't look away.
The wooden armrests pop and creak under the strength of the grip I have on them. The longer I look into Laz's eyes, the harder I squeeze.
The bell rings, but I can't bring myself to look away from Laz to see the beginning of Shane's fight. Guilt nags at me, but if Laz isn't looking away, neither am I.
The woman leans into him again and kisses his cheek.
The growl that rips out of me gets lost in the noise of the crowd, but both she and Laz saw it. Laz's eyes grow wider and her smile deepens.
She snaps her fingers and a man appears. She leans over to say something to him and then leans back in her seat, patting Laz's thigh.
I might scream if I have to keep watching her touch him. I might go over there and take every drop of attention off of the fight because I will absolutely make a scene.
A few minutes later, the man she spoke to is standing at the entrance of my box. I have to look away from Laz to speak to him, and I fucking hate it.
“What?” I snarl.
“Ms. Miller would like to request an audience with you.”
“And who is Ms. Miller?” I couldn't keep the distaste from my tone if I wanted to.
“It would be better if that information came from Ms. Miller.”
I look back across the arena to find Laz's gaze still trained on me. He pulls half of his bottom lip between his teeth.
“When?”
“She suggests dinner after the fight.”
“After this fight,” I say. “Not after all of them. After this one.”
“I will relay that message.”
“At the restaurant on the roof.”
“I will also relay that information.”
“Is that her Omega with her?”
“I am not at liberty to discuss Mr. Williams.”
I despise the fact that any of these people are close enough with Laz to be at liberty for anything. “Fine. I will meet her after this fight.”
The messenger leaves and I go back to Laz's blue eyes.
I have no idea what happens during the fight. I don't feel any guilt about it, either. I know that Laz's hair needs to be trimmed. I know the tie loosely hanging around his neck is gray. I know his shirt isn’t wrinkled. I know he's uncomfortable.
I know he doesn't like the woman touching him when he's looking at me.
Who is she? She must be his Alpha. That's the only thing that would make sense.
Otherwise he would have come over to speak to me himself.
But why would she set up a meeting? If he was still mine, he wouldn't be meeting with anyone, especially not a Valla and especially not someone from his past. What is her goal with this?
To show me that he's happy where he is, with her, and put me in my place?
I can't fault her for that. I'd be having a pissing contest with every person who gave Laz more than a passing glance.
The final bell rings, and based on the crowd screaming Shane's name, it's safe to assume he won. I'll celebrate with him tomorrow. Right now I have to get to the roof.
I stand up and Laz mirrors me from across the arena.
He bites that lip again and raises a finger to point upward.
I nod and start moving. I send Grady a gushing text to share with Shane on the way, promising to take them out tomorrow to celebrate.
Shane should be so busy celebrating his win on his own tonight that he likely won't get my message until sometime tomorrow morning.
I make my way up to the rooftop restaurant, pushing around small clusters of people and through crowds.
There's no race to get there first, but I am a Valla.
I will be first. The space will be mine when Laz walks into it, regardless of the stupidity of feeling territorial of a table at a restaurant.
Or the stupidity of feeling territorial over a man who rejected me.
My therapist says I'm a work in progress, and this moment is all that's necessary to prove how right he is.
We'll likely be talking about this little trek to the roof for months, and I'm dreading telling him about that stadium staring contest. I can already see the look on his face when I tell him about this adventure.