Chapter 5
ONE WEEK LATER
BISHOP
The rain that’s been falling off and on for days comes down in a full-on deluge now, my windshield wipers barely able to keep up with it as I turn the final corner toward the gym.
Most people would have taken one look at the weather and stayed in bed.
This early, the sun barely peeks over the horizon, fighting to break through the storm clouds, the day not even truly started yet, but the last place I want to be is back under the covers.
I’m buzzing to get in the ring with Atlas.
Dad may have been right about needing something more, but for now, I have to work with what’s available. And lately, tearing into Atlas in the ring has been the only way I’ve been able to work out any of the frustration that’s been overwhelming me.
He craves it as much as I do.
Needs it the same way.
I’m the only one readily available who can get even close to giving him any sort of competition, though the boys will never concede that. Their egos won’t allow it—even with the split lips, bruises, and stitches they’ve received from Atlas when he’s holding back considerably for their sakes.
There won’t be any holding back today, though. At least, not from me.
The past two weeks have pushed me to my breaking point.
After the scare with Allegra and Jack, then the incident with Gage at the club and his reappearance at the opening, not to mention the shit I received when everyone found out about Satriano’s “gift” and the fact that I hid it from them, I am ready to kick some ass and have mine kicked, too.
Sometimes, it’s the only thing that allows me to sleep.
Without the sheer physical exhaustion, I lie awake at night, wondering what Satriano might be doing at that very moment. And when I do manage to doze off, it’s to nightmares filled with explosions, blood splatters across sidewalks and tile floors, and visions of the people I love in hospital beds…
Or worse.
Last night was one of those nights, which means I’m itching to get in the ring before I have to head into work and face the fact that we still have nothing on Satriano or McDonald that might lead to an end for that uncertainty.
I pull to the curb in front of the gym behind Atlas’ SUV and catch a glimpse of a motorcycle parked in front of it. “Who the hell is that?”
Since Jimmy passed away, the only people who come this early are Wren and Atlas. If he lined up a legit sparring partner, he would have told me to make sure I came even earlier to watch and help assess.
Plus, who the hell rides a motorcycle in the rain?
Shutting off the engine, I glance through the tinted glass windows of Wren’s pilates studio to see if the owner of the bike might be in with her. She moves around preparing for her first class that starts in thirty minutes, but it doesn’t appear that anyone is in there with her.
The windows of the gym are too fogged from the humidity to see much, which means Atlas is already hitting the heavy bag hard this morning.
Hopefully he’s ready for me…
Grinning, I snag my bag from the passenger seat, climb out, slam my door, and tuck my head down to race into the gym through the downpour. I yank open the door, rush in, and shake free some of the water clinging to me, letting the door close behind me.
The familiar smell of leather, sweat, and the polish that Jimmy always used on the gloves fills my nose, and I lift my head, taking in the space that’s more like a second home—or third, after the club.
Atlas bounces on his toes in front of someone in the ring who has their back to me…
Colorful swirling tattoos spread out across a vast expanse of skin glistening with a sheen of sweat under the overhead lights. Muscles bunch and flex with each movement, making the ink come to life.
The guy is big—as big as Atlas—and last I checked, we didn’t have anyone who came here to spar this size, but with the headgear on and his back to me, it’s impossible to make out who it is.
Atlas pays me no attention and takes another swing at his opponent, who ducks and weaves, sneaking in a blow to Atlas’s right side.
Damn.
That isn’t easy to do.
Something I know from a lot of personal experience.
Atlas just grins at him, flashing his mouthguard.
He circles away, still light on his feet, seemingly unaffected by the blow.
But I can see that this guy hurt him. Anyone who didn’t know Atlas as well wouldn’t see that slight twinge when he takes his next swing, but I bet he’ll have a hell of a bruise after this match.
They go at each other again, a flurry of jabs and hooks as I move in closer, entranced by the way his opponent moves so fluidly, as if he were born in the ring.
Who the hell is this guy?
I don’t even notice Astrid until she pushes away from her spot on one of the benches and approaches. “Hey, I didn’t know you were coming in this morning.”
She offers me a partial hug, but I can’t tear my eyes away from the ring.
“Who in the hell is he sparring with?”
Astrid glances in that direction. “Oh! I’m not entirely sure. The guy came in super early this morning and spoke with Atlas while I was over with Wren, then they got suited up and climbed in.”
Odd.
It isn’t like Atlas to let someone walk in off the street. And he certainly wouldn’t get in the ring and go like this with just anyone. There’s too big of a risk of hurting his opponents, even if they aren’t going at one hundred percent.
He wouldn’t ever put anyone in that position.
He knows better.
Or at least, I thought he did.
Atlas lands a right hook that sends his opponent’s head snapping back, but instead of the typical reaction to taking a hit from Atlas “The Hurricane” Hawke, a familiar deep chuckle fills the gym and I freeze.
Astrid narrows her eyes on me, squeezing my shoulder. “Bish, what’s wrong?”
I slide out of her hold and circle the ring until I can get a better view of both men, and my heart seizes when a familiar face appears opposite Atlas.
Gage?
What the hell is he doing here?
I let my bag slide off my shoulder and to the ground with a heavy thump that finally draws both men’s attention away from each other and toward me.
Atlas’s eyes widen slightly, but Gage just grins, a red mouth guard flashing as he inclines his head toward me. As if he’s been waiting for me to arrive and for this very moment.
That smug bastard…
Atlas approaches my side of the ring and spits out his mouth guard into his glove, leaning against the ropes. “Hey. I wasn’t sure you were coming in this morning. I would’ve waited for you”—he tips his head backward toward Gage—“but I found a fun sparring partner.”
Fun.
That’s certainly an interesting word to describe the man.
“Yeah?” My gaze dips over to Gage, and I do my best to appear unaffected by his sudden appearance in the place I come to blow off steam—when he has been the source of a lot of it himself. “Where’d you find him?”
Atlas shrugs, the movement causing his muscles to pull at the massive scar on his shoulder that came courtesy of yet another one of my failures and almost ended his boxing career. “He came in this morning and explained that he’s new to town and was looking for somewhere to train.”
I gape at my cousin, who has apparently lost his damn mind. “And you just let him?”
It isn’t like Atlas to risk an unknown opponent in sparring.
With the type of power he has, he could kill someone with a single blow if they weren’t prepared and built to withstand it.
Gage certainly has the size to take on Atlas, but presuming he would know what it takes to step into the ring with the man who holds the middleweight belt is a huge and dangerous leap to take.
Atlas grins. “Apparently, he fought WCAP a few years ago.”
Of fucking course, he did…
I narrow my gaze on Gage, who offers another half-grin as he starts to make his way over to us.
It shouldn’t surprise me, really. The first thing I did when Gage gave me his name at the club the other night was to run a background check on him.
A basic check didn’t bring up much, though, save for a birth certificate from Virginia and a record confirming he was in the Army at some point but no longer active duty.
Knowing he served explained a lot.
The initial vibe I had of him and how he carried himself. The way he handled those assholes at the club so easily. The instinct to protect Jade in that situation even if it wasn’t his place.
If he fought WCAP, that means he was a damn good boxer when he served—with a potential to compete at the Olympic or even pro-level. That never happened or the background check would have come up with more information on him.
Which means something interfered with his plans.
That gives me somewhere to start digging, another clue that might help me unravel the mystery of why he’s really here.
Atlas pushes off the ropes and motions to his opponent. “Gage Newhart, this is my cousin, Bishop Clarke.”
Gage spits out his mouth guard and winks at me in a way that makes my entire body go molten—with a strange combination of hellfire and sexual heat. “We’ve met.”
Astrid’s eyes widen slightly as she looks between us. “You have?”
He waits for a moment to see if I’m going to offer an explanation. Maybe he’s holding open the door for me to describe our run-ins or the fact that I’ve expressed my distrust of him. But even though I don’t completely trust the man, he hasn’t actually done anything wrong or suspicious.
The fact that he got into the opening and I still don’t know how says more about how I failed in creating the security plan than it does about his motives.
And Atlas appears thrilled to have him in the ring.
I won’t shatter that unless there’s a very good reason to.
When I don’t offer an explanation to Astrid’s question, Gage nods. “I was at the club.”
Her warm blue eyes flash with the most excitement I’ve seen from her in a long time. “Oh, really?”