Chapter 4 #2
I shake my head, taking a steady breath. “No, nothing yet. There was supposed to be a vote on it next week, but John Duckworth had a heart attack and had to step down from the commission. So they’re waiting to fill his spot before they make a decision. My manager—you know Isaac, don’t you?”
Alfie nods. “I know of him, yeah.”
“Well, he looped in another private investigator to do some digging. It’s costing me a fucking fortune.”
“They’ll let you back in. I know it worries you, but they will. Have a little faith.”
That’s hard when you know you were set up from the start.
No one outside of the fight world, and only a few of them, know what’s happening with my license. I told Alfie because there isn’t much you can get by him, and I talked to Gray. Being a professional athlete, I knew he’d understand—and he did.
If you tell anyone unfamiliar with the underworld of pro sports that you have allegations floating around about fight fixing, banned substance violations, and bad behavior, it makes you sound like a terrible person. All of that is said about me, but none of it is true.
But it may cost me my livelihood.
“How are things?” I ask, redirecting the conversation from shit that makes me want to scream.
“Same old shit.” He groans as he sits upright. The lines on his face are those of a man who has been the father figure to a sizable portion of Sugar County over the past thirty years. “Got me a tenderloin at Patsy’s for lunch. That’s always a good day.”
A roar of laughter trickles in from the gym, and Trent’s voice rises above them all.
“Hey, while I’m in here, what do you know about that Trent kid?” I ask. “Who is he?”
A shadow dusts Alfie’s face that says all I need to know. “He’s a Hannigan kid. His granddad is the guy who went to prison years back for killing John Foreman and then leaving him to float in his pool. Remember that?”
How can I forget? That case was vicious and went unsolved for almost a year—an eighty-six-year-old man was killed ruthlessly.
It was all Sugar Creek could talk about for months.
No females went anywhere alone, and every teenage boy had a plan to kick the shit out of the guy if he broke into their house.
It was a wild time. Mom cried in relief when he was caught.
“Well, that’s who this kid comes from,” Alfie says. “I feel sorry for the boy. He’s a shithead, but he’s always got a smile on his face.”
“He needs a mouthguard.”
“Again?”
I chuckle. “He’s afraid to ask you.”
“I don’t know why in the hell he’s afraid now. I’ve given him six or seven this month.”
Six or seven this month? Fuck.
“That’s probably why.” I stand, stretching my shoulder carefully over my head. The muscles fight against me and scream in protest. It’s all I can do not to wince in front of Alfie. “Do you have any lockers open?”
“Probably. Why?”
“Let’s give him one. I’ll pay the rent. Have him leave his mouthguard and shoes there. Maybe it’ll help him keep his shit together.”
Alfie leans back in his chair, grinning. “Remind you of someone you know?”
A little.
As a kid, Dad ensured our home life was in constant turmoil.
Whether he was dealing drugs, buying stolen merchandise, or spending all our money on God knows what, nothing was ever calm.
Mom busted her ass working two or three jobs a day to ensure I had something to eat, and water would run from the tap. Most of the time, anyway.
I kept a smile on my face, not wanting anyone to know if I’d been up all night or if I had an ulcer from worrying about things that should never cross a kid’s mind.
I just wanted to be normal like everyone else.
And the only time I could get a reprieve from that was if I were playing sports or at Gray’s.
But being in the gym did something for me that nothing else did. It let me work out my rage while also exhausting my mind. If you think of anything besides fighting while you’re on the mat, you’ll get hit—and getting hit hurts. It was a respite in the storm of my life.
That’s what I see in Trent’s eyes, too. Hell, it might be in mine these days, as well.
I shake my head. “Nah, I was a hell of a lot cuter than that kid.”
“My ass.” Alfie chuckles. “You’ve always been an ugly little shit.”
“Right. Now I know you’re full of it.”
He groans, rolling his eyes as he starts to chuckle again.
“Nice chat, but I gotta go,” I say. “Promised Mom I’d swing by Miller’s Market and get her a couple of bags of frozen blackberries.”
His eyes light up. “Is she making her famous cobbler by any chance?”
“The hell if I know. I just do what I’m told.”
“Well, you tell Miss Sally that ole Alfie could use a piece of cobbler if she has one extra lying around.”
I give him a wave. “I’ll see what I can do. Later.”
“See ya, Brooks.”
I duck out of the side door into the parking lot, shivering against the cold. Goose bumps break across my flesh as I climb inside my truck and start it. Then I pull onto the street, my tires splashing in the potholes filled with water from last night’s storm.
The old brick buildings and small shotgun houses put up during a coal mining boom in the late 1800s line the side of the road.
Large whiskey barrels placed by the Sugar Ladies Club beneath each light pole sit empty, waiting for the colorful flowers that my mother and her friends will install as soon as spring arrives.
A sign for the farmers’ market, set to reopen in a few months, has a trash bag draped over it.
I flip my turn signal to turn left into Miller’s Market, but I notice a pretty blonde in a white Jeep waiting to pull onto the street from the gas station. Her eyes meet mine through the glass, her lips parted as if she’s surprised to see me. A slow smile tugs at my lips.
“There you are,” I say, smirking.
Her fingers lift off the steering wheel, and she waves. I swear I can feel it in my cock.
My fingers itch to flip my signal and turn right to talk to her instead, because I’ve replayed our conversation continuously since I left Gray’s last night. Every grin, giggle, and batting of her lashes I can recall with precise detail. Her voice echoes through my brain like a fucking Siren’s call.
But women like her are gems. Unicorns. They’re beautiful and intelligent, usually from families who have silver spoons and trust funds, who want marriage, children, and a white picket fence with the type of man who loves golden retrievers.
And that is most certainly not me. I love cats.
Sweet Auddie Van is not the one-night-stand type of woman or fun fling material, and that’s all I’m good for right now. Guys like me break everyone’s heart before it’s over, so it’s best if I just stay away.
I return her wave and turn into the market instead.