Chapter 17 #2
Joe, Mack, and the two fight promoters—Charlie Russell and Artie Pascal, who've been circling the camp for weeks observing all the talent—walk away to discuss my future without me as my ringside assistant removes my gloves and takes the tape off my hands.
Chris walks over and congratulates me on the fight.
"You got one hell of a punch, man," he says, rubbing his jaw.
I shake his hand with a chuckle, and we're right back to being friends again.
When I turn to climb through the ropes, Syndi is standing just inside the gym door. Her mouth is gaping open, her eyes are wide, and she isn't moving at all. "What's wrong, Syndi?" I ask.
"I've never seen anything like that before. I've never been to a client's fight before," she says, finally finding her voice.
"And? What'd you think?" I ask.
"That. Was. Amazing! I can't believe I've been missing out on that this whole time. Is everyone as good as you are?" she asks.
"I certainly hope not." I smile. "That'd make it much harder for me to win the fight."
"Is there any way I can start coming to watch you fight? Maybe bring a photographer with me? We won't get in the way, I swear. I'm just amazed, and I can't wait to share this with your adoring public." I can see the wheels turning in her mind as she plans the future of my publicity.
"I'll talk to Joe. Maybe he'll go for once a week, but I wouldn't count on being here every time I'm in the ring."
"You're in the ring more than once a week?" she asks incredulously.
"Well, yeah, sparring. Not in a full-on fight, though."
"I am truly amazed at what I just witnessed, Luke.
Honestly. I usually abhor violence of any kind, but what I just watched was different.
That was like watching a symphony in motion.
Your movements were so fluid, so refined.
It's like your body is a finely crafted instrument, and you effortlessly hit every note with perfect pitch and tone. "
"I've never heard boxing described with that analogy before," I say, running my hand through my sweat-soaked hair. "I'm going to take it as a compliment."
"It is definitely a compliment, Luke," she says emphatically. "In fact, I can't wait to see more of your fights. This is so exciting!"
Joe, Mack, Charlie, and Artie all reemerge from Joe's office with smiles. Charlie and Artie stop to shake my hand again on their way out. As Joe and Mack stop beside me, I turn to them and raise my brows in question.
"Well? What's the verdict?" I ask.
"We're going to check out the competition and secure a formal contract so they don't switch fighters at the last minute.
This goes on your record. Win it cleanly, and you're in the title conversation.
That's what the next six weeks are for,” Joe says, his New Jersey accent making itself known.
He's been in Vegas more years than not, but he reverts to his old accent when he gets excited.
If Joe's excited, then I'm excited.
"Go on to your room and eat a good meal, kid," he says with a smile. "You've had enough for today. Come back ready to hit it hard tomorrow morning."
"Will do," I quickly agree. "Oh, my PR representative asked if she and a photographer could come in once a week to watch me spar, snap some photos. What do you say?"
"Sure, sounds like a great idea," Joe says with a huge smile before he walks off with Mack.
"Take advantage of it before he changes his mind," I chuckle. "I'm headed back to my room to shower and eat. I'll catch you later."
"Would you like to have dinner with me tonight?" Syndi offers. "We should discuss the plans for the photo shoot next week."
I think about it for a second and realize I've had dinner alone more nights than not since the Syndi-as-friend experiment started.
It's been easier than I expected—she keeps the conversation professional, she's smart about the industry, and she doesn't push.
I've been waiting for her to push. She hasn't.
"Sure. Same restaurant? Give me a couple of hours," I say.
"Perfect," she replies.
When I walk into my hotel room later that night, Brandon is on my couch.
He looks up from his phone. "Took you long enough."
"You could've told me you were coming," I say.
"Then you'd have had time to prepare arguments." He sets the phone down. "Mom sent me. She's worried. I'm here because you've been carrying something for weeks and you haven't said it clearly to anyone."
I drop into the chair across from him.
"I'm fine."
"You're twenty-eight, and you're in Las Vegas, and your fiancée is on a tour bus with Travis Malone, and someone is running an institutional pressure campaign against both of you, and you have a major fight in six weeks." He looks at me steadily. "How's any of that fine?"
I don't answer that.
"Show me the photos," Brandon says.
I know which photos he means. I've had them for weeks—the ones that arrived in the courier package around the same time the news alert about the Commission ran. I've looked at them enough times that I've memorized the frame of each one without wanting to.
I find the envelope and hand it to him without comment.
Brandon is quiet for a long time. He lays them out across the coffee table with the methodical precision he brings to everything. Picks one up. Compares it to another. Sets it down. I've watched him analyze construction proposals the same way.
"This one's staged," he says finally, setting aside the dance floor photo. "And this one." He sets aside the one with Travis's mouth at Andi's neck. "The editing is good, but not perfect. Whoever did it knows what they're doing, but they were working fast."
"How can you tell?"
"I've been working with a graphic artist on a construction project. The shadow angles are wrong in both of these. The light source isn't consistent with the stage lighting visible in the background." He lines them up together. "Someone composed these, Luke. They didn't just take them."
"And the one on the merry-go-round?"
Brandon is quiet for a moment. "That one is real," he says carefully. "But I can't tell you she's kissing him. The angle makes it ambiguous. Given that two of the others are definitely fake..." He doesn't finish the sentence.
"Someone is running this," I say.
"Yes." Brandon looks at me directly. "Someone who has access to her tour schedule, who knew when to be there, and who had the resources to fake two photographs and distribute them simultaneously." He pauses. "That's not a tabloid operation, Luke. That's something more organized than that."
"I know."
He gathers the photos back into the envelope.
"Tell me what you're not saying out loud yet," he says.
I look at my brother across the coffee table in my Las Vegas hotel room, and I think about what Andi said, “Look at who benefits when the solution always looks the same.” I think about Marin's measurements, her language, her precise calm.
I think about how Brandon's voice sounds when he mentions her now, compared to how it sounded two months ago.
"I'm not ready to say it yet," I tell him honestly. "I need more than I have."
Brandon is quiet for a moment. "Okay," he says. Just that.
"For now," I say, "tell me I'm right about the photos."
"You're right about the photos," Brandon says. "She didn't do anything wrong."
Something that's been coiled tight in my chest for weeks loosens slightly.
"Good," I say. "I knew that. I just needed someone else to see it."