Prologue Two #2
In the second round, I began to pick him apart. Jab, cross, hook, the combinations flowing like water, each punch finding its mark. His breathing grew labored, his movements slower, more desperate.
When the final bell rang, he was slumped against the ropes, blood trickling down his nose.
"That's enough," Coach called, waving for the defeated man to exit the ring. "Adrian, you're up."
Adrian bounded into the ring with his usual manic energy, bouncing on the balls of his feet like a child high on sugar and violence.
"Ready to get your pretty face rearranged, Lion?"
I spat out my mouth guard, grinning. "Catalyst, you couldn't touch this face on your best day.”
Sparring with Adrian was different—a true test of skill and speed. Where the last guy had been predictable, Adrian was chaos incarnate, his style a mix of textbook technique and wild improvisation that somehow worked for his deranged personality.
We knew each other too well, had trained together too long for there to be any real surprises, but that didn't make it any less challenging.
Or any less entertaining for the small crowd that had gathered to watch.
We traded shots for five grueling rounds, neither gaining a clear advantage. By the end, we were both breathing hard, sweat pouring down our bodies.
"Draw?" Adrian offered with a grin, extending his glove.
I tapped it with my own, following him out of the ring.
Coach Miller shook his head, but his eyes showed a glimmer of satisfaction. "Hit the showers, both of you. Graves, you're with me on the heavy bag."
As I ducked through the ropes, I caught sight of a woman standing by the entrance. Tall, leggy, with the kind of curves that belonged in magazines. She was watching me with undisguised interest, her tongue darting out to wet her lips as our eyes met.
I winked, enjoying the flush that spread across her cheeks.
"New target acquired?" Adrian drawled as we headed toward the locker room.
"Maybe." I stripped off my gloves, flexing my fingers to restore circulation. "Depends on how the rest of my day goes. I’ve been booked pretty solid."
"You're Daddy Easton’s son, alright,” Adrian murmured, though there was no real judgment in his tone, just exasperation and awe towards my father. He was pretty much all of our fathers, and obviously taught me everything I know today.
I shrugged, the movement rippling across muscles honed to perfection. "Life's short. Why limit the pleasure? Especially when you're genetically predisposed to provide it."
Adrian's deep laugh followed me into the shower, where I let the hot water wash away the sweat and tension of the workout.
My mind drifted to the photoshoot ahead, another opportunity to showcase the face and body that had made me as famous outside the ring as within it.
I was the Lion. The golden boy of the boxing world. The man who had everything and looked incredible having it.
It was a good life. A perfect life. Much like everything else about me.
So why did Connor's words echo in my head?
I shut off the shower more forcefully than necessary, silencing the thought before it could take root. Loneliness was for people who needed others to feel complete, people who hadn't been blessed with the life I had.
I wasn't one of them. I never would be.
The photoshoot ran longer than expected, the photographer insisting on "just one more set" until the golden hour had come and gone. I didn't mind since the camera loved me almost as much as I loved the camera, the feeling entirely fucking mutual.
"Perfect! Now give me serious... no, dangerous. Like you're about to destroy someone in the ring."
I shifted my expression, letting the predator show through the cultivated charm. The camera clicked rapidly, capturing what would undoubtedly become someone's new wallpaper.
"Yes! That's it! The Lion, ladies and gentlemen!"
By the time I made it to Jovie's house, I was running nearly an hour late. My sister met me at the door with her patented look of exasperated affection, the same one she'd been perfecting since we were children.
She looked just like me, blond and blue-eyed, but had a softer frame and cheeks I would pinch any day.
"Nice of you to show up.” She rolled her eyes, but her smile was warm. Jovie had long ago accepted that punctuality wasn't in my nature.
"Photoshoot ran long," I murmured, kissing her cheek and pressing a bottle of her favorite, ridiculously expensive wine into her hands. "They couldn't get enough of me. Occupational hazard of being photogenic."
She rolled her eyes again but accepted the bottle. "Avery's been asking about you every five minutes. She's in the living room, probably bouncing off the walls by now."
The second I stepped into the open entrance, a small blonde missile launched herself at my legs. "Jax! You're here!"
I scooped Avery up, tossing her into the air and catching her as she shrieked with delight. At five, she was the spitting image of Jovie at that age—same blue eyes, golden curls, and boundless energy. Superior genetics ran in the family.
"There she is!” I spun her around, her giggles filling the room. "What have you been up to, pumpkin?"
"School! And I made a new friend! He knows ALL about every single dinosaur and he let me borrow his special green T-Rex eraser even though it's his favorite and he has the prettiest green eyes when he blinks and?—"
I set her down, letting her pull me toward the dining room as she chattered about this kid and his apparently encyclopedic knowledge of prehistoric creatures.
Her excitement was infectious, though I was more focused on the fact that she'd mentioned his "pretty eyes" three times already.
Five years old and already developing taste. Definitely an Easton.
Dinner with Jovie and Avery was the one part of my life untouched by the persona I presented to the rest of the world.
Here, I wasn't Jax "Lion" Easton, boxing champion and international heartthrob. I was just Jax, Jovie's occasionally irresponsible brother, and Avery's adoring uncle who just happened to be famous.
"So," Jovie said as her house staff cleared the plates, Avery having been excused to play before bedtime, "how many broken hearts this week?"
I grinned, unrepentant. "Just two. I'm showing remarkable restraint in my old age."
She snorted, setting down her crystal glass. "You're twenty-eight, not ninety. And one of these days, all that karma is going to catch up with you."
"That's what everyone keeps telling me," I said, leaning against the counter and sipping the excellent wine I'd brought . "Yet here I stand, unscathed and looking better than ever."
"On the outside, maybe." Jovie's gaze was too perceptive, too knowing. She'd always been able to see through my bullshit, even when we were kids. It was her annoying sisterly superpower.
I changed the subject before she could get too deep into uncomfortable territory.
"How's Avery liking the new school? Seaside Academy, right? Only the best for my favorite niece."
"Your only niece," Jovie corrected, but allowed the deflection. Her expression softened at the mention of her daughter. "She loves it. The curriculum is incredible, and the staff are amazing. She talks about it constantly."
"Good," I nodded, relieved the conversation had moved away from my love life and back to safer ground. "She deserves the best. Easton women always do."
I drove home later that night, the Bentley purring beneath me like a very expensive, very satisfied cat, and thought about Connor's words again.
Lonely? Me?
The idea was laughable. I had everything a man could want—fame, fortune, women lining up for the privilege of my attention. Not to mention the kind of looks that made people walk into glass doors.
My life was perfect, carefully constructed to maximize pleasure and minimize complications.
The model from the gym had texted four times already, her messages becoming increasingly explicit and creative.
Any other night, I would have invited her over without hesitation. Another conquest, another few hours of mindless pleasure, another opportunity to be appreciated for the work of art I was.
But I drove past her exit, continuing along the coastal highway toward home.
Weird.
The beach house was dark when I arrived, glass and marble and luxury. I parked in the garage, the Bentley's headlights illuminating the pristine exterior before fading to darkness.
Inside, I poured myself a scotch, eighteen-year-old Macallan, because I had standards, and walked out onto the terrace.
The ocean stretched before me, vast and unknowable, waves crashing against the shore in a rhythm as old as time.
I raised my glass to the horizon, to the perfect life I'd built, to the mirror-like surface of the infinity pool that reflected the stars and made everything look twice as beautiful.
"To having everything," I murmured to the night air.
Because really, what more could a man with everything possibly want?