Raw Deal

by Cherrie Lynn

  “You never did tell me what brings you out tonight,” Damien said, surveying the play going on around them. A thick pall of smoke hung over the room and the bass from downstairs thudded relentlessly. Much more of that and Mike’s head would be throbbing along with the beat. “Haven’t seen you around in a while. I haven’t seen you drink in even longer.”

  “I was always in training.”

  “So you’re not anymore?”

  “Not at the moment.”

  He could tell Damien wasn’t fooled. Mike was strict about his training even when he was off season—or at least, he always had been. Before. Whatever gave his younger half-brother such a keen insight into what cards Mike was holding also allowed him free range inside Mike’s head, or so it seemed sometimes. Maybe that was one of the reasons Damien hadn’t seen him in a while. There was something disconcerting about feeling like you were under a microscope all the time.

  “It’s really gotten to you, hasn’t it?”

  “Wouldn’t it you?”

  “Not enough to throw in the towel.”

  “You say that now.”

  “I would say it then.”

  There wasn’t any sense in arguing with him, since he thought he knew it all. And maybe he did. Damien always kept his poker face. It was in place even now, cold, unyielding, giving up nothing.

  “What if everything you’ve built here gets raided? If it was all snatched away from you in one night? You’re saying you would be able to start all over, do it all again, knowing it could all come crashing down?”

  “What got snatched away from you? You hit a guy too hard. You didn’t lose your fucking arms.”

  It felt that way. Even if killing Tommy had been an accident, it had taken Mike right back to that dingy kitchen fifteen years ago. He’d been seventeen years old with blood on his hands all over again, his mother’s screams echoing in his ears. Something in his brain had reset. He felt like a scared kid again, and he hated it.

  Fucking hated it.

  “It was always your dream,” Damien went on. “And you’re letting it get stolen from you. We fought our way out of the fucking dirt, Mike, the three of us. I’m not going back there until I have to. Six feet under.”

  “Doing something else wouldn’t necessarily be going back to the dirt.”

  “What the fuck are you gonna do, huh? Be a bodyguard for Zane? Or I could always make you a bouncer out on the floor.”

  “Fuck you.”

  “You were born to fight. Zane was born to sing. I was born to do . . . whatever the hell it is that I do. This.” He indicated the room as a whole. “You’re upsetting our microcosm.”

  Mike had to laugh. “You’re so full of shit.”

  “I think you fucked up when you went over there and let the guy’s family get all in your head.”

  “I needed to do that.”

  “You needed to leave it alone. It’s dredging up a lot of shit for you.”

  Shifting in his chair uncomfortably, Mike took another drink and could only wish he had a fraction of Damien’s stony-eyed impassivity. “It’s not, because I don’t think about any of that,” he bold-faced lied.

  “Yes, you do. You’re thinking about it right now. Mike, you did what you had to do. You did it then for all of us, you did it with Tommy Dugas, and you’ll keep doing it. What you have to do is keep fighting. You’re ranked number one but you deserve to have that belt around your waist.”

  “There comes a time when you have to ask yourself if it’s worth it. When the shit keeps flying at you and you wonder if this would be happening if you were really on the right path.”

  “You’re not going to turn pacifist on me, are you?”

  “Naw, nothing like that.”

  “Look, it isn’t that I’m not sympathetic. It’s sad. I get it. But it’s eating you up, and if you keep letting it, there’s not going to be anything of you left. Let it go, man.”

  It was the same unsolicited advice everywhere he went. Whether it was Zane or Damien or his coach or manager or the commentators on ESPN, everyone was giving their two fucking cents he hadn’t asked for. They hadn’t seen the devastation he’d seen when he met Savannah and Rowan, but if he said that, Damien would only use it as another opportunity to ride his ass about seeking out the funeral in the first place, and maybe he was right. Maybe he was well and truly fucked. Whether he could recover enough psychologically to even think about getting back in the cage . . . well, he would just have to wait and see. He knew guys who wouldn’t be bothered by something like killing a man in the ring. He wasn’t one of them.

  Brad, his manager, had encouraged him to step away, take some time, just not too far and not too long. He would probably shit himself if he knew Mike had even entertained the notion of retiring.

  He was afraid he would see Tommy Dugas’s face on every opponent he ever fought. And if that happened, it would throw his whole game off. He would back down, go easy, mess up. Get his ass handed to him. He’s done, they would say. Couldn’t cut it after the Dugas fight. Oh, what a promising career, derailed by senseless tragedy, blah blah blah.

  If he went into a fight even thinking about losing, he had already lost.

  His cell phone buzzed in his back pocket and he sighed, plucking it out and frowning at the unfamiliar number. Who the hell would be calling him this late? It was after midnight. It didn’t matter; he wouldn’t be able to carry on a phone conversation in this noise, so he let it go to voicemail. He and Damien had practically been yelling at each other. Something vaguely familiar about that area code, though.

  Glancing up to make sure his brother was adequately engaged in conversation with a woman who’d been passing by their table—check—Mike quickly entered the number in Google on his phone.

  New Orleans.

  Savannah? His heart gave an odd leap at the thought. It had been six weeks and he’d long ago abandoned even the almost nonexistent hope he would hear from her again. But there was literally no one else in that area who would be calling him.

  “I’m out,” he told his brother, getting up and bumping fists with him. “Thanks for being a pain in my ass, as usual.”

  “That’s what I’m here for. Don’t be a stranger.”

  Mike tried to pretend Damien wasn’t looking at him like he knew something was up. He felt his brother’s eyes on him all the way out the door. As soon as he was down the stairs and out the back of the building into the balmy night, away from the din of bass-heavy music and drunken blather, he returned the missed call while his legs ate up the distance to his truck.

  “Come on,” he muttered after three rings. “You can’t not answer now.”

  But apparently she could. At least he got his confirmation that it was indeed Savannah’s number when her bright, cheery recorded greeting sounded in his ear. So different from the sorrowful woman he’d encountered. He’d seen that glimmer of brightness in her, though. Even at the cemetery, it was dimmed, but it wasn’t gone. God, he hoped she was okay.

  Then her greeting ended with the standard encouragement to leave a message after the beep, and he had a split-second decision to make. He hated talking to these fucking things.

  “Savannah. It’s Mike Larson. I know you tried to call and I’m sorry I didn’t answer in time. Hell, for all I know you butt-dialed me or something and I’m making an ass of myself. In any case . . . I hope you’re well. And . . . well, I’m here. I hope to hear from you.” Shit, had he really said “butt-dialed”? He hung up before he could get any more idiotic and tell her something like Say the word and I can get to you by dawn.

  There wasn’t a damn thing she could need from him that badly.

  Chapter Four

  Savannah listened to his message four times. She’d drunk too much, danced until she was exhausted, flirted until she’d convinced herself she still had it . . . but even after all of that, she’d come home alone and called Mike anyway. He hadn’t answered, but he’d called back. She had missed it because she’d been in the bathroom an
d her phone had been on the charger.

  Hearing his voice again took her back to that awful day, but it also reminded her of how she’d felt a little better after talking to him at the café. She lay on her bed in the dark, willing the room to quit spinning every time she closed her eyes, and soaked up the sound of it. It steadied her in the tilt-a-whirl of her head, somehow. He seemed so concerned, which confused and frightened her. He was supposed to be the monster, or at least her family thought so. He wasn’t supposed to be the knight, but everything about the urgency in his message said that he would slay any beast she asked him to.

  “God, you are so drunk,” she scolded herself, throwing her phone aside. “Leave this man alone.”

  But she’d only lain there for two minutes before she picked it back up and impulsively called him back.

  “Savannah?” he barked in answer. She couldn’t help chuckling.

  “I think that’s adequate confirmation that you remember me.”

  That seemed to surprise him; he stumbled over his words for a few seconds. “Well . . . yeah, of course I remember you, how the hell could I not? Are you okay?”

  Her eyes filled with tears. Drunk tears. Yay. She squeezed them shut against the deluge, spinning room be damned. “No.”

  “Jesus. What’s wrong?”

  “I’m gonna be an aunt.” She fell silent and let him digest that for a moment. He had enough of her family history to know what it meant.

  “Jesus,” he repeated. “Savannah . . .”

  “I know,” she said, her voice small. “I thought at first I would tell you that to make you feel bad, but . . . now I realize that’s awful of me. It’s not like there’s anything you can do to make it better. So I don’t know why I’m telling you. Just to talk, I guess.”

  “Have you been drinking?”

  Damn, here she’d thought she’d been somewhat coherent. “Um . . . yeah?”

  “Are you safe?”

  “I’m home in bed. Safe as can be, I guess.”

  He let out a breath that sounded like relief. “Good. You had me ready to hop a plane, girl.”

  Savannah’s eyes opened in the dark. Her heart turned over in her chest. “What?” No, no, no. You’re not the knight, you can’t be the knight. “You wouldn’t do that.”

  “Yeah? Try me. The least I can do for Tommy is look out for his little sister.”

  And her heart settled back into its normal rhythm. Of course, he feels obligated, she thought. It had nothing to do with her. “Oh.” She cringed a little at how disappointed she sounded and quickly tried to remedy it. “That’s really not necessary.”

  “No, it isn’t. But I would do it anyway.”

  “I only went out with a friend from work. She brought me home and put me to bed.” Tasha had even left her Advil and water on the nightstand, God bless her. “It wasn’t a very long trip, either, since I actually live on Bourbon Street.”

  “You’re shitting me,” Mike said, and she chuckled. Most people were taken aback when they found out where she lived.

  “Nope.”

  “How did you manage that?”

  “My apartment is one of a four-plex in a gated historical building. A friend of my family owns the building. When he mentioned a few years back that he had a vacancy, I was feeling adventurous, so I jumped on it.”

  “I bet that gets crazy at Mardi Gras.”

  “Oh, it’s pretty crazy all the time. I can watch it all from my little balcony. I love it.”

  “Wow. What do you do for work, Savannah?”

  She liked the way he said her name, but she cringed at the question. “I’m a massage therapist.” And she braced herself for the usual bullshit guys spouted whenever she told them what she did for a living: How much for a happy ending? Wanna practice on me? But who massages you? I bet I could show you a thing or two . . . Ugh. One good thing about it was that it was easy for her to weed out the creeps right away based on their responses to her chosen profession.

  Michael, however, only sounded impressed. “That’s great. Do you like it?”

  “I really do. It’s nice helping people feel better when they’re hurting, or helping them relax when they’re stressed.”

  “Sometimes I swear my therapist is trying to kill me, but it’s worth it to actually feel human afterward.” He had to go and say that. Had to go and make her drunken mind conjure up images of getting all that muscle under her kneading fingers, and that way lay disaster. “Do you have your own place, or . . . ?”

  “I work at a day spa. Not many athletes come through there.”

  He chuckled. “Yeah, I bet not.”

  “Though I have thought about striking out on my own. Tommy always told me I should. He said I was wasted there. I was the only one who could get rid of his trigger points.”

  The mention of her brother quelled the conversation for a moment. Then Mike said, “So how far along is your sister-in-law?”

  “We’re guessing a couple of months. You know, Rowan’s parents died when she was a teenager, one not long after the other. She met Tommy shortly afterward, and he was a big help in getting her through it all. Now he’s gone, and I don’t know what to do to make her feel better.”

  “Just be there for her.”

  “I am. We all are.”

  “Hey . . . well, never mind.” He’d gone from sounding hopeful to dejected so fast she was intrigued.

  “What? Seriously, I’m open to ideas. Any ideas.”

  “You said she was a fan of my brother’s. What about getting her out of town for a few days? He’s still touring. I can get her all access to any show she wants to see, no problem. We’ll even fly her out.”

  Wow. She’d wanted to tell Rowan about Zane Larson being the dark mystery guy standing behind Mike at the cemetery, but telling her that would have involved admitting she’d talked to Mike again, when Rowan could barely tolerate the mention of the guy’s name. There had never been a good time to drop that information on her, so Savannah simply let it slide. Two weeks ago, the two of them had been driving to the mall when August on Fire’s latest hit single came on the radio. Rowan had turned it up, her expression completely smoothing out. It was the closest thing to bliss Savannah had seen on her face since Tommy’s death, but still she’d bit her tongue until it nearly bled. That peace on Rowan’s face had looked like a fragile thing, and one mention of Mike might have shattered it.

  “She would probably love that,” she admitted to Mike now.

  “Let me set it up, then,” he said eagerly.

  “Except that it would come from you.” She clenched her eyes shut, hating to say the words, to let him know just how much blame Rowan put on him. “She doesn’t even know I’ve talked to you again. If I tell her that . . . I don’t know. She won’t take it well. She’s really a sweet person, she’s just in a bad place.”

  “You don’t have to explain.”

  “I feel like I do.”

  “The offer stands, so I’ll leave it up to you. But Zane’s only on tour a few more weeks, then he’ll be back in the studio with the band for a while. She might not have another chance any time soon.”

  “I’ll think about it.”

  “And she doesn’t have to see me at all.” After a beat, he added, “Both of you would be welcome, of course.”

  Rowan would make her come too, if this ever panned out. God, she was so torn. On one hand, sure, Rowan might freak out knowing Savannah was indulging in coffee and drunken late-night chats with Mike Larson behind her back, and on the other, she might strangle her unconscious if she learned she had a chance to meet her favorite singer in the world and Savannah had held out on her.

  “I’ll let you know,” she said. “Thank you for offering. That’s really nice of you.”

  “The tour actually ends in Houston, if I’m not mistaken. I’ll have to check. That would be a fairly quick trip for you guys. But I’ll shut up and let you get some sleep.”

  Her disappointment surprised her; she enjoyed talking to him so m
uch and didn’t want the conversation to end. “Sorry to bother you so late,” she said. “I blame the alcohol.”

  He chuckled. “Don’t worry about it. I’m glad you were able to go out and have some fun. We all need it sometimes.”

  What did he like to do for fun? Had he thought more about retiring? What made this guy tick? All questions she probably shouldn’t be contemplating, but they plagued her nevertheless. She wanted to know him. Needed to know the scary, glowering man in all of his promotional press wasn’t the same one she was talking to right now. Tommy . . . well, he hadn’t been much different. He’d talked a lot of smack, had his own swagger, played to the crowds, but she’d always recognized her brother in all of it. This man at the other end of the call, though . . . she didn’t recognize him at all.

  “Okay, well, I guess I’ll talk to you soon?” she asked hesitantly.

  “I hope so. Good night, Savannah. Sweet dreams.”

  Oh, God. He could have been lying next to her for the intimate tone of his voice then. She pulled her bottom lip between her teeth and shifted her thighs under the covers. Yes, time to hang up. “Good night, Michael.”

  Once he was gone, she missed him, but she blamed that on the alcohol too. And striking out on the whole find a hot stranger who isn’t a creep thing. That wasn’t really her style, anyway.

  Yeah, and neither are fighters with voices that can melt your panties off. Stop it.

  Savannah rolled over, hugged her pillow, and hoped the only sweet dreams she had tonight were about fluffy bunnies.

  “What do you think of this one?” Rowan placed another carpet swatch on the dining room table. It was barely indistinguishable from the one beside it.

  “These are different?”

  “Duh. One is toffee and one is amaretto. Focus.”

  Savannah nodded. “Pretty. I still think it’s a little too early to decide on a color, though. You won’t find out if it’s a boy or a girl for a while. Are you sure you wouldn’t decide differently once you know?”

  Rowan shrugged. “Yeah, you’re right. But it keeps me busy.”