The Final Fight (Fighting Series Book 8)

by JB Salsbury

  Something that feels like that dreaded four-letter word swells behind my chest. “I’m listening.”

  “The hotel needs some good publicity. I was thinking a charity event, something where we could promote as we give back to a worthy cause.”

  “Sure, something positive that makes the Kairos stand out.”

  “Exactly. I’d like you to plan it.” He props his elbows on his knees, keeping a hold on my hand. “You’ll be officially hired and paid a salary that includes benefits.”

  “Andre, are you serious? You want me to do it?”

  “Absolutely. So, we’ll start at say . . . eighty grand a year, and if this first event is a success, we’ll move up from there.”

  I squeal and am hardly able to steady my drink on the table before I launch myself into him. He falls back on the lounger, laughing. “Is this your way of telling me you accept?”

  I rain kisses all over his face. “Yes, yes, yes, yes! I accept!”

  His arms come around my waist, and he smiles up at me. “Great. You can start Monday.”

  “Oh wow, I don’t even know where to start!”

  “I’ll hire you an assistant, maybe someone from catering and events. But I think the first step would be picking a charity.”

  I smack a hard kiss to his lips. “You’re not going to regret this, Andre.”

  And without even a second thought, I have the perfect charity already picked out.

  ~*~

  Braeden

  “So? You think it’ll work?” Blake tosses my duffle bag onto the bed that’s covered in some kick-ass gray hotel-style bedding.

  “Hell yeah, man. This is perfect.” I spin in a circle, checking out the man-cave converted guesthouse.

  Blake had this thing built when he bought the house. He’d planned on making it a music room, but Layla refused to let him lock his music away and wanted it in the main house. So, he put in a flat screen TV the size of a pick-up truck, a state-of-the-art kitchen on a smaller scale, and a full-sized bathroom with Jacuzzi tub and shower. “You sure you’re okay with me living here?”

  “Are you kidding? I’m fucking stoked to have you here. Free babysitting.”

  He’s such a bullshitter. He knows I had nowhere else to go. The staff at the VA hospital in California had me doing shit like squeezing a rubber ball in my hand and called it PT. Like that’s supposed to help? All it did was make me feel worse while simultaneously making me look like a complete jack off. No thank you. They politely suggested that I consider finding somewhere “more conducive to my recovery goals.” I told them all to go fuck themselves. My eviction notice was delivered the next day.

  I shove him with my good arm and toss my backpack on the bed. “That’s what Mom’s for.”

  “True. We just got rid of Ax, and now we have a full house again. I’m happy you’re using the place. It just sits here.”

  I open the fridge and see it’s stocked with food and beer. Even the cupboards have everything from pancake mix to bags of chips and ahhh . . . booze. I snag a bottle of tequila from the shelf.

  Blake eyes me funny.

  “Don’t worry, bro. I’m not gonna drink around Jack. I’ll just keep to myself back here.”

  “I’m not worried about Jack. I’m worried about you.”

  I drop to the couch, put the bottle to my mouth, and unscrew the cap with my teeth then spit it to the floor. “Don’t.” I swallow a long gulp. “I’m better.”

  His expression is all kinds of no the fuck you are not, but I’m getting good at ignoring everyone’s non-verbal worry.

  “You can get to the back driveway through this door.” He points to the door in the back of the room. “But I’m guessing, if you’re getting loaded, you’ll be smart enough to stay away from the GTO.”

  “I can’t drive it anyway.” I motion to the arm that bomb turned into charcoal and now resembles a fucked-up Buffalo Bill style skin quilt.

  “Get settled in; we’ll work on driving later.”

  “Later. Sounds good, thanks.” Now leave me be to get fucked up alone.

  “I’ll come get you when dinner—”

  “Don’t bother. I’m not hungry.” I take a swig of my evening’s sustenance.

  “Brae.”

  “Yeah, man. I’m right here. What?”

  The disappointment I see in his eyes reflects my own, but in the words of Smokey I don’t give a fuuuck.

  “You know where I am if you need me.”

  “Ten four, brother.”

  Buh-bye.

  ~~~

  I drank, fell asleep, woke up and took a shower, drank more, and it all seemed like I blinked when a knock came at my door.

  “Come in!” It’s not fucking locked.

  The door creaks open slowly, and I don’t bother to look up, but the sound of a female gasp calls my eyes.

  Axelle’s staring down at me as I’m sprawled out on the couch in nothing but a pair of sweat pants.

  Her eyes are wide in horror, and her hand is over her mouth. I suppose I should get used to the way women react to me now. Her gaze travels down the right side of my body, from my fucked-up arm that refuses to straighten all the way to the puckered melted flesh of my shoulder, pectoral, and rib cage. Her perusal stops on my waistline where the damage disappears beneath my pants.

  This isn’t the first time she’s seen me, but it’s the first time she’s seen me shirtless.

  “Yo, kiddo. Come on in.” I turn back to the game show I wasn’t really watching. “Take a load off.”

  She sits on the armrest of the couch. “I just came to tell you dinner’s ready.”

  “You still have an appetite after looking at me?” I face her head on and give her a good long eyeful of the scarring down the side of my face.

  She tears up, and I immediately feel like a total dickhead.

  “It’s not that bad. At least my hair grew back.” Thank God for my helmet, which protected my scalp from the flash of flame.

  “I can’t believe how close we came to losing you.” She hiccups and muffles a cry into her hands.

  Shit. I sit up and rub her back with my good arm. “Hey . . . it’s okay, kiddo. Shhh . . . you’re okay. I’m here and I’m . . .” Good? No. Okay? Nuh-uh. Alive? “I’m alive, and that’s what counts.”

  She nods, but she’s still crying.

  “Heard you held off the wedding for me.”

  She turns bright red eyes on me. “Yeah, I refuse to do it until you’re ready. I will not get married unless you’re there standing with Kill.”

  “Thankfully, a tux will cover most of this Freddy Kruger wannabe action, yeah?”

  Her expression becomes serious. “You’re just as handsome as you ever were, Uncle Brae. I’m proud of you. No matter what you look like, I’m honored to have you stand up for me.”

  My eyes burn, but I push that shit away. “I hear some chicks dig a dude with scars.”

  She chuckles through her tears, and fuck me if the sound doesn’t lighten the heavy weight that’s been parked on my chest since she walked in. “I don’t know what you see when you look in the mirror, Brae, but I still see my uncle.”

  I don’t look in the mirror. Not once, I avoid it at all costs. I don’t need to see my face to know I look like a freak. I can feel it.

  Who knew I was such a vain bastard?

  I clear the emotion from my throat. “Right, so . . . dinner.”

  “Mom made your favorite.”

  My stomach rumbles on cue. “Pot roast?”

  “Yep.”

  “Well fuck, let me grab a shirt.”

  ~~~

  “Wake up!”

  Cool air hits my body as the comforter is ripped from me, and the entire mattress shakes.

  “Go away!” I reach for a pillow with my alligator arm and groan as pain slices through my muscles.

  “Get the fuck up!” All the lights blast on, and I roll into my pillow, burying my face. The mattress lifts then slides, and I’m tossed to the hardwood floor. �
�Up!”

  I jump to my feet and cringe as the light and quick movement combo sends lightning through my skull. “What the fuck is your problem, man?”

  Blake’s jaw is hard, his eyes dancing with some kind of fury-frustration cocktail. “You’re drunk.”

  “No, I’m not.” I sway on my feet, but cover it up by bending over to put the mattress back on its frame.

  “It reeks of booze in here.” He walks around pulling empty bottles from between couch cushions, off the coffee table, and tosses them in the trash where they clank against empty beer bottles.

  “How fucking observant—”

  “Take a shower.” He snags a pair of gym shorts from my duffle bag and tosses them at me where they hit my chest and drop to the floor. “Get dressed.”

  I lean against the wall and rub my eyes before shoving my hand through my hair. This is the last thing I need with the headache of all headaches throbbing between my ears. “No can do, bro. I’ve got a breakfast date with a pretty little six-pack of IPA.”

  “I gave you a week to sit back here and lick your wounds, but that shit ends now. Get up, wash the stink off your body, and be ready to leave in ten minutes.”

  Just because he’s giving me a place to live doesn’t mean he owns me. I don’t have to do shit if I don’t want to.

  I straighten up and stumble over my feet. His glare tightens. “I’m not going anywhere.” I drop on the bed. “Just leave me alone.”

  He crosses to me and grabs me by my good arm, just as an angry father does to an ornery son. He ushers me to the bathroom, and maybe if I were stronger, if my blood wasn’t still hanging on to the last bottle of liquor I killed before I passed out, I would’ve fought him, but really what’s the point? He shoves me in front of the mirror, but my eyes know the drill and stay glued to the sink.

  His firm grip digs into the back of my neck. “Look at yourself!”

  My head sinks deeper between my shoulders. “No.”

  “Do it. Now!”

  I cringe away from his roar of anger then shake my head.

  “Braeden. Just look at yourself.” His voice is a little softer now, like the dying wind. “Please.”

  My mouth aches to form words, to pour out my defense, because looking at myself makes all this real, and if this gets anymore real, I’ll lose what little control I have left.

  “Just . . .” Blake’s presence looms behind me. “Look.”

  The amount of emotion packed in that one word threatens to disable me. My big brother, my hero, the man I always looked up to, is asking me to man the fuck up.

  “I . . .” I clear the shakiness from my throat. “I can’t.”

  His big hand lands on my shoulder and squeezes. “You can, bro. I’m right here.”

  “What if . . .?” It breaks me.

  “You can’t keep hiding from your shit. Face it. Let me face this with you.” Another squeeze. “I got your back.”

  Blinking moisture from my eyes, I dart my gaze to the side of the mirror only taking in my reflection from the periphery. With the good side of my face to the glass, I don’t look much different than I used to. My hair is longer, my body thinner. The dark shadow of facial hair from months of only using an electric razor, masks little of the damage beneath, but I’m still me. Is it possible I’m not as mangled as I thought?

  With a little restored confidence, I turn slowly into the light, and with the strength of my big brother at my back, I lift my eyes. Seconds pass as I stare numbly at my reflection.

  It’s not the scarring that holds my attention. Sure, it’s there, the puckered discolored skin that goes up my neck to my jaw, over my cheek, and ending just below my eye. The same mangled skin covers my shoulder and most of my right side, and then there’s my arm. Bent and cradled close to my body, it looks like ground meat, but it’s nothing I haven’t seen before.

  What I’m stuck staring at is the vacancy in my reflection, the hollows of my cheeks and pallor of my skin. If I didn’t know better, I’d think I died and was staring at my ghost, a shell of the man I used to be.

  My bloodshot eyes track to the firm fingers of my brother’s hand at my shoulder. “Not what I expected.”

  “Brae, I don’t give a fuck what you look like on the outside, but when I look in your eyes and no longer recognize my brother in there, I will not stand by and let you slip away.”

  My gaze drops back to the sink, and tears build behind my eyelashes. “I’m fucking lost, bro.”

  “Nope. You’re not.” He puts both hands on my shoulders. “I will die before I let you go, you hear me? You’ll be back. You’ll be fighting for this shit too, but until you’re there, until you get your fight back, I’m fighting for you.”

  “I don’t think it works that way.”

  “Oh, it most certainly fucking does work that way. We make our own destiny. You’re not feeling it now, and no one blames you for that. I’m going to guide you there, and we’re gonna start by getting your drunk ass to the gym.”

  I glare at him through the mirror. “The gym? My arm is mincemeat, man. I can’t—”

  “Aht!” He shakes his hand. “That word is no longer a part of your vocabulary, you hear me? We’re erasing that shit right here, right now. You can; you just have to try.”

  He has no clue what he’s saying. I’ve lost all the muscle and mobility in my fucked-up arm. If he doesn’t believe me, I’ll let him drag me to the gym and I’ll prove it.

  He claps me on the back. “Well, lookie there. I think I see a little flicker of my baby bro coming back to life.”

  “Nah, man. That’s the hangover.”

  He chuckles and—weird as shit—I find myself laughing a little too. “Meet me in the main house for some breakfast, and then we start working on your resurrection.”

  He’s halfway out the door and the words Thank you are on the tip of my tongue, but they won’t form and fall from my mouth. Blake might believe in me now, but once he sees just how fucked up I really am, he’ll give up on trying to save me.

  Nineteen

  AJ

  Tapping my pen against my lip, I stare at the cold cup of coffee that sits between my assistant Barbara and me. Andre recruited the event coordinator for the hotel to help me with the charity event.

  She’s ten years older than I am and looks like she belongs walking the halls of the courthouse in her red power suit and sleek blond bob. Andre says she’s the best at what she does, and after spending some time with her, I can see why. She has planners to organizer her planners, and the coffee order she gave to her assistant was three minutes long. She knows what she likes and she demands perfection.

  “There are so many acts in Vegas. We need to reach out to one of them and see if they’d be willing to perform.”

  Barbara turns over a page in her legal pad. “Start throwing out names and let’s brainstorm.”

  “What is Vegas known for?”

  “Gambling, binge drinking, strippers, and debauchery.”

  I shake my head, smiling. “Not exactly charity-worthy activities.”

  She chuckles and scratches something down on paper. “Since the charity is the Injured Heroes Foundation, I think it’s important we keep it family friendly.”

  I point my pen at her. “Agreed. So, what else is Vegas known for.”

  “Comedy, magic shows . . . we could get the Eros performers to come in costume, maybe do a short performance?”

  My stomach turns sour at the mention of my old crew. God, how I miss performing and Will. It’s been hard to spend time with him after my accident. His life is performing, as mine was, and hearing him talk about it hurts too much.

  I stretch my legs beneath the table as if to convince myself that I’m not completely broken. “Good idea, but I think we need something bigger.”

  “Britney Spears?”

  My eyebrows rise. “You think we could get her?”

  “I’ll get her. Although . . .” She frowns and makes another scratch on her pad. “It’ll probably cost
us.”

  “Hmm . . . too bad the Raiders haven’t moved here yet. Everyone loves athletes.”

  Barbara’s eyes light up. “What about the UFL?”

  A flash of dizziness washes over me, and my pulse races at the mention of the MMA league. “Oh, I don’t know.”

  UFL means Blake Daniels.

  Blake Daniels means Braeden.

  On the off chance that Blake is involved, how could I be in the same room with that man and not fall to his feet, begging him to bring me to his brother—the brother who I spent just a few weekends with and yet can’t seem to purge from my thoughts. Even though he clearly didn’t have a problem purging me from his.

  God, when did I become so pathetic?

  This isn’t about you, Adeline. It’s about charity and Barbara is a genius.

  “We could see if they’d be willing to send over some of their superstar status fighters to sign autographs and take photos.” Barbara talks while filling her notepad. “We’ll jack up the cost of admission with the promise of face-to-face time. They could donate tickets for auction. Oh, and you know there’s a fighter who’s in a pretty popular band.” She flips a page. “I wonder if they’d be willing to play. I mean the possibilities are endless.”

  “What do I do, just call their office and ask?”

  “Yes.” Grabbing the phone off the desk she hits a button. “Tara, we need the direct line to the UFL offices. The owner, what’s his name?” She writes something else down. “Cameron Kyle. That’s him. Thanks.”

  I feel like I’m going to throw up when she hangs the phone up. “Let’s get some other ideas going just in case this one doesn’t pan out.” Or in case I’m too much of a chicken shit to follow through and call.

  We spend the next hour throwing around ideas, and all of them pale in comparison to getting the UFL involved.

  I’m in the middle of my pitch on taking the magician angle when the phone rings. Barbara snags it. “Yeah? You have him on the phone?” Her eyes light and flash to mine. “Absolutely, put him through.” She shoves the handset in my direction and mouths Cameron Kyle.

  I shake my head and shoo my hands for her to take the call.

  Her head drops to the side, and she glares, her lips moving to silently say, “Take the fucking call.”