by McLean, Jay
With a shrug, I said, “He couldn’t put up with Dad’s bullshit and left years ago. He used to come around to check on me…” I cleared the lump in my throat. “He wasn’t there to protect me. And I’m not even mad because I should be able to protect myself.”
“You’re a kid,” Jax said, “It’s not your job to protect yourself. Especially from your family.”
“But they’re not…” I sighed out.
“Not what?”
“My family. I have none.”
He sat down next to me, his tone matching mine when he said, “We’re your family now, Kyler.”
Chapter 6
Jackson barely steps foot in my apartment before doing a slow turn in the middle of the living room, hands in his pockets and his gaze everywhere at once. “This is—”
“It’s enough,” I interrupt, walking to the kitchen and pulling two bottles of water from the fridge. I lift one in offering, but he shakes his head. Moving on from his appraisal of my furnishings, or lack thereof, he takes a seat on the couch. “You probably have to train now, right? I mean, throwing punches at drunken assholes is one thing—but being in a competition…” he trails off.
“I’ll handle it.” I lean back on the kitchen island and stare at the back of his head, wondering how the hell it is I got myself in this mess.
“So you’re fighting soon?” he asks, half turning to me.
“No. He said I needed to see a few more fights, get to know the process, get to know him…”
He smiles. “That’s perfect.” He pulls a phone out of his pocket and throws it at me.
“What’s this?” I ask, looking at the phone now in my hand.
“Your new phone. Department issued. We can listen in on your calls and track you.”
“Are you fucking kidding me?”
“This isn’t a walk in the park, Parker.” He grins. “Oh, and there’s something else,” he says, scratching his jaw. “The department needs you to do one more thing.”
“What now?”
He sucks in a breath with a hiss, and I already know I’m going to hate what he says next. “Anger management therapy.”
I scoff. “You and your department-issued phone and therapy can fuck off.”
He shrugs lazily, but I can already see his confidence fading. “Looks like jail time for you then,” he says, standing up and making his way to the door, pausing when his hand covers the knob. “Call Mom.”
My gaze snaps to his. “Did you tell her I was back?”
“And have to deal with the wrath of my mother? Fuck no. I’m good. But don’t be a dick, Ky—call her.” I stay silent. “I’m serious, man.” He swings open my door and gives me one last disapproving look.
A second later, a text comes through on my non-department-issued phone.
DeLuca: All my fighters train at Xtreem MMA gym. Be there in ten. Gunner’s your man.
Ky: Got it.
Ky: Got a text from DeLuca. I’m training at Xtreem MMA gym. It’s only a block from me. He says it’s where all ‘his’ fighters train. I kind of hate this guy already. I’ll be there in ten. Call you after.
Jackson: I know the one. We’ve seen him go there a few times. Thanks.
Jackson: By the way, I’m sorry about the therapy thing, but it’s out of my hands. Who knows? It might do you some good. I’ve made an appointment with the therapist. Trust me. You’ll like her.
I wasn’t expecting to see DeLuca at the gym—but here he is. So, too, of course, is Tiny. I bump fists with him as I enter, attempting to build some form of camaraderie. He jerks his head in a nod and continues his stance, arms crossed over his fat gut.
“You his bodyguard or something?” I ask, motioning toward DeLuca.
“Something,” Tiny answers, his deep voice lacking any trace of humor.
My gaze moves back to DeLuca—his eyes squinted, focused on a laptop on the table in front of him. He’s leaning on his forearms, rubbing his chin as his eyes move from side to side.
“Boss Man,” Tiny shouts, and DeLuca’s eyes snap up. He smirks when he sees me, shuts the laptop, and carries it over to Tiny, who locks it securely in a briefcase. DeLuca pats me on the shoulder like we’re old fucking friends. “I hope you don’t mind. I like to keep all my fighters in one place. That way I know who I can trust.”
“Whatever.” I shrug. “Just tell me what I need to do to fight.”
Tiny’s chuckle has us both turning to him. “Sorry, Boss,” he says, a slight smile in place. “The kid’s hungry. I like it.”
DeLuca’s eyes trail back to mine, his head tilted to the side. He assesses me a moment before smiling. “Me, too, Tiny. Me, too.” He shoves his hands in his pockets and takes a few steps toward the cage in the middle of the gym. “Let me introduce you to Gunner.”
Gunner is, without a doubt, a hundred percent focused on training. He quickly makes it known that DeLuca’s his boss, and he’s paid to train me. Nothing more. Nothing less.
Which is perfect.
He tells me I’ll be training five days a week. Three of those days will include two sessions.
He’s good at what he does. Really good. Even after only one sparring session, I can tell that my fists and the hand-to-hand combat training the army provided aren’t enough to get me through my first fight. With a drunk at a bar? Maybe. But not with a professional. I have a lot of work to do. And not a lot of time to do it.
DeLuca: How’d your first session go?
Ky: Fine.
DeLuca: Good.
I call Jackson, who answers on the first ring. “How was it?”
“Fine.”
“Get anything?”
“You’re gonna have to either give me some time or at least some pointers, because—”
“Just tell me what it was like… how many people were in there?”
“A couple coaches, same number of fighters, DeLuca and his bodyguard, Tiny.”
“They were there, too?”
I open the doors to my building and stop in my tracks. “Yeah,” I answer, distracted by the brunette standing in front of the mailboxes, kicking the shit out of the wall and cursing.
“What were they doing?” Jax asks.
“I’m going to have to call you back.”
* * *
Footsteps behind me come closer and closer, causing my heart to race and my hands to shake. I do my best to turn the key in the lock—praying I can get inside before whoever it is can get to me. I twist left. Nothing. Right. Nothing. “Fuck.”
I feel his presence beside me before I see them. “Do you need some help?” a deep male voice asks, his tone genuine, not at all intimidating as I’d feared. I relax my shoulders, hoping to seem somewhat normal, and when I finally turn to him, clear blue eyes stare back at me. His smile falters a moment before he goes back to showcasing the deepest dimples I’ve ever seen. “Yeah,” he says, taking a step closer, his huge frame covering me. “You definitely need help.”
“I-I can’t get this open,” I stammer, my breath caught in my chest.
He covers my hand with his, and I do everything I can to hold still. To not pull away. To not punch him in the dick like I’d been told to do if I ever feel uncomfortable. He moves both our hands to the box on the left. “That’s because you’re trying to open mine.”
My cheeks flame with embarrassment. “Sorry.”
He shrugs and rests a shoulder on the wall, his gaze lowered as he shoves his hands in his pockets. “Are you new… in the building, I mean. You’re my new across-the-hall neighbor?”
“I guess,” I tell him, pretending to be occupied with the content of my empty mailbox. After shutting it, I force myself to look at him. “I’m Madison.”
He smiles and nods but doesn’t speak, so I take it as my cue to leave.
I make it to the elevator doors before he stops next to me. We wait, pretending to be focused on the numbers above the door. He breaks the silence first, “I’m Ky.”
Ky.
The doors open a
nd I step in. He doesn’t—what he does is stare. Right at me. I swallow nervously. “Are you coming up?”
He murmurs a “Yup” as he steps inside. We spend the ride to the third floor in complete silence. When the doors open, he rushes out and holds them in place, waiting for me to get out… which I do—because I’m not eighty; I can get out of an elevator just fine. Still, I smile at him, no matter how fake it may look, and he smiles back, just as fake. So here we are—two strangers standing in the hall, smiling stupidly at each other.
“Bye!” he almost shouts, walking past me to his apartment opposite mine.
Great, I think to myself. First person I meet out in the real world and he may be crazy.
I enter my apartment and sit on the couch, then proceed to stare at the wall.
I don’t know what to do. Or where to go. The freedom’s too overwhelming.
Madison: I met a Ky.
Sara: Good.
Madison: I miss you.
Sara: Me too.
Chapter 7
Pulling my eyes away from the certificates hanging on the wall, I look back at my therapist, my brow bunched. “Is that your real name?”
She smiles, and I can immediately tell why Jackson found it necessary to tell me that I’d like her. She’s in her late twenties with bleached-blond hair and the type of leathery skin that hinted she spent way too much time in the sun. Her tits are huge. Fake, but huge. She’s hot… if you were sixteen and didn’t have any standards… or if you were Jackson, apparently.
Her bright red lips curve higher as she looks over at me, making a show of uncrossing and recrossing her long legs. She squares her shoulders, I suppose as an attempt to maintain some form of professionalism.
I look away.
She finally answers. “My parents were on crack,” she says, an amused lilt to her tone.
“Cinnamon Aroma?” I raise an eyebrow. “That can’t be real.”
“I couldn’t make that up if I wanted to.”
I kick my legs out and slump further into the chair.
She clears her throat. “So why are you here, Ky?”
“Isn’t it your job to tell me that?”
“Do you want to be here?”
With a sigh, I roll my eyes and sit up a little. “I’m sure you know why I’m here. You probably have an entire file Detective Davis gave you. Do you see cops, too? Or just criminals?”
“Both,” she answers flatly.
I nod slowly.
“Is that important to you?”
“Do you see Jax?”
“Who?”
“Detective Davis.”
“Doctor-patient confidentiality.”
“Right.” I rest my elbows on my knees. “I’ll take that as a yes.”
She sighs. “So you have problems controlling your temper?”
“You got all that from the two minutes I’ve been here or from my file?”
“This will go a lot easier if you actually answer my questions. That’s how this works. I ask, you answer. We find your issues and we work through them together.”
I roll my eyes. “You’re saying I have issues? You don’t even know me.”
“You’re here, right?”
I avert my gaze and look at the frames on the walls again.
She adds, “Can you tell me why you’re so angry?”
My gaze trails back to her, and I mumble, “Again, shouldn’t that be your job?”
Her eyes move slowly from mine down to the notepad on her lap as she jots down God knows what. After a minute of listening to the pen scrape against the paper, she places both of them on the couch next to her. Then she crosses her arms and says, “My first crush was Taylor Hanson. You know that boy band Hanson? You might be a little young. Anyway, the middle one. When I first saw their music video, I thought he was a girl and didn’t think twice about them. When I found out he was a boy, I started to pay attention. Of course, crushing on a guy you thought was a girl can do bad things to a pre-teen’s sexual assumption. It’s safe to say I questioned my sexuality for a good year after. I tried to like the older brother; he was more manly, but I kept going back to Taylor—”
“What the hell are you talking about?” I cut in.
She shrugs. “I’m paid by the hour. You need to be here. If you won’t talk, I will.”
My eyes narrow, all words lost somewhere between us.
Dr. Aroma continues, “So the older Hanson brother didn’t really—”
“Jesus Christ. Okay! Ask your damn questions.”
Smirking, she straightens up and puts the professional mask back in place. “So, Ky, why do you think you have anger issues?”
“I don’t,” I say, point-blank.
“Your file says different.”
“I was having a bad day.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“Tell me about it.”
I suck in a breath and release it with a huff. Then I give in to the inevitable, because maybe she’s right. Maybe it’ll be easier this way. “I’d just left a buddy’s funeral.”
Dr. Aroma quirks an eyebrow. “And how did that make you feel?”
I scratch the back of my head in irritation. “How do you think it made me feel?”
“Angry, I suppose, considering the outcome.”
“I didn’t do it because I was angry. I did it because if I didn’t, one of my brothers would have. They have wives, kids, lives. They have a lot more to lose than I do.”
“And why do you think you have nothing to lose?”
My irritation turns up a notch. I’ve avoided thinking about it since that day, and I’ll continue to avoid it. “If I give you all of this now, we’ll have nothing left to talk about.”
“I’m sure we can find other things,” she says, picking up her notepad and pen again.
“So this Taylor Hanson…”
She fakes a smile but goes along with my need to change the subject. I let her yammer on about her celebrity crushes during her teen years. The entire time, I fail at not thinking about Garcia, his parents, and his pregnant wife, who cried through the entire funeral. It should have been me.
“Ky?” she asks, pulling me from my thoughts.
“Huh?”
“Do you have anyone in your life you can talk to?”
“Again, isn’t that what you’re here for?”
She smiles, but it’s tight. “That’s a shame. Maybe you should work on that. I’m positive it will help… a lot more than you listening to me talk about the kid who played The Real Boy in Casper.” She slaps her knees and stands up. “Today was good. You did well. Take my advice, Ky, and I’ll see you next time.”
Ky: On a scale of one to ten, how mandatory is this therapy bullshit?
Jackson: Eleven.
Stepping off the elevator and onto my floor, the sight before me makes me forget everything. I’ve wanted to bump into Madison since the first time I saw her. Hell, I’d take ogling her from afar. I even stood in front of her door a few times and raised my hand to knock. At the last second, I stopped myself and questioned what the hell I was doing. My game was rusty at best. The times I’d been home from tour, I was always with my buddies. We’d wear our uniforms, walk into a place, and the deal was practically sealed. Now I was alone, and Madison doesn’t seem like the type to give a shit about my uniform—though I’d be lying if I said the thought hadn’t crossed my mind.
She sits with her back to her door, her knees up and her arms covering her head. “Hey…” I say cautiously, standing in front of her.
She looks up, her eyes glazed and her cheeks wet.
I squat down so we’re eye to eye. “You okay?”
She shakes her head.
“What’s going on?”
She speaks so quietly I almost don’t hear her. “I locked myself out.”
“Is the maintenance guy out?”
“The what?” she asks, and I can’t help but laugh.
“How long have you been sitting here?”<
br />
She shrugs. “An hour. Not sure.”
“And this is why you’re crying?”
She frowns and wipes her tears. “I didn’t know there was a maintenance guy.” Standing up, she brushes her hands down her shirt. “And please don’t laugh at me.” She crosses her arms, keeping her eyes cast downward. “I already feel stupid enough.”
I stand up, too. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you—”
“Where is he?”
“Who?”
“The guy who’s going to let me back into my apartment.”
I pull out my phone and dial the number I was given when I moved in a month ago. I give him the apartment number, and he shows up a minute later with a master key. “Enjoy,” he says, winking at us.
Her eyebrows pinch as she watches him walk away.
“Madison.” It feels good to be able to say her name—to her—out loud, instead of just in my head, over and over. “I’m sorry if I made you feel stupid, I—”
Her forced smile cuts me off. “It’s fine, Ky. Good night.” She steps into her apartment and quickly shuts the door.
I look at the time.
It’s one in the afternoon.
Chapter 8
Madison: I locked myself out today.
Sara: Did you call the maintenance guy?
Madison: I didn’t know to do that.
Sara: So how did you get in?
Madison: Ky.
Sara: ?
Madison: He called the guy.
Sara: Did you let him into your apartment?
Madison: No. He just unlocked the door and left.
Sara: I meant Ky.
Madison: No. Should I have?
Sara: I have no idea.
Madison: I hate this.
Sara: Me too.
Chapter 9
“Hi,” Madison squeaks, looking down at the pizza box in my hand.