Eventually, I drift off, one hand curled around my laptop, dreams of a little boy with dark blond hair and bright blue eyes climbing up my leg lulling me into sleep.
Eight
Legend
With Roux trotting on her leash by my side, I make my way to the gym I’ve been meaning to hit more often, but I haven’t been able to make it as regularly as I should. Probably because I’m not training like I used to.
One of the biggest reasons for taking the ultimate risk and gambling so much fucking money on this club was to get me out of the cage. I’ve literally been fighting for my survival since I was a kid. Only once I got to Jersey did I realize I could make money with my fists. So instead of taking shit jobs, I took every fight I could. When I started to make a name for myself, it could have been a problem, except no one knew a damn thing about the man who called himself Gabriel Legend.
That was fine by me. No one needed to know my real name in order for me to put on a show for the crowd to make the betting go crazy.
And I always bet on myself. Every fight. Even when I only had a couple of bucks to my name. Because if there’s one person I believe in, one person who I always think can pull through, it’sme.Maybe I’m not supposed to have that kind of confidence after being shown by the world that I’m not worth a damn, but I do.
Or I did.
I don’t know what the fuck to believe in right now.
Fifteen years of work, sacrifice, and hope are about to disappear, along with everything I put up as collateral. I have two weeks until my first payment is due, and if I miss it ... I’m fucked, and this will all just be a memory of the time I couldn’t pull off a win.
As I approach the twenty-four-hour MMA gym, the option I keep pushing out of my mind comes back with a vengeance.
I could fight for the money.
A big fight. One with a solid purse and crazy odds. The rematch that people have been dying to see. The rematch I’ve always been smart enough not to take because there’s a good chance I won’t walk out of the cage again.
Bodhi Black. A ruthless motherfucker that I beat three years ago by the grace of God.
He slipped when he was going for a superman punch, and I took him down and got in a heel hook. He refused to tap out until he tore almost every ligament in his fucking knee. And ever since, he’s been out for blood, trying to get me to fight him again.
I could make enough for months of payments, buying us some time to get the club rocking again. But I told myself I wouldn’t take another fight after the doors to Legend opened. No, Ipromisedmyself, and those are promises I don’t break. Because the one time I did ...
I cut off that train of thought because I can’t ride it tonight. It isn’t going anywhere new, solving my problems, or doing anything other than making me realize I’m still the same kid from Biloxi who doesn’t have his shit figured out.
When I push open the door to the gym, like everywhere in Manhattan, it seems like the damn thing is never empty. Doesn’t matter the time because this city doesn’t sleep.
Works for me, even if I don’t plan on talking to anyone, at least not beyond the kid standing in the corner watching everyone with his mouth hanging open. He’ll do for holding the heavy bag.
I settle Roux in the opposite corner, giving her some pats and a scratch behind the ears. She lays her head on her paws and prepares to nap until I’m ready to go. She’s a damn good dog.
Dropping my bag beside her, I dig into it for my gear, and tape and wrap my hands and wrists before slipping on my gloves and shadow boxing for a few minutes to loosen up my muscles. It’s not enough of a warm-up, but it’ll have to do, because I need to hit something before my mind goes back to Scarlett Priest.
Fuck.Too late.
There she is in my head as soon as her name surfaces. A face like porcelain with expressive gray eyes, rosy red lips, and framed with shiny blond hair.
Not thinking about her.
I wave the gawking kid over and point to the heavy bag. “You know what to do?”
He nods twice, fast.
“Good. I’m going hard.”
His eyes widen, and I don’t bother to thank him before unleashing on the bag. No real plan or workout. Just combination after combination. Strike after strike lands, and the impact of each screams up my arms and into my shoulders.
It’s been too long. I shouldn’t go this hard. Shouldn’t move this fast. But I don’t care, because nothing—not even this punishing, relentless pace—can get rid of the face in my head.
I see the rug and Bump. I feel the terror she felt. The fear pumping through her veins. And the cold metal of handcuffs wrapping around my wrists if she decides to tell anyone what the hell happened.