Q’s suggestion, to have someone follow her and tap her phone, comes back to mind, and I know I’d be fucking stupid not to do it.
I don’t want to fuck up her helping us, but I have to cover our asses too. If it’s not already too late.
Why didn’t I think of that immediately? Demand she hand over her phone so I could watch her every move?
Maybe because I was trying to do damage control, and scaring her like that wouldn’t have worked in our favor. She offered to help. It’s not like I forced her.
The voice in my head, the one that belongs to the only conscience I’ve ever had, surfaces with a tsking reprimand.Splitting hairs, Gabriel. You could have let her walk out with no deal.
I did what I had to do in the moment,I tell the voice.
My shoulders are screaming now. Too much time at a desk. Too much time pacing the club, wondering how the hell we’re going to get patrons through the doors. Too much time getting soft and forgetting where I came from.
Then thoughts of Bump invade. I can’t believe he fucking did what he did.What the hell was he thinking?
Oh, that’s right. He wasn’t thinking normally because he fucking took a bullet to the skull that was meant for me. When we ran out of Biloxi fifteen years ago, we couldn’t get him all the help he needed because if we didn’t move fast, we’d both be dead. Now he’s never going to grow up mentally.
It’s all my fucking fault. Every single bit of it. I did this. I did this to all of us.
The frustration boils over as sweat pours down my face and neck, and I hit the bag, a 1–2 combination, with everything I have.
“Umph.” The kid lets out a grunt as his ass hits the floor.
It yanks me out of my silent tirade against myself, and I back up before moving to offer him a hand. “Shit. Sorry, kid. Didn’t mean to beat you up.”
“Damn, man. You hit hard,” the kid says, but my eyes aren’t on him after he’s on his feet.
No, they’re on the guy coming toward us with his eyebrows raised like he’s never seen someone work out like this before. Except he’s not an awestruck kid. No, he’s a familiar face ... one I’ve seen somewhere but can’t place.
Then he holds out a fist to bump gloves. “Intense combos there. You can fucking move, man. How the hell do you do it?”
His voice kick-starts my memory, and I school my features not to show the shock at Silas Bohannon, an actor I’ve seen on the big screen, seeking me out in the gym.
The kid backs away, as if giving us our space, and Bohannon nods to the heavy bag. “You want to keep going?”
“Probably shouldn’t. Didn’t really warm up.”
“I noticed. You just went to town. Working something out or working toward something?”
His question makes it sound like he truly cares, but I’m not a small-talk kind of guy.
“Something.”
He huffs out a half laugh at my answer but doesn’t seem affected by my lack of manners. “You’ve got crazy-fast hands, man. Who taught you? Not to be nosy, but damn. You’re all in. No mercy.”
I study the man in front of me and wonder what his angle is.Does he recognize me, or is he going strictly off what he’s seen?
Regardless, I go with honesty. “Couldn’t afford a top-notch trainer, so I worked out with buddies and offered to spar with guys who outweighed and outclassed me. Spent years getting beat up so I could learn from them.”
He eyes me with curiosity. “So you’re saying I should be asking to spar with you so I can take some punches and learn your ways.”
This time, I choke out a laugh. “That’s not exactly what I was saying—”
“My schedule’s shit,” he says, interrupting. “But if you’re willing to beat on me, I’ll find a way to make it work on your timetable.”
Something about this guy doesn’t put my back up, but he definitely wants what he wants and isn’t used to taking no for an answer. I wonder if that’s the typical MO of someone famous. I don’t exactly run in those circles, not like the woman in my office this afternoon, but I’m not a complete idiot.
“Why?” I ask. His answer will determine my decision.