Raw Deal(10)

"For now we are."

"You all right?"

Mike took a long pull from his water bottle and doused his overheated,  sweat-drenched head with the rest of the liquid. Gradually, the  familiar, comforting grunts and thuds and metal clanging of the gym  began to filter back in through his addled thoughts, pushing out the  cheers and screams and jeers of an Attack Force MMA main event audience.  Maybe it was only his imagination, but when he glanced around, he  thought he noticed several gazes suddenly darting off somewhere else. He  wiped the sweat and water out of his eyes with the towel Jon handed  him. "Yeah."

But Jon knew him better than anyone else in his life, except for maybe  his brothers. Only ten years older, he'd been like a father figure from  the time Mike was in high school, trying his damnedest to keep Mike's  ass out of juvy until the magical age of seventeen when he began trying  to keep his ass out of jail. They'd met when Mike had marched black eyed  into the gym Jon owned and demanded to learn how to fight. Schoolyard  brawls were all he knew back then, and though he'd held his own in most  of them, he'd wanted skill. He never wanted to lose. He wanted those  fuckers to flee in terror rather than face him. The only skill Jon had  wanted to teach him at first was how to walk away. Once he figured that  out, Jon had told him, then he would show him a thing or two.

It was still the hardest lesson.

They'd begun with boxing, progressing later to kickboxing and mixed  martial arts. He practically lived in Jon's gym and shuddered to think  where he would be if not for the man standing next to him right now,  eyeballing him warily. That alternate universe would probably involve a  lot more carnage and a cage he couldn't step out of once the fight was  done.

"You went after it like it was trying to hit you back," Jon drawled.

Everything he touched tried to hit him back. "If you want me to dial it down, then tell me."

"If that had been a fight, you'd have been out of steam before the end of the round."

"Except it wasn't."

"All right," Jon conceded, obviously sensing his dark mood. "Are you sleeping at night?"

"What are you, my fucking doctor?"

"You look like shit."

"Thanks."

"You need to talk to someone."

"I talk to you."

"The hell you do. And as we just established, I ain't your fucking doctor."

Mike rubbed a hand through his short hair. "Then drop it."

"Great. I might not be a doctor, but I'll give you my assessment. You  aren't sleeping, you aren't eating clean, and you're drinking more than  you should. Am I warm?"

He tossed and turned most nights, ate okay, and hung out with Damien way  too much, which was answer enough to the last of Jon's assessments.  Looping his towel around his neck, he shrugged. "I'm doing all right.  Don't worry about it. I'm still getting my head straight, it's just  taking some time."

Jon's large, heavy hands came down on his shoulders. Mike was tall  enough that he had to look slightly down at him, but it never felt that  way. The guy had a tendency to make him feel fifteen again. "Listen to  me. Whatever you need to do to deal with this shit, do it. There's no  shame in asking for help if you need it."

The only thing that would help was something he couldn't ask for, and  damn sure couldn't demand. Something completely out of his control. "I'm  doing all right, J. I'm dealing." He laughed without humor. "You know  how I am."

"Yeah," Jon said, letting his hands slide away. "That's what has me worried. Mike, let's remember our game plan, all right?"                       
       
           



       

Mike repeated it with him. "Stay ready so you don't have to get ready."

Except they were only meaningless words that echoed hollowly in his head. The motivation behind them was no longer there.

It was the same story in the locker room; eyes shifting away when he  came in, conversations dropping. A couple of the guys nodded greetings,  but they were fast to clear out. What the hell did they think he was  going to do? Kill them? Feeling tight as a bowstring stretched to its  limit, he stared into the depths of his locker and despaired at how  everything had gone to hell. This had been his sanctuary. This had saved  him. And it had been violated. It had become a personal hell where he  was tormented by a ghost. It had been his salvation and now it might be  his damnation. He slammed his locker door a little too hard on his way  to the showers, and the dude a few feet down from him practically  jumped.

Mike kept the shower spray as hot as he could stand it, hoping it would  ease his tight, aching muscles, but that tension had nothing to do with  the workout he'd just endured. Nothing at all. On his way back to his  locker to get dressed, a towel wrapped around his waist, a trio of guys  came in laughing. He didn't know them, but he'd seen them around-the  kind of smarmy frat douches he tried to stay clear of. Adult versions of  the little assholes who'd given him the most shit throughout his life.  The loudest and blondest one of the bunch made direct eye contact with  him, tilted his chin up and said, with a shitty glint in his eye,  "What's up, killa?"

Mike stopped dead, fury seeming to boil up from the very soles of his feet. "The fuck you just say to me?"

Slack-jawed, the guys froze. The speaker, the blond king of the douches, put his hands up palms out. "Bro, I didn't-"

"I'm not your fucking bro."

"It was just a-I didn't mean-It was a figure of speech-"

"It was the wrong one. Try again."

"Um . . ." Chuckling nervously, the guy glanced to his friends for help,  but they were pulling the whole look away thing. "What's up . . .  dude?"

It wasn't much better, but since the guy looked like he was about to  piss himself, Mike gave a curt nod and moved on to his locker to get  dressed. The room was silent enough to hear a pin drop until he left a  few minutes later, his heart still beating a ragged, unfulfilled rhythm.  Little shits. He had no doubt they'd known exactly who he was, but had  felt safe in their numbers. Mike had faced worse odds than that and come  out on top; numbers didn't impress him and they damn sure didn't make  him back down.

He threw himself into his truck, only then realizing how hard he was  still breathing from the encounter, thinking maybe he'd cut out from his  workout too soon. Right about now it would feel good to beat the hell  out of something. It was Jon's influence that he was thinking about the  bag and not that other guy's face. They were probably running to Jon to  complain; Mike would expect a call about that later, if not in the next  ten minutes.

Absently checking his phone at the thought, his breath caught and  shuddered out, slowing immediately. Savannah. He'd missed a call from  Savannah, and she'd left a voicemail.

Heart beating raggedly now for an entirely different reason, he brought  the phone to his ear, anticipating hearing her angel-sweet voice and  wondering if it would be the balm to his soul he hoped it would.  Depends, he thought, on what she has to say.

"Hi, Mike? Sorry I missed you. I hate talking to these things, too. And  you're probably thinking, ‘Then why don't you text?' Which is what I'm  asking myself right now." She chuckled and he found himself smiling.  "Listen, I told Rowan about your offer and, well, I guess we're in! The  Houston show would be easiest for us. So, um, just call me back with  details or whatever, okay? Okay. Um . . . thanks. Bye."

He was actually surprised she remembered their midnight conversation,  truth be known. Her sleepy voice had slurred on more than one occasion  and he'd thought she might drift off right there on the phone with him.  If he wanted to be perfectly honest with himself, some of his sleepless  nights had been more about hoping she was all right and wondering if he  would ever hear that voice again than any personal torment he was  experiencing.

She answered right away when he called back, her cheery greeting a  little breathless. For a moment, he couldn't think straight. "Savannah,  hey. I got your message."

"Oh, great. So I guess you know? Well, obviously, you know. You got the message. Um . . ."

Grinning, he bailed her out. "Do you think you two would rather drive over, or fly?"                       
       
           



       

"Rowan hates flying. She will when she has to. But that's probably the  main reason she wants to do the Houston date. It's fairly close."

He didn't like the thought of them on the road for that long; they would  be safer in the sky. But of course, it was up to them. "Yeah, but one  hour in the air and you'd be here. Versus five in a car."