Raw Deal(7)

"You never did tell me what brings you out tonight," Damien said,  surveying the play going on around them. A thick pall of smoke hung over  the room and the bass from downstairs thudded relentlessly. Much more  of that and Mike's head would be throbbing along with the beat. "Haven't  seen you around in a while. I haven't seen you drink in even longer."

"I was always in training."

"So you're not anymore?"

"Not at the moment."

He could tell Damien wasn't fooled. Mike was strict about his training  even when he was off season-or at least, he always had been. Before.  Whatever gave his younger half-brother such a keen insight into what  cards Mike was holding also allowed him free range inside Mike's head,  or so it seemed sometimes. Maybe that was one of the reasons Damien  hadn't seen him in a while. There was something disconcerting about  feeling like you were under a microscope all the time.

"It's really gotten to you, hasn't it?"

"Wouldn't it you?"

"Not enough to throw in the towel."

"You say that now."

"I would say it then."

There wasn't any sense in arguing with him, since he thought he knew it  all. And maybe he did. Damien always kept his poker face. It was in  place even now, cold, unyielding, giving up nothing.

"What if everything you've built here gets raided? If it was all  snatched away from you in one night? You're saying you would be able to  start all over, do it all again, knowing it could all come crashing  down?"

"What got snatched away from you? You hit a guy too hard. You didn't lose your fucking arms."

It felt that way. Even if killing Tommy had been an accident, it had  taken Mike right back to that dingy kitchen fifteen years ago. He'd been  seventeen years old with blood on his hands all over again, his  mother's screams echoing in his ears. Something in his brain had reset.  He felt like a scared kid again, and he hated it.

Fucking hated it.

"It was always your dream," Damien went on. "And you're letting it get  stolen from you. We fought our way out of the fucking dirt, Mike, the  three of us. I'm not going back there until I have to. Six feet under."

"Doing something else wouldn't necessarily be going back to the dirt."                       
       
           



       

"What the fuck are you gonna do, huh? Be a bodyguard for Zane? Or I could always make you a bouncer out on the floor."

"Fuck you."

"You were born to fight. Zane was born to sing. I was born to do . . .  whatever the hell it is that I do. This." He indicated the room as a  whole. "You're upsetting our microcosm."

Mike had to laugh. "You're so full of shit."

"I think you fucked up when you went over there and let the guy's family get all in your head."

"I needed to do that."

"You needed to leave it alone. It's dredging up a lot of shit for you."

Shifting in his chair uncomfortably, Mike took another drink and could  only wish he had a fraction of Damien's stony-eyed impassivity. "It's  not, because I don't think about any of that," he bold-faced lied.

"Yes, you do. You're thinking about it right now. Mike, you did what you  had to do. You did it then for all of us, you did it with Tommy Dugas,  and you'll keep doing it. What you have to do is keep fighting. You're  ranked number one but you deserve to have that belt around your waist."

"There comes a time when you have to ask yourself if it's worth it. When  the shit keeps flying at you and you wonder if this would be happening  if you were really on the right path."

"You're not going to turn pacifist on me, are you?"

"Naw, nothing like that."

"Look, it isn't that I'm not sympathetic. It's sad. I get it. But it's  eating you up, and if you keep letting it, there's not going to be  anything of you left. Let it go, man."

It was the same unsolicited advice everywhere he went. Whether it was  Zane or Damien or his coach or manager or the commentators on ESPN,  everyone was giving their two fucking cents he hadn't asked for. They  hadn't seen the devastation he'd seen when he met Savannah and Rowan,  but if he said that, Damien would only use it as another opportunity to  ride his ass about seeking out the funeral in the first place, and maybe  he was right. Maybe he was well and truly fucked. Whether he could  recover enough psychologically to even think about getting back in the  cage . . . well, he would just have to wait and see. He knew guys who  wouldn't be bothered by something like killing a man in the ring. He  wasn't one of them.

Brad, his manager, had encouraged him to step away, take some time, just  not too far and not too long. He would probably shit himself if he knew  Mike had even entertained the notion of retiring.

He was afraid he would see Tommy Dugas's face on every opponent he ever  fought. And if that happened, it would throw his whole game off. He  would back down, go easy, mess up. Get his ass handed to him. He's done,  they would say. Couldn't cut it after the Dugas fight. Oh, what a  promising career, derailed by senseless tragedy, blah blah blah.

If he went into a fight even thinking about losing, he had already lost.

His cell phone buzzed in his back pocket and he sighed, plucking it out  and frowning at the unfamiliar number. Who the hell would be calling him  this late? It was after midnight. It didn't matter; he wouldn't be able  to carry on a phone conversation in this noise, so he let it go to  voicemail. He and Damien had practically been yelling at each other.  Something vaguely familiar about that area code, though.

Glancing up to make sure his brother was adequately engaged in  conversation with a woman who'd been passing by their table-check-Mike  quickly entered the number in Google on his phone.

New Orleans.

Savannah? His heart gave an odd leap at the thought. It had been six  weeks and he'd long ago abandoned even the almost nonexistent hope he  would hear from her again. But there was literally no one else in that  area who would be calling him.

"I'm out," he told his brother, getting up and bumping fists with him. "Thanks for being a pain in my ass, as usual."

"That's what I'm here for. Don't be a stranger."

Mike tried to pretend Damien wasn't looking at him like he knew  something was up. He felt his brother's eyes on him all the way out the  door. As soon as he was down the stairs and out the back of the building  into the balmy night, away from the din of bass-heavy music and drunken  blather, he returned the missed call while his legs ate up the distance  to his truck.

"Come on," he muttered after three rings. "You can't not answer now."

But apparently she could. At least he got his confirmation that it was  indeed Savannah's number when her bright, cheery recorded greeting  sounded in his ear. So different from the sorrowful woman he'd  encountered. He'd seen that glimmer of brightness in her, though. Even  at the cemetery, it was dimmed, but it wasn't gone. God, he hoped she  was okay.                       
       
           



       

Then her greeting ended with the standard encouragement to leave a  message after the beep, and he had a split-second decision to make. He  hated talking to these fucking things.

"Savannah. It's Mike Larson. I know you tried to call and I'm sorry I  didn't answer in time. Hell, for all I know you butt-dialed me or  something and I'm making an ass of myself. In any case . . . I hope  you're well. And . . . well, I'm here. I hope to hear from you." Shit,  had he really said "butt-dialed"? He hung up before he could get any  more idiotic and tell her something like Say the word and I can get to  you by dawn.

There wasn't a damn thing she could need from him that badly.





Chapter Four


Savannah listened to his message four times. She'd drunk too much,  danced until she was exhausted, flirted until she'd convinced herself  she still had it . . . but even after all of that, she'd come home alone  and called Mike anyway. He hadn't answered, but he'd called back. She  had missed it because she'd been in the bathroom and her phone had been  on the charger.

Hearing his voice again took her back to that awful day, but it also  reminded her of how she'd felt a little better after talking to him at  the café. She lay on her bed in the dark, willing the room to quit  spinning every time she closed her eyes, and soaked up the sound of it.  It steadied her in the tilt-a-whirl of her head, somehow. He seemed so  concerned, which confused and frightened her. He was supposed to be the  monster, or at least her family thought so. He wasn't supposed to be the  knight, but everything about the urgency in his message said that he  would slay any beast she asked him to.