Just One Regret(16)

That’s not entirely their fault, though.

The mention of my old man always ticks me off, and this morning’s phone call from him was the same.

Except the only thing different about his call today was that he actually sounded sober. And he’d seen my last fight. I spend enough money on that pile of shit—who still has the balls to call himself a father—to keep him out of my life. He never calls me except when he needs money.

His tone was different this morning, though.

Almost begging as he pleaded to see me.

That he had something important to tell me.

It’s utter crap. Whatever he has to say is a bunch of fucking bullshit that I quit listening to him spew at my feet the day I left home and never returned.

It’s been six years since I’ve seen my old man, and I haven’t missed Charles Legend for one single fucking second. Thinking about him is worthless and only fuels a hateful fire inside of me.

The only good and decent thing he ever did in his life was to forget to roll on a condom before he fucked my mom…creating me.

Everything else the man does, everything else he says, has made him a worthless fuck who I absolutely despise.

The fact that he calls me for money, threatens to tell the world where my beginning really came from, is a small thorn in my side. I give him money to stay the fuck out of my life and out of gossip rags.

Typically, he’s easy to ignore—like an opponent’s grazed kick to my kidney.

I’m just wrapping the towel around my waist when I enter my bedroom.

Water drips down my back from my still wet hair, but it’s all a small annoyance when I see Lynx sitting on my bed, waiting for me.

“You gonna tell her?” he asks. My hands curl into fists as he keeps speaking. “Because she might be able to tell you why your old man is so desperate to see you again.”

“No.” I ignore my friend, who’s already pissing me off, and head to the closet. “The old man’s full of shit and booze. Nothing he says can be trusted.”

Why Charles brought up Kennedy in his early morning phone call is a mystery I don’t want to solve. I just want him to go the fuck away, disappear into the dredges of a beer bottle and drown.

“He said he wants to see you, Legend.”

I grimace at the name. Legends have been cursed for centuries; all of them are useless piles of shit. I’m supposed to be different.

I will be different.

The fact that my surname makes such a great fucking nickname for my quick rise to the top of MMA is another thing I can thank daddy-dearest for. I’d prefer it if it was something mundane like Smith or Jones so I could hide my past.

“I know what he said,” I snap and reach for a shirt, “but the fact remains that the man’s a drunk, probably can’t rub two pennies together, much less get on a plane to anywhere. He’s not coming.”

Behind me, Lynx sighs. He wants to say more. I know he does, but I don’t want to hear it.

Any sentence with the word Charles in it is one I’d rather not have burned into my eardrums.

“I can talk to the friend, see what she knows. Aren’t you even curious why two people from your past have shown up in your life within twelve hours of each other?”

“Jesus. She’s not some fucking spy for the enemy, Lynx, and we’re not in fucking middle school. You don’t need to put a detective hat on for this shit.” I drop the towel, not giving a shit that my junk is hanging out for Lynx to see, and yank on a pair of shorts. This conversation is making me want to hit something. Repeatedly. Mostly Charles’s face, but a bag at the gym will suffice. “I told you this morning: Kennedy and I grew up together. We’re from the same shithole town with similar shithole parents. Of course he’d recognize her on the television.”

The fact that he even watches my fights was a surprise to hear. I always figured he’d be too drunk to give a shit.

I don’t like that he does. I certainly don’t like that he saw Kennedy last night, either.

He’s a half-mile away from her parents’ house where the slums of Braxton quickly change to the ritzy homes with blossoming cherry tree-lined streets and perfectly manicured lawns. If he wants to start trouble for Kennedy, he can probably stumble his drunk ass right on over to her parents’ house.

Maybe he and Kennedy’s dad can share a drink.

I don’t even know if she talks to them anymore, but if he gets a bug up his ass, it wouldn’t take much for him to figure out where she lives, too, since I know she hasn’t moved far from home.

Fuck.

“Call him,” I mutter and grab my gym bag. “Listen to what he has to say, and let me know when I’m back from the gym. Pay him whatever he wants to shut him up.”

“Today’s a rest day.”

“Fuck, Anders.” I toss my head back and stare at the ceiling. “I didn’t even get a damn warm-up in last night.”

“Then you shouldn’t have gone ape shit over old pussy.”

I snap. I don’t know if it’s the stress of my old man or the fact that I’ve never let anyone talk about Kennedy that way, but I blink and the next thing I see are my fingers wrapped around Lynx’s throat, and he’s pinned to the wall.

“Say it again, asshole. I fucking dare you.”

He rolls his eyes. I loosen the tension on his throat so he can breathe. I don’t want to kill the dick—he is my best friend—just scare him a little bit.

“I’ll kick your ass in the cage next time I’m near you,” he threatens, but it lacks the vitriol needed to scare me.

I push back so his head thumps against the wall and laugh, letting go. “Bring it, pussy.”

He rubs his throat with his hand. “Love you, dickhead!”

“You too, asswipe,” I shout back, already out of the bedroom and moving down the hallway.











Sweat drips down my face and my back when I get back to the hotel room. My shirt and shorts cling to my skin. Punching a bag is my stress relief. Punching someone’s face is a way to forget all the shit in my life. I enter a cage and everything I’ve ever been told about myself—every fist or belt or lashing I ever took as a young kid, too small to defend myself—fades away into one goal.

Destroy.

The fact that my dad used to beat the shit out of me and I find joy in pummeling an opponent into the mat isn’t lost on me. But TJ and Rodney have taught me self-control and the ability to harness the hatred for my father and his drunken beatings to make me into a machine. Out of the ring, I could never imagine raising my fists toward someone I care about.

This afternoon’s workout didn’t help for shit, though, regardless that Landon rode my ass hard, treating today like it was any other training day.

Landon was at least smart enough to not mention Charles. Or Kennedy. Probably because he likes his teeth permanently fixed to his gums.

But as soon as I get back, I see the worried look in Kennedy’s eyes, and behind it…a truth she’s hiding in her unspoken words and silent conversations with Sarah.

Fuck.

“Are you okay?” she asks, jumping off the couch and rushing to me.

My shoulders heave with stress and exhaustion, my lungs burning inside my chest.

It all melts away when she presses her small and soft hand against my cheek.

“You and Landon rushed out of here so quickly earlier, I was worried.”

I stare into her amber eyes, trying to decipher her hidden secrets, and come up empty. What in the hell would my dad have to tell me about her? None of it makes sense.

None of it is anything I want to get into with other sets of eyes on us.

“I’m going to shower,” I say, stepping away from her touch and feeling the cool replace where her warmth just was. “Then I think we should head out, get some food, and hit up a club.” I look at Lynx over Kennedy’s shoulder. “You get VIP status set up anywhere?”

He reaches for his phone and starts pressing buttons. “On it.”

“I thought we could talk,” Kennedy whispers, taking a small, hesitant step toward me.

She sucks her bottom lip in between her teeth and chews it worriedly.

I hate that look on her face and the way her cheeks pale when I slice my eyes to hers. “Later. I’m in the mood to party.”

She still looks uncertain and I catch her glancing toward Sarah, who’s still sitting on the couch, watching us.

I hate that she knows something I don’t.

I hate that Kennedy is closer to someone other than me, now, period.

A weight settles in my gut that I push away.

I want to distract her. I want more time with her before whatever bomb she wants to drop in my lap is something I’m forced to deal with. It could be something about Charles. Hell, maybe she heard he’s dying and that’s why she came here.

Not that I’d give a shit, but it’d make sense in some twisted, fucked-up way, why both of them appeared in my life after several years of silence.

Leaning down, loving the way Kennedy shivers in response to my closeness, I whisper in her ear, “Later. Tonight, I want to feel you in my arms, my hands on your ass and your hips on the dance floor. I want to throw back a few drinks with our friends. Join me in reality tomorrow, Kennedy, but tonight…give me this. Give me you.”

She sucks in a quick breath that shoots straight to my dick.

When I see her nod, I press my lips to her cheek and run my fingers through her hair. “I’m going to shower. Why don’t you and Sarah go to your hotel, get ready, and text me when you’re almost done.”