“Come on,” I say, leaning forward and resting my elbows on my knees. I’m fidgety—something completely unlike me. Even the walls of his large corner office feel like they’re closing in on me. “This is good. They’re discussing it.”
“They will fight you to the death for their kid. I have to remind you of this.”
“I know.” More bouncing. More fidgeting. My pulse thrums in my ears. “When do I do it? The test, I mean.”
He slides a half-sheet of paper across the desk toward me and taps it twice with his index finger. “Here’s the office they’ve requested you go to. Ms. Jones has a relationship with the doctor there and trusts it will be handled properly and confidentially.”
Because they know I’m a famous fighter. My lips curl. They think I’m scum. Ms. Jones has made that clear. At times, a part of me has wondered if they’d be this difficult if I had a more upstanding profession than barreling my hands and feet into another person’s body.
“Listen, Grayson,” Keith says in that fatherly tone I’ve become accustomed to. My pulse spikes more. So far, he’s only used it when delivering bad news. “They’re concerned about the possible publicity of this—that this is a stunt, or that someone could find out. They’re already aware of the photos of you and Miss Knowles in Vegas a few weeks ago.”
I press my teeth together to keep from growling at him. And myself. One weekend and I can’t get it out of my mind. Or the memory of Kennedy. Seeing her two weeks ago was brutal. She looked exhausted and tired, and once I’d heard she lost her job because of me…
I only wanted to pull her into my arms and promise her I’d make everything okay for her.
But I’m not at the place I can make those kinds of promises. Not yet.
“That being said, this is an incredibly fortunate break for you. They could stonewall you or any contact with either of us for months. The fact that they’re willing to do this, to find out the truth so quickly, is a good thing.”
A breath leaves my lips. A pressing weight lightens from my rib cage. This is good. Keith has reminded me ever since I’ve called that it could take months. The fact that they’re willing to proceed forward after a few weeks is the best news I’ve heard since Kennedy told me I had a son in the first place.
“I understand,” I reply, even though I feel like I’m spitting nails. “I’ll be careful. I just want to see my son.”
He smiles, seemingly relaxed. “And that’s what we’re going to do. I called the doctor’s office before you arrived,” he says, changing the subject. “They said paternity test results can be back in as soon as twenty-four hours. Ms. Jones has ensured that the results will be sent to her immediately upon completion so her client can decide how to proceed. They will also email me a copy.”
I press a hand over my mouth, grimacing at the feel of my unshaven cheeks and chin. I’ve done nothing for the last two weeks except fight and train and fight some more. I need a shave, desperately. It’ll also have to wait.
Snagging the sheet of paper on the desk, I fold it and fold it again before standing up.
“I’ll go get this taken care of right now.”
He nods, shuffling paper on his desk. “Call me as soon as you’re done.”
“Thanks.”
I leave the office building and hail a cab to head straight toward the doctor’s office. It’s the first time since I’ve walked away from Kennedy two weeks ago that there’s hope, and I cling to the tiny morsel as tightly as I can.
“You ready to get back to work?”
Rodney slams my thin gloves into my chest with a deep scowl.
I rip them away and begin strapping them on. “Chill out. Had a meeting with my lawyer.”
His scowl lightens before reappearing. Rodney and his wife, Marnie, are stand-up freaking people. Some of the best I’ve ever met. But when it comes time to fighting, he has tunnel vision. “You’ve also only got seven weeks left before you meet up with Samson.”
“I know,” I snap and toss on my helmet. I hate the thing, but Rodney insists on it, especially as we get closer to fights and adrenaline pumps in his fighter’s blood.
There’s too big of a risk for injuries the closer we get to fights and our attention is focused on only one thing.
My problem? I’m not focused at all. My mind is still back on that starkly lit exam room where I was just swabbed and prodded for blood and DNA.
I could be seeing Thad soon.
Maybe.
Hopefully.
A slap hits the side of my head. On instinct, I kick my leg out, hitting the back of someone’s knee.
“Fuck, Legend,” Lynx says, leaning down with a feigned grimace twisting his lips. “Cut a man some slack.”
“Shut up.” I nod toward the ring. “Lemme kick your ass today.”
He holds up his already gloved fists and smirks. “I was planning on kicking yours.”
“No one’s getting their asses kicked,” Rodney snaps, rushing toward the empty cage. “We’re training. Not fighting.”
“Sissy,” Lynx mutters and shoves his shoulder into mine. “He’s just afraid you can’t handle me.”
“In your dreams, Anders.”
We climb into the ring, and for hours I’m drilled on kicks and punches and form and trying to create a fight plan for Samson.
Regardless of what’s going on outside the ring, in here…this is where I’ve always been able to be focused. Steady.
In the cage, I’m important.
“That’s it for the day. Tap out, Lynx.”
He grunts and shakes his head. His cheeks and even the top of his head are beginning to turn purple from lack of oxygen.
I smile up at Lynx, not letting go while I hold him in a triangle submission.
My shoulders to the floor, I have one leg wrapped around Lynx’s neck, my other leg propped over my foot and draped over his shoulder. With my left hand I tug on his foot, continuing to decrease his oxygen supply.
I’ve already got him pinned, but unlike other sparring and training partners, Lynx never taps out unless absolutely necessary. He forces me to the edge, making me use all my strength and all my skills.
It’s one of the reasons why I respect the hell out of him.
I squeeze my thighs together, listening to him grunt.
“Fuckers,” Rodney mutters, walking away. He knows we’re just screwing around now.
“Did…I…tell you…” Lynx gasps, wheezing in between panted breaths. “Seeing Sarah…Kennedy…tonight.”
“What?” My head jerks back in shock. The slight movement loosens my legs around his neck.
By the time I blink and consider Lynx’s sentence, he has me flipped over, our positions immediately reversed.
“You fucker,” I growl, trying to escape the same hold I just had him in.
Lynx grins, squeezing his legs together. “Never lose focus, asshole.”
I’d roll my eyes if my vision wasn’t starting to go blurry.
When I tap his thigh, signaling a tap out, he calls me a pussy and helps me to my feet.
“You were kidding, right?” I ask as we remove our gloves and toss them to the floor.
“Nope.” Lynx shakes his head. “Called Sarah to see her tonight—”
“Just tonight?” I ask, one eyebrow arched, teasing him.
“Fuck you. You know I like my women there and gone.”
I do know. He blames it on night terrors, never allowing any woman to share his bed overnight for fear of hurting them. Even with all the counseling both Lynx and Landon have gotten after being released from the military, they’re both haunted men.
“And Sarah’s still okay with that?”
He shrugs. “Don’t know. Don’t much care, either. This was the first time I called since we’ve been back in town.”
Three weeks he’s waited for a booty call? I open my mouth to say something sarcastic when I remember what else he said.
“What’d you mean about Kennedy?”
He walks away, headed toward the locker rooms. I grab my gloves and helmet from the floor and follow him.
“Don’t you know? She just moved here. Sarah said she got here about a week ago.”
Lynx glances back at me over his shoulder and winks.
My feet freeze and my jaw drops open.
Kennedy? She’s here in Chicago?
What in the fuck am I supposed to do with that?
By the time I’m home and showered, I’ve talked myself out of calling Kennedy. Visions of pummeling Lynx’s face in are forefront in my mind for him even telling me she’s in town.
Somewhere.
Close enough that I could hail a cab or hop on the L and probably be to her in thirty minutes.
Maybe less.
She’s never felt farther away, though.
I stare at the phone in my hand and open my contacts, immediately finding her name and number. My finger hovers over the phone icon, my conscience daring me to touch it.
The problem? I have no idea what to say to her. Not yet, anyway. Not until the test results come back and I have information to share with her.
Tossing the phone onto the table, I rest my head against the back of the couch and take a long pull from my water bottle, almost draining the entire thing in one long swallow.
Closing my eyes, I see her—hair all spread out on my bed in Vegas, cheeks flushed, lips swollen.