Of course, she didn't expect an answer.
But she got one all the same.
A shrill, staccato cry above her brought her head up to inspect the sky, and there among the blue was a soaring bald eagle.
Gasping, she stood and stared. Ridiculous to think it was the same one that had been a comfort to her that horrible day, but . . .
Oh, Michael. The day of Tommy's funeral, she'd searched the sky for a moment after finding her eagle gone, only to drop her gaze and see his face. And he'd looked so broken for her, so desperate to try to set things right as best he could. He had, hadn't he? For the brief time they'd had together . . . he'd loved her. He'd scraped all the pieces of her together and tried, painstakingly, to reform her. The person he'd created, though, wasn't the same one she'd been before she shattered. She could be better for him. She had to be.
A peace stole through her as she watched her new eagle, such as she hadn't known in weeks. Life was precious, she thought. And much too short to waste a moment of it.
"Thanks, Tommy," she whispered, and bolted for her car, her phone already in her hand.
Chapter Twenty-Three
"Cool, Mike. Play it cool," Jon said at his ear.
Mike fiddled with the good-luck charm in the pocket of his sweats, twenty-four hours away from his destiny. The air itself was electric in the arena, where the fighters had congregated for the Mayhem official weigh-in. He accepted well-wishes from fellow competitors, more than a few requesting that he mop the floor with Meyers's ass. They needn't have asked; no one had more reason than he did to want the same damn thing.
Weigh-ins were more tolerable than press conferences. Way more. He liked the spectacle, the light show, the huge screens showing recaps and trash-talking-it meant all the work was done except for the fighting, which was the only reason he was here. Plus, afterward he got to drink a ton of fucking water after dehydrating himself for twenty-four long-ass hours. He was a good twenty pounds lighter since beginning the weight-cutting process earlier in the week, but he felt like absolute shit for it.
Then they were announcing him as the challenger for the AF Heavyweight Championship-"Michaaaaaael ‘Laaarcennyy' Laaaarrrrsssonnnn"-and he jogged up the steps and out on the stage to loud appreciation and flashing cameras, a crowd of people, and smiling scantily clad ring girls.
He unzipped his jacket and whipped off his cap and shirt, tossing everything to Jon. Toed off his shoes and stripped down to his shorts, grinning at the feminine appreciation that rang out from the audience. And once he stepped on the scale and his weight was announced, he gave the crowd their show, flexing for the cameras, then made his way to the side of the stage to wait on the champ. Such as he was.
He'd felt better lately, except for depriving himself of water. The effects of the altitude had eased up until he almost felt normal again, and he'd heard some of the other fighters bitching about it since they'd arrived a few days ago. Good luck with that, fellas, he'd thought. Most of them would probably be puking their guts out after their matches, like he had been after a couple of his first workouts.
Frank Meyers came out to as many boos as cheers, the belt slung across one shoulder. Rowan and Savannah's statement had made people hate him more than they already did. Mike distinctly heard someone call out, "Fuck you, Frank!" and noticed that Meyers flashed the heckler the corresponding finger. Lovely. This was being live streamed, but if Meyers wanted to keep showing his true colors, he was welcome to it.
If ugly could translate into scary, then that was the scariest motherfucker Mike had ever seen. His eyes were beady as a snake's and he had a gap between his front teeth big enough to fit an extra tooth. Cauliflower ears protruded from the sides of his bald head. He stripped and stepped on the scale while Mike pulled on his sweats and settled his cap backward on his head, eyeing the guy's every move. Dude was shredded, no denying it. He made weight easily, then played to the crowd, kissing each biceps and yelling nonsense.
Mike was ready for him as soon as he charged off the scale in his direction, and so were his team and the staff at his side. Fists at the ready for the stare-down, Meyers didn't stop until they were eye-to-eye, nose-to-nose while his stinking breath blasted Mike in the face and the men around them tried to insinuate themselves between their keyed-up bodies.
"You need a mint if you're gonna kiss me, motherfucker," Mike growled at him.
Frank's gapped teeth flashed in a particularly gruesome grin and he moved to speak directly into Mike's ear, making his skin crawl. "Got Dugas's wife and sister doing your work for you now, huh? Which one of them did you stick it to, huh? Or was it both?" He made a kissing noise.
Play it cool my ass. With everything he had, Mike shoved him back and swung a vicious right, but security was there between them before he could connect. Pandemonium erupted on stage and in the crowd, everything a confusion of bodies and arms and restraining hands with flashbulbs going off, people shoving and cursing and shouting, while Mike swatted some of them aside like flies in his desperation to get to Frank Meyers's throat. He was going to rip the fucker out; there would be no need for a cage around them tomorrow night. This was it.
"Mike, Mike, Mike!" Then there was Jon's voice in his ear cutting through the red fury raging through his veins, his restraining arms around him. But Mike was blind to everything but the bastard being herded off to one end of the stage while the people around Mike tried to hustle him to the other.
Savannah didn't need to be worried about him; she should save her concern for the other guy.
Jon released him and threw his hands up in deference when Mike whirled out of his restricting arms, ready to swing at anyone who touched him, and then a microphone was in his face suddenly, Reid Downing asking him questions about his strategy. Mike's cap had been knocked askew, so he straightened it and tried to breathe himself calm again before answering on autopilot.
Like he wanted the other guy to know what he had planned, anyway. Everyone had a strategy until they got hit in the face.
"Good job playing it cool, kid," Jon said as they exited after the crisis was averted.
"I don't have the patience for your sarcasm, J," Mike retorted, grabbing the coconut water someone offered him and guzzling it down. It was vile shit, he'd always thought so, but he would've drunk swamp water at that point. "I don't know why you care, anyway. The more we go at each other, the more people love it."
"Because I don't want to see you miss this fight on account of some minor dumbass injury you got in a scuffle the night before, that's why. But it's over and done with now."
"Yeah." It was over and done with. Nothing left but the beat down.
Chapter Twenty-Four
If not for Zane, Savannah might not have had the courage to go through with her plans. But she was desperate, and through Rowan, she learned Zane was already in Mexico City for the fight. She was able to arrange her flight, but he set her up in a lavish hotel and got a car and driver who was available at her whim. Kind of nice knowing people in high places.
He also didn't want her to tell Mike she was coming. She'd protested and considered calling Mike herself despite Zane's directives, but he'd shut her down when they talked on the phone.
"His head's in the game now," Zane had said. "Let's not go messing with it. He'll know you were there once it's done, and he'll need you whether it's to celebrate or pick up the pieces. But knowing you're watching might throw him off."
Once she mulled over it more, she realized that she would far rather Mike win this fight for himself, rather than have any gallant notions of winning it because she was watching, if he would be inclined. This was his comeback; it was all for him. It had nothing to do with her.
She decided she liked Zane pretty well. When Rowan finally decided to move on, she could do worse.
Before heading over to the arena from her hotel room, she found the video of the weigh-in, at first swooning a little at the sight of Michael's chiseled body when he stripped down, so lean and ripped. Even more so than she remembered-his training was paying off. If heaven was merciful, she would have those muscles under her hands tonight. Sounded as if a bunch of other girls in the audience swooned too-Too bad, bitches-and if that one insanely cute ring girl didn't get her eyes off his ass-