Immediately, ellipses bounce on the screen, then stop, then a few seconds later start again. Finally a message pops up.
Quinn: Tell him yourself. You need to go see him.
I sigh, gripping the phone tight enough to crack the screen. I missed Thanksgiving, Christmas, even the New Year’s Eve party Quinn and Zee hosted at their place because I’m too much of a coward to face them all.
I’m about to text her back, tell her I’ll make a trip into town next week when a call comes through from an unknown number.
“Yeah,” I answer.
“Is this Abbott?”
“Who’s asking?”
“Moody Brock. Theo told you I was going to call.”
“Hi…uh...yeah. Good to hear from you.” The man has won multiple MMA titles, but recently he’s taken up training and managing with his partner Theo Ryan. Both men are like gods in the MMA world. They were at one of my fights last year, and expressed an interest in me training under them, maybe even managing my career. But that was before I was injured.
I’m not sure why he’s calling me now.
“Heard you’re fighting again. Your shoulder healed up?” Moody asks.
“Yeah,” I lie, knowing it’ll never be the same as it used to be.
“Good.” He clears his throat, and I can hear the sound of cartoons blaring in the background. “I’m not sure if you’ve heard, but we’re opening a new training center in Harristown, and we wanted to offer you a job.”
I’m taken back a bit, and as much as I want to let excitement build, I know whatever this is, is probably too good to be true.
“What kind of job?”
“We’re looking for someone to manage the club. Bring in new blood—”
“Look,” I interrupt him before he wastes anymore more words. “I appreciate the offer, but I’m a fighter, not a—”
“Before you say no, come see the club, hear our offer. There’ll be plenty of opportunity for you to put those fists to good use.”
Moody Brock is offering you a job, asshole. The least you can do is hear him out.
I pause before answering, “Okay.”
“Good. I’ll be in town next Thursday—”
“Daddy, Rosie stole my Barbie again and she put it in the toilet,” a child’s voice cries in the background, followed by another child’s shriek, or laugh, I can’t tell, but I have to pull the receiver away from my ear when the wail gets louder.
“I gotta go,” Moody sighs as another sharp wail pierces through the phone. “I’ll text you the details.”
The call ends and I inhale a deep breath as I mull over what just happened. Can I really go legit? What the hell do I know about managing a club? Nothing, that’s what. And the money would be shit compared to the underground fights I accept now.
But the opportunity to work with Moody Brock and Theo Ryan is a hard deal to pass up. If there’s even a sliver of a chance to train with them, I’d be a fool to turn down their offer.
My shoulder begins to ache as if on cue, reminding me that any dreams I may have had about ever going legit were crushed the day I went after Bence Farkas.
Not that I regret doing it. He’d threatened London, and the man was merciless. I recognized the darkness in the man’s soul, knew he would stop at nothing to get what he wanted. What the man had anticipated was that my own warped darkness would stop at nothing to protect what’s mine.
Mine.
I shouldn’t see London that way. But I know the truth. Even if her heart and body never belong to me, she’s mine.
That’s why I’m here.
Why I won’t leave.
I’ve fucked up a lot in my life, but this I can do. I’ll be the best fucking friend she’s ever had. And maybe in the end, some of the guilt that sits like a boulder in my chest will start to chip away.
“Not likely, dickhead,” I mutter, picking up one of the unopened boxes and placing it on the kitchen table. The box is unmarked, but I know what’s inside.
Memories.
I pause, my pocket knife hovering over the yellowed tape. It’s been years since I opened it. There are pictures, old trophies from little league, yearbooks from high school. I’m not sure why I kept all this shit. I’m not the sentimental type. Hell, if I could hit the erase button in my head, I’d probably do it.
But then I’d be erasing London too. One stray photo catches my attention. Me and London on the beach, cheeks pink from the sun, heads tilted together in her attempt to get us both in the picture. I flip it over, and the year is the summer we were twelve.
There are more pictures. Some with my brothers and sister. Some with Liam and his brother Zee. Most were taken on the lake or in our family backyard by the pool. Good memories. So why the hell do I want to get rid of them?
Because you know there’s no excuse but your own mistakes that have made you the beast you’ve become.
Cold fills me, spreading through my veins. And I know that voice in my head is right. Everything bad that’s happened is because of my own choices.
And you really think you can protect her? You’ll ruin her. Like you’ve ruined everything else in your life. Like you’ve already ruined her life. Twice.
I dig my palms into my eyes and force the thought away. Maybe it’s the truth. It’s the reason I’ve kept my distance all these years. But everything’s changed. She needs me, now more than ever.
Bullshit. It’s you who needs her.
“God, I’m a selfish prick,” I mutter, closing the box and placing it in the storage closet.
What I really need is a cold shower. I could handle a bottle of Jack too, but I won’t break my promise. Besides what my family thinks, I can quit alcohol cold turkey. I’ve done it before. I just prefer the warm numbness it brings to the cold void where my heart should be.
I strip out of my t-shirt and rummage through one of the boxes to find a towel.
“Hey,” London says as she comes through the front door, placing her purse on the table and glancing around at all the stuff I’ve got laid out. I don’t miss the apprehension in her eyes, or the shaky breath she takes in. “So, you’re all moved in? That was fast.”
“Liam helped me bring everything up.” I find the towel I was looking for and start toward the bathroom.
“Um...right...” Her cheeks turn scarlet as her gaze drops to my bare chest, and her tongue darts out across her bottom lip.
I swallow the groan that builds in my throat and wonder if she knows the way she’s looking at me.
“I was just going to shower.”
“Right.” Her eyes are still on my chest, and it takes me a second to realize that she’s looking at one of my tattoos. The one I got to hide the scar from the bullet wound.
She reaches out to run her fingers over the dark ink, over the mangled flesh on my shoulder, and my cock is instantly steel.
Shit, I’m so screwed.
“I’ve never seen this one before,” she says, squinting to read the words below the snarling grizzly bear. “He who makes a beast of himself gets rid of the pain of being a man.”
“Samuel Johnson,” I say, needing to distance myself from her, and yet wanting to pull her closer at the same time.
Her frown deepens, and she murmurs, “The Beast of Port Clover.” She looks up at me, her palm flat against my chest, covering the tattoo. A small sigh escapes her lips. “What pain are you trying to get rid of, Abbott?”
My throat squeezes, and memories tumble into my head, bringing with them torment and agony. London’s screams. Blurred images.
I hold her gaze, sunlight pours from those eyes, trying to illuminate the darkness. But some things are better left in the shadows. Like the secret I’ve kept from her all these years. Because I know she’ll never forgive me if she ever found out the truth.
“I think we need another rule.” I move her hand away and drop it.
She exhales behind me. “What’s that?”
“None of that psychoanalysis shit you like to do. I’m not
one of your patients.”
One thing London doesn’t do is nag, so I’m not surprised when she quickly changes the subject. “I’m heading back to the hospital. Just came home to change. So I won’t be here tonight.”
“You’re working another shift?” I frown, hating how much she’s taking on, seeing the faint bruises under her eyes.
“I need to work as much as I can before the baby comes.”
“The reason I’m staying here is so that you don’t have to.”
She rests a hand on her stomach, and I see all sorts of doubts race across her features.
“You don’t think I’m staying,” I say, reading her thoughts.
“I just...I can’t depend on you always being here.”
I know what she wants to say is, I can’t depend on you.
And maybe she’s right. But there’s a part of me that wants to prove her wrong.
“I’m not leaving, London.”
“If you want to help,” she says, looking uncertain of whether to ask what she’s about to. “There’s a grocery list on the fridge. I’ll leave some money on the kitchen table. If you can go to the store—”
“I don’t need your money.”
“Fifty-fifty, remember.”
“I’ve seen the way you eat. I’ll pay for the groceries. No arguing.”
A small smile tugs at her lips. “You’re not as much of an asshole as everyone thinks, you know that?”
“Trust me, I’m even more of one.” I grin at her and wink. “I just like you better than I like most people.”
Chapter 6
London
“Damn, girl, are you insane?” Monica, one of my best friends since nursing school, shakes her head at me from across the staff room table where she’s peeling an orange and gawking at me like I’ve lost my mind.
And two days with Abbott walking around my apartment half-naked, I’m starting to wonder if maybe I have. It’s not that I haven’t seen his body before, we spent our summers on the beach and out on the lake, but it’s different when I know he’s sleeping a room away.
“If you needed a roommate that bad, I’m sure you could have found a better one than Abbott Savage.”
“He’s trying to put his life back together.” And so far he’s kept his promise. He’s been sober since he’s moved in, and if he’s seeing anyone, he hasn’t brought them around.
It’s only been two days, London, my brain reminds me.
Monica is still shaking her head. “And you really want to be the one fixing him when you’re about to have a baby?”
“I’m not trying to fix him.” Even as I say the words, I know the truth. But I know the man he really is, the one who’s trapped beneath the weight of guilt. And I also know that nothing he could ever do would make me stop caring about him.
As if reading my thoughts, Monica purses her lips before saying, “I know you’ve been in love with him since—”
“I am not in love with him.” My words come out more forced than intended, and she just gives me a sad, knowing smile. “Not the way you think. We’re just...old friends.”
One brow raises and her lips purse. “You’re a shitty liar.”
“Even if I had feelings for him, it’s not like Abbott’s ever seen me that way. He’s never even tried to kiss me.”
“And I can hear the disappointment dripping from your words,” she says dramatically.
I roll my eyes. “I’m not thinking about kissing Abbott, or anyone else right now. He just wants to help. He was Kyle’s friend too, and he feels guilty about what happened.”
“He should,” Monica mutters. “I knew Kyle, there was no way he would have gotten involved—”
“Don’t,” I warn.
“You’re so blind when it comes to him.”
Maybe. Or maybe I’m the only person left who sees the real Abbott.
“Just give him a break. For me.” I rest a palm on my stomach, feeling the tiny flutter beneath it. I am so not ready for this. And right now, I can use all the help I can get. My father died years ago, and my mom has never been the same since. Most days she barely gets out of bed. I’m on my own now.
All I have is Abbott.
“Come on London. Be real. Abbott can’t even help himself, how’s he going to help you? You really want him around your baby?” She shakes her head and gives me a look of sympathy. “You know he’s just going to disappoint you like he always does.” Monica tosses her orange peel in the garbage and leans toward me. “Just, please, whatever you do, don’t sleep with him.”
Heat races to my cheeks, and I shake away the image of Abbott in my bed, his hard body pressed against mine. I cough. “I told you, it’s not like that between us. And honestly, it’s not like any guy is going to want me now. Look at me.”
“See that’s what I’m worried about. You don’t realize how gorgeous you are.” Her gaze is narrowed on me, real concern in her eyes. “Look, I know it’s not unusual that you’d cling to Abbott right now. But just remember that he is not Kyle. He can’t replace what you’ve lost.”
“I’m not trying to replace Kyle.”
Her lips thin, and I know she doesn’t believe me. She’s just trying to help, but frustration and anger simmer inside me at her words.
“I know you don’t want to hear it, sweetheart,” Monica continues, obviously not reading my mood. “But playing house with Abbott Savage is just that...playing...with fire. You’re too damn trusting. You know he’s going to run the second things get too hard. I just don’t want to see you hurt again.”
The sad thing is I know she’s right.
It’s what Abbott does.
Run.
Fight.
Hurt.
Why do I think things will be different with me?
The rest of my shift, and the drive back to my apartment, I second guess myself for letting him move in. I’ve got myself so worked up by the time I turn the key and open the door, I half expect to walk in and find a harem of women snorting coke off the changing table, and Abbott passed out on the couch.
But instead, I’m met with a heavenly scent that wafts down the hall making my mouth water.
I frown and call out, “Abbott?”
“Hey,” he says from the kitchen. “You’re home just in time. I made pot roast.” Abbott grins when I enter the kitchen. “Hope you’re hungry?”
“You cooked?” I can’t help but frown, it’s just so...unlike him.
“I went online and found a bunch of recipes for this thing—” He points to the large crockpot on the counter. “You just put the food in, press a button, and it’s ready in a few hours.”
I laugh. “Yeah, I know how to use a slow cooker.”
He pulls the lid off, and grabs a serving spoon from the drawer, before scooping out a chunk of meat, a few potatoes, and some vegetables onto a plate, then hands it to me.
“I can’t believe you made this,” I say, taking the plate and sitting down at the table.
“I read on one of those mom sites that they’re great for preparing meals after the baby is born. Easy and quick.” He serves himself a plate and sits across from me.
My brows lift. “You were on a parenting website?”
He shrugs. “I had a few hours to kill and thought it wouldn’t hurt to read up on ways to help you out.” A grimace tugs at his mouth. “Could’ve gone without reading about the whole labor and delivery part though. Jesus, I don’t know how your body will ever recover from something like that. Did you know the baby’s head is the size of a—”
“I don’t want to think about that while I’m eating.” Or at all. I might be a nurse, but I’ve never been good with pain. I take a bite of the meat and it practically melts in my mouth. “Oh wow, this is really good.”
“But you have a birth plan, right?”
“Yeah, sure.” I take a bite of potato and groan. “Okay, you’re officially on cooking duty.”
I expect him to laugh, make some kind of joke about getting out of cleaning, but
he’s still frowning.
“I was on a website that said the US has the worst rates of maternal death in the developing world. That there are—”
“Abbott.” I put my fork down. “You’re doing that thing you do.”
“What?”
“Making up reasons to worry.” He’s done this since we were kids. I got chickenpox when I was thirteen, and the way he acted when he found out, you would have thought I had the bubonic plague.
“I’m not making this shit up. I was reading—”
“I’m going to be fine.” I reach across the table and grab his hand, squeezing it. “But thank you for caring about me.”
His jaw tightens, and he picks up his fork and starts eating again, but I know his silence only means he’s internalized his concerns.
“I heard Kade and Sophie had their baby,” I say, changing the subject. “I bet Lola is ecstatic to be a big sister.”
He grunts, and shoves another piece of meat in his mouth.
“Have you seen the baby yet?”
“No.” When he takes his last bite, he pushes his chair back and picks up his plate and places it in the sink.
God, the man is mercurial. I never know what’s going to send him into one of his moods. Actually, that’s not true, mentioning his family seems to be a sure-fire way to get his hackles up.
“Are you finished?” he asks when I push my plate away, then taking it when I nod. “I’ll clean up. You should go get some sleep.”
“You cooked, I’ll clean.”
“No. You need to get off your feet.”
I stand, about to argue when a cramp tightens my stomach.
His back is to me as he starts running the water and rinsing off the plates.
There was a time I would have pushed him, tried to get him to talk, but I know pushing will only make him draw even deeper into himself. So I leave and head to the bathroom to shower.
His things are already spread out on the counter, shaving cream, razor, a bottle of cologne, like he’s always been here.
A smile tugs at my lips as I pick up the glass bottle of Ck One that I bought him for his last birthday. He’s been wearing the same scent since we were teenagers, a scent that still makes my body rush with warmth every time he’s near. Makes me...need. A need to be wrapped in his arms, to bask in his strength, to be consumed by the fierceness of his protection.
Beast: Savages and Saints Page 4
