Raw Deal

by Cherrie Lynn

  Which was a blessing in itself. Rowan had completely thrown herself into the planning stage, and she excelled at it. A project for the house was exactly what she’d needed to make her feel a little better, and decorating the nursery was perfect.

  “Naturally, I’ll pick a color scheme for a boy, one for a girl, and then one in case I do decide to go gender-neutral like these.” Naturally. “Which is always a possibility. I love this sage over here too. What do you think?”

  “I like it all.”

  “You are absolutely no help whatsoever.” Rowan shot her an aggrieved look and got up to go to the kitchen for more drinks: water for herself, sweet tea for Savannah. While she was gone, Savannah twirled her empty glass in her hands, rattling the ice, and debated.

  Mike’s offer had been sitting on the tip of her tongue for a week. She was running out of time. And even though she’d decided on the best way to approach the situation, she still hadn’t worked up enough nerve to do it.

  “What’s with you lately?” Rowan called from the kitchen amid the sound of pouring tea and crackling ice. “I’m usually the one down in the dumps. I actually feel okay today, and now you’re the zombie.”

  “Yeah,” Savannah replied, gazing through the dining room window at the bright pink azaleas blooming outside Rowan’s house. No time like the present, right? “Um, Ro? I have something to tell you.”

  Rowan reappeared with two fresh glasses and placed them on the table. As usual, she looked beautiful, even with her blond hair in a sloppy bun and without a trace of makeup. Pregnancy had given her a glow that her grief wasn’t able to touch. The light was gradually beginning to come back into her green eyes. “What is it?” She sat and began picking through her swatches again. Savannah noticed her fingernails looked freshly manicured, so there was another small return to normality.

  She sipped her tea, feeling her heart thud heavily in her chest. “What if I told you”—she took a fortifying breath—“that you have a real chance to meet the singer of August on Fire?”

  Rowan’s hands froze. Her gaze flickered up to meet Savannah’s through her dark lashes. “I would say you’re joking, of course.”

  “Well, you do. All access in Houston, or really wherever you want to go until the tour ends.”

  “Have you lost your mind? There’s no way.”

  “There is. I am absolutely not joking.”

  “No way. No freaking way.”

  Savannah chuckled as each of Rowan’s protests ratcheted up a notch in urgency. “Look, I’m serious. I wouldn’t mess with you about something like this. And I can go with you, if you want.”

  “All access? Like, I would get to meet him? For real?”

  “That’s my understanding.”

  For perhaps five seconds, Rowan simply sat and stared at her dumbly, and then she erupted with a shriek, her hands flying to her mouth. “Oh my God, Savvy! How?”

  “Let’s just say . . . I know people?”

  “Who in the hell do you know who can pull this off?”

  This was the part she dreaded, but there was no going back now. Not telling her who’d made this offer would be unthinkable, practically a betrayal of some sort. She pushed the words out in a rush, keeping her gaze downcast. “I really don’t know how you’re going to take this, so I’m just going to blurt it out. I met Mike Larson for coffee after Tommy’s service just to hear him out. He mentioned the fact that the guy who was with him at the cemetery was his brother.” Now she looked up at Rowan’s blank face. “His brother being Zane Larson.”

  “That was . . .” Horror dawned in her eyes. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

  “I don’t think it’s well publicized that they’re related. I didn’t know, either.”

  But Rowan’s mind was apparently going in a completely different direction. She placed both hands flat on the table and shot several inches up out of her chair. “You’re telling me,” she began slowly, “that was Zane Larson and he saw me act like that?”

  “I’m sure he understands you were upset—”

  “Fuck! Savannah!” Rowan’s sloppy bun became even sloppier when she dropped back into her seat and shoved her hands into her hair in exasperation. “You haven’t said a word about this in all this time!”

  “I didn’t know what to do! But I talked to Mike again, and he made this offer thinking—”

  “Wait, you talked to him again? How many times have you talked to this guy?”

  “Just once more, I promise. He’s trying to help, Rowan. I told him you were a big fan of his brother’s, and he said he could get us in anywhere and fly us there too, but the tour wraps up in Houston, which would be closest for us. He said we don’t have to see him at all.”

  Her face unreadable, Rowan looked down at her swatches and blindly fiddled with them for a moment before dropping them and leaning back in her chair. “Wow. Wow. I don’t know what to say.”

  “It’s totally, totally up to you, okay? I really don’t even like their music.” She chuckled and drank her tea, letting Rowan stew for a while in all of this shocking new information. At least none of the explosion had really been directed toward her. Yet. Give her time to think about it.

  “What if he’s an asshole?” Rowan blurted out after a couple of minutes.

  “Then I guess you’ll know, at least.”

  “They say to never meet your idols.”

  “Oh, is he an idol now?”

  “He always has been. His music has really gotten me through a lot of stuff; I thought you knew that. He must have had it pretty rough himself growing up, given some of his lyrics.”

  “I kind of got that impression from some of the things Mike said. I don’t know.”

  Rowan snatched her phone up from the tabletop and typed furiously for a few seconds. “The last show is in three weeks. Let me think about it. I mean . . . this is something we probably couldn’t tell your parents about. They would go apeshit if they knew I was traipsing off to a rock concert in my condition.”

  “Your condition? You’re pregnant, not dying. I’m sure it’ll be fine, but no, I wouldn’t tell them anything except maybe we’re going away for a girls’ weekend.”

  “Even that would probably freak them out, the way they’re carrying on. God! I feel like I’m totally dreaming right now.”

  She’s going, Savannah thought to herself. She might not like it, but she’s going. Her relief at having her confession out there was so strong it was practically a weight in itself.

  “But Savvy?”

  “Yeah?”

  “I’d really rather Zane’s brother not be there.”

  “He’ll be there, but like I said, he said he’ll stay away.”

  “Good.”

  “Rowan—”

  She put a hand up to stop her. “I appreciate what he’s doing for us, but I’m not ready to have to face him. I don’t know if I ever will be. Please thank him for me, but I don’t want to see him. If that’s a problem for him, then I guess I’ll stay home.”

  She wouldn’t even say his name. She hadn’t said it once throughout this entire conversation. Savannah sighed and picked up the amaretto swatch, determined not to argue. Rowan felt how she felt, and she had every right. Nothing would change that. “I like this one.”

  Chapter Five

  Sweat stung his eyes. His muscles screamed. Every jab to the bag jarred up his arms and every kick had the entire force of his body behind it. Mike wasn’t sure if his training was more about maintaining his fitness or exorcising his demons lately, but when faces from his past began to drift across the heavy bag, he amped up his blows. Fuck you, and fuck you, and fuck you, too . . .

  Until the images changed and Tommy Dugas stood glaring at him in a defensive stance. The roar of a crowd in chaos echoed in his ears. Mike backpedaled, his arms dropping. “Time,” his coach, Jon, called none too soon. Mike stripped off his gloves and unwound his hand tape, breathing hard. “Are we done?” Jon asked him, raising an eyebrow.

  “For now we a
re.”

  “You all right?”

  Mike took a long pull from his water bottle and doused his overheated, sweat-drenched head with the rest of the liquid. Gradually, the familiar, comforting grunts and thuds and metal clanging of the gym began to filter back in through his addled thoughts, pushing out the cheers and screams and jeers of an Attack Force MMA main event audience. Maybe it was only his imagination, but when he glanced around, he thought he noticed several gazes suddenly darting off somewhere else. He wiped the sweat and water out of his eyes with the towel Jon handed him. “Yeah.”

  But Jon knew him better than anyone else in his life, except for maybe his brothers. Only ten years older, he’d been like a father figure from the time Mike was in high school, trying his damnedest to keep Mike’s ass out of juvy until the magical age of seventeen when he began trying to keep his ass out of jail. They’d met when Mike had marched black eyed into the gym Jon owned and demanded to learn how to fight. Schoolyard brawls were all he knew back then, and though he’d held his own in most of them, he’d wanted skill. He never wanted to lose. He wanted those fuckers to flee in terror rather than face him. The only skill Jon had wanted to teach him at first was how to walk away. Once he figured that out, Jon had told him, then he would show him a thing or two.

  It was still the hardest lesson.

  They’d begun with boxing, progressing later to kickboxing and mixed martial arts. He practically lived in Jon’s gym and shuddered to think where he would be if not for the man standing next to him right now, eyeballing him warily. That alternate universe would probably involve a lot more carnage and a cage he couldn’t step out of once the fight was done.

  “You went after it like it was trying to hit you back,” Jon drawled.

  Everything he touched tried to hit him back. “If you want me to dial it down, then tell me.”

  “If that had been a fight, you’d have been out of steam before the end of the round.”

  “Except it wasn’t.”

  “All right,” Jon conceded, obviously sensing his dark mood. “Are you sleeping at night?”

  “What are you, my fucking doctor?”

  “You look like shit.”

  “Thanks.”

  “You need to talk to someone.”

  “I talk to you.”

  “The hell you do. And as we just established, I ain’t your fucking doctor.”

  Mike rubbed a hand through his short hair. “Then drop it.”

  “Great. I might not be a doctor, but I’ll give you my assessment. You aren’t sleeping, you aren’t eating clean, and you’re drinking more than you should. Am I warm?”

  He tossed and turned most nights, ate okay, and hung out with Damien way too much, which was answer enough to the last of Jon’s assessments. Looping his towel around his neck, he shrugged. “I’m doing all right. Don’t worry about it. I’m still getting my head straight, it’s just taking some time.”

  Jon’s large, heavy hands came down on his shoulders. Mike was tall enough that he had to look slightly down at him, but it never felt that way. The guy had a tendency to make him feel fifteen again. “Listen to me. Whatever you need to do to deal with this shit, do it. There’s no shame in asking for help if you need it.”

  The only thing that would help was something he couldn’t ask for, and damn sure couldn’t demand. Something completely out of his control. “I’m doing all right, J. I’m dealing.” He laughed without humor. “You know how I am.”

  “Yeah,” Jon said, letting his hands slide away. “That’s what has me worried. Mike, let’s remember our game plan, all right?”

  Mike repeated it with him. “Stay ready so you don’t have to get ready.”

  Except they were only meaningless words that echoed hollowly in his head. The motivation behind them was no longer there.

  It was the same story in the locker room; eyes shifting away when he came in, conversations dropping. A couple of the guys nodded greetings, but they were fast to clear out. What the hell did they think he was going to do? Kill them? Feeling tight as a bowstring stretched to its limit, he stared into the depths of his locker and despaired at how everything had gone to hell. This had been his sanctuary. This had saved him. And it had been violated. It had become a personal hell where he was tormented by a ghost. It had been his salvation and now it might be his damnation. He slammed his locker door a little too hard on his way to the showers, and the dude a few feet down from him practically jumped.

  Mike kept the shower spray as hot as he could stand it, hoping it would ease his tight, aching muscles, but that tension had nothing to do with the workout he’d just endured. Nothing at all. On his way back to his locker to get dressed, a towel wrapped around his waist, a trio of guys came in laughing. He didn’t know them, but he’d seen them around—the kind of smarmy frat douches he tried to stay clear of. Adult versions of the little assholes who’d given him the most shit throughout his life. The loudest and blondest one of the bunch made direct eye contact with him, tilted his chin up and said, with a shitty glint in his eye, “What’s up, killa?”

  Mike stopped dead, fury seeming to boil up from the very soles of his feet. “The fuck you just say to me?”

  Slack-jawed, the guys froze. The speaker, the blond king of the douches, put his hands up palms out. “Bro, I didn’t—”

  “I’m not your fucking bro.”

  “It was just a—I didn’t mean—It was a figure of speech—”

  “It was the wrong one. Try again.”

  “Um . . .” Chuckling nervously, the guy glanced to his friends for help, but they were pulling the whole look away thing. “What’s up . . . dude?”

  It wasn’t much better, but since the guy looked like he was about to piss himself, Mike gave a curt nod and moved on to his locker to get dressed. The room was silent enough to hear a pin drop until he left a few minutes later, his heart still beating a ragged, unfulfilled rhythm. Little shits. He had no doubt they’d known exactly who he was, but had felt safe in their numbers. Mike had faced worse odds than that and come out on top; numbers didn’t impress him and they damn sure didn’t make him back down.

  He threw himself into his truck, only then realizing how hard he was still breathing from the encounter, thinking maybe he’d cut out from his workout too soon. Right about now it would feel good to beat the hell out of something. It was Jon’s influence that he was thinking about the bag and not that other guy’s face. They were probably running to Jon to complain; Mike would expect a call about that later, if not in the next ten minutes.

  Absently checking his phone at the thought, his breath caught and shuddered out, slowing immediately. Savannah. He’d missed a call from Savannah, and she’d left a voicemail.

  Heart beating raggedly now for an entirely different reason, he brought the phone to his ear, anticipating hearing her angel-sweet voice and wondering if it would be the balm to his soul he hoped it would. Depends, he thought, on what she has to say.

  “Hi, Mike? Sorry I missed you. I hate talking to these things, too. And you’re probably thinking, ‘Then why don’t you text?’ Which is what I’m asking myself right now.” She chuckled and he found himself smiling. “Listen, I told Rowan about your offer and, well, I guess we’re in! The Houston show would be easiest for us. So, um, just call me back with details or whatever, okay? Okay. Um . . . thanks. Bye.”

  He was actually surprised she remembered their midnight conversation, truth be known. Her sleepy voice had slurred on more than one occasion and he’d thought she might drift off right there on the phone with him. If he wanted to be perfectly honest with himself, some of his sleepless nights had been more about hoping she was all right and wondering if he would ever hear that voice again than any personal torment he was experiencing.

  She answered right away when he called back, her cheery greeting a little breathless. For a moment, he couldn’t think straight. “Savannah, hey. I got your message.”

  “Oh, great. So I guess you know? Well, obviously,
you know. You got the message. Um . . .”

  Grinning, he bailed her out. “Do you think you two would rather drive over, or fly?”

  “Rowan hates flying. She will when she has to. But that’s probably the main reason she wants to do the Houston date. It’s fairly close.”

  He didn’t like the thought of them on the road for that long; they would be safer in the sky. But of course, it was up to them. “Yeah, but one hour in the air and you’d be here. Versus five in a car.”

  “Believe me, I know. Maybe I can talk her into it.”

  “Let me know so I can arrange everything. I’ll get Zane to tell his people to put you guys on the guest list.”

  “And . . . you’ll be there?”

  “I’ll be around, yeah.” His mood had brightened considerably after hearing from her, but as the reality of the situation sank back in, it darkened once again. “I won’t make you tell me to steer clear. I know. If either of you need anything, I’m there and you have my number, but other than that, I’ll keep my distance.”

  “Mike . . .” Something helpless and sad in her voice. It stilled everything inside him. Heart, lungs, life itself. It all seemed to pause, on hold, waiting for her thoughts. “I’m sorry,” she finished, and everything reluctantly started back up again, a little sadder, a little grimmer.

  “You don’t have to apologize to me, Savannah. Ever.”

  “How have you been?”

  He thought of the trio in the locker room, the shifty gazes, the violated sanctuary. The ghosts. Rubbing his forehead, he told her, “I’m hanging in there. Just got done at the gym. What about you?”

  “I spent the day with Rowan, planning the nursery. I’m hanging in there too, I guess. It’s hard.”

  “I know.”

  “She seems a little better today. The idea of getting to meet your brother turned her into a screeching fangirl for a few minutes. Despite everything, I think she might have a tiny bit of a crush.”

  He burst out laughing at that. “Oh, God. In that case, I hope she’s not incredibly disappointed. I’ll have to tell him to be on his best behavior.”