by Aly Martinez
“It’s just . . . I’m so fucking mad at him right now.” I paused to collect myself but failed. “He’s so goddamn stupid. Why the hell didn’t he go to the police instead of storming in and trying to take care of it himself?” My chest ached as the memories filled my mind. “He shouldn’t have been there at all. It’s so messed up, but I want him to get out of surgery so I can . . . kick him or something.”
Till coughed a laugh that was dripping with emotions. “I’m pissed too. But he took a bullet for my wife and daughter. I’m gonna have to figure out a way to get over it.”
I couldn’t let it go though. I would have done anything for those boys, and apparently, he felt the same.
“I met your dad,” I said as I tried my damnedest to stop envisioning Flint when he rushed through that hotel door.
“I heard.” Till snapped.
“How the hell does he know sign language?”
“I have no fucking idea. But if I ever find that motherfucker, he won’t be alive long enough for me to ask.” He looked down and kissed my forehead.
We quietly sat there for a few minutes, lost in our own thoughts, but mine were just a never-ending replay of the day. My anxiety climbed with the vision of a gun being smashed into Quarry’s face, then Flint—
Till interrupted my spiral downward. “You’re shaking. Talk to me.”
I couldn’t stop the words as they flew from my mouth. “It was terrible, Till. I’ll never be able to forget the way Flint’s body jumped when the bullet hit him. Even as he fell on top of me, he was thinking enough to catch himself with an arm so he didn’t land on my stomach. He has to be okay. We can’t lose him.”
Till was chewing on his bottom lip, and I knew for certain he didn’t need to hear any of it, but I also knew for certain that it would engulf me if I didn’t talk to someone so I selfishly kept going.
“Oh, God. I really thought he was dead. Then he woke up when the paramedics got there, but he just kept repeating my name.” I dropped my chin to my chest and tried to rid myself of the memories that would haunt me forever.
“Shhh. I’ve got you. He’s okay. We’re all okay,” Till choked out before pulling me into a hug.
I couldn’t see him, but it was okay. Talking wasn’t helping the ache in my chest that was threatening to devour me.
He eventually wedged his massive body onto the bed beside me and let me cry into his chest until I fell asleep. I loved Till Page, but not even his arms brought me comfort that night.
Till
“I’m sorry,” the surgeon said, pulling off his hat. “I don’t have any answers.”
Slate translated beside the doctor. Eliza was sobbing in the bed, and I blindly reached down to hold her hand.
“You . . .” I paused as my legs started to shake. “You’re a doctor. How can you not know?” I swallowed hard.
“Spinal injuries are difficult to predict. It’s case by case, really. We’re going to do everything we can, but there is a good chance that he may never walk again.”
I choked on a shocked breath. Quarry bolted from the room, Erica hot on his heels.
“We’ll just have to wait and see. Give him some time to recover and let his body heal.”
I watched Slate’s hands, but when I made it to his eyes, they mirrored the devastation in my own.
“No. That’s not a good enough answer. Fix him.” It was worthless. I knew there was nothing the doctor could do, but that didn’t prevent me from taking an angry step forward and demanding again, “Fucking fix him.”
Slate stepped in front of me, but I didn’t explode like I was sure he was expecting me to. I was exhausted. So instead, I backed up and sat down on the edge of Eliza’s bed. She wrapped her arms around my neck from the side, and I looked up to Slate.
“I’m so sick of fighting.”
He reached forward and squeezed my shoulder. “I can’t blame you. But let’s just hope Flint doesn’t feel the same way. This isn’t your fight anymore.”
I kissed the top of Eliza’s head and rested a hand on her stomach. It was going to kill me, but Slate was right. I would have to watch this one from outside the ring.
It was Flint’s turn to fight.
Epilogue
Eliza
BLAKELY PAGE WAS BORN THREE months after that horrible day in Vegas. She was the bright light during a dark time for all of us. With a head full of Till’s straight, black hair and my deep-blue eyes, she was beautiful—there was no disputing that. She had a tiny freckle-sized birthmark on the top of her hand that Till quickly fell in love with. He was such a great dad. He always had been though.
“The Silencer” Till Page lost his title belt after a rematch with Rick Matthews only a few months later. However, as the defending champion, the contract read a little differently that night. With a guaranteed eight figures in his pocket, “The Poor Kid Fighting For A Better Life” Till Page smiled with genuine excitement as The Brick Wall’s glove was lifted into the air. It didn’t matter one bit that he’d lost his final fight as a professional boxer. Till was the absolute winner as he walked out of that ring.
The day Till received his cochlear implant was extremely bittersweet. There wasn’t a dry eye in the room as he heard Blakely cry for the very first time. Unfortunately, not everyone was there to witness it firsthand.
Flint and Quarry never truly came back from Vegas. Sure, they both returned home with us when Flint was well enough to travel, but my boys weren’t on that flight.
They lived under our roof, but after that the smiles were never as wide nor were the laughs as loud. The apartment became entirely too quiet. I understood why Flint had changed so drastically, but even my sweet, foul-mouthed Quarry withdrew. We tried too hard to make everything go back to how it used to be, but ultimately, we were forced to let go and make the best of the present.
The first thing Till did after he lost his title was write two enormous checks. Slate was more than happy to sell him fifty percent ownership of On The Ropes. Even though the funds were transferred electronically, Slate made a huge production about Till coming up to the gym late one night to deliver the check personally. It was all a ploy though. When Till walked through the door, Slate surprised him with his name painted in the coveted blank on the wall. Till was, in fact, On The Ropes’ first world champion, and he had been on every possible news and sports network you could imagine, but nothing validated his success more than seeing his name on that wall.
The second check Till wrote was to the old construction company where he used to work. We spent over a week sketching our dream house. As soon as we were finished, Till rushed it down to the architecture firm to have formal plans drawn up. It wasn’t anything huge, but it was a mansion for us. I was banned from visiting the build site. I knew he was hiding something, but Till gave me a classic one-sided grin every time I brought it up, so I let it slide. Finally, the day we were presented with our keys, he let me in on his little secret.
“Close your eyes, Doodle!”
“I’m carrying a baby, Till!”
“Well, then, give me my baby.” He pulled Blakely from my arms.
She went more than willingly and squealed as he tickled her stomach.
The entire house was empty since we hadn’t moved in yet, but when we entered the large master suite, there were pale-pink curtains drawn over one of the windows.
“I didn’t take you for a pink kind of guy.”
“You know, when we bought this land, I wasn’t completely sold on it. But one look at the view outside of that window and I decided that I never wanted to live anywhere else. Seriously, check it out.” He tilted his head.
I narrowed my eyes at him as I moved toward the window. He held my stare, but a massive smile threatened to split his face.
After one last look over my shoulder, I pushed the curtains back.
I gasped as my hand flew to my mouth and tears made my vision swim.
The other side of that window wasn’t outside at all. It led into a small r
oom laid out exactly like our old abandoned apartment. There were cushions against the wall for a couch, our filing cabinet pantry, and the easel he had built for me years earlier. Till had made a few additions of his own too. There was a table covered by sketchpads, and various art supplies and paints lined a shelf. A picture from our wedding hung on one wall while black-and-white photos of Blakely, Flint, and Quarry covered the other.
“Till,” I whispered, unable to drag my eyes away.
With Blakely in one arm, he wrapped the other around my waist. I swayed back to lean against his chest.
“I know how you feel about doors, so I had them add one in the closet.”
I turned to look up into those hazel eyes and said, “I think I’d rather use the window.”
He smiled and placed a gentle kiss on my lips.
“This is amazing. I . . . I can’t even tell you how much I love it.”
Using his thumb, he wiped the tears from my cheeks then shrugged. “What can I say? I’m good at fantasy.”
I sucked in a shaky breath as I watched Till Page, my husband, hold our daughter inside our home with pictures of my family covering the walls. I couldn’t have asked for more.
“You’re pretty good at reality too.”
The End
Acknowledgements
I hate writing acknowledgements. Seriously, the second I type The End, I curl my lip and shake my fists, knowing I have to do this part. It’s not because I don’t have a million people to thank for each and every book, but rather because there are a million people to thank for each and every book. I would be absolutely nowhere without the endless support of the indie book community. This includes the readers, bloggers, and authors.
I’m probably going to forget someone. I always do. But that is not because I don’t appreciate the endless amount of support that I receive. It’s because I’m writing this with a glass of wine in my hand. Cheers . . . and please forgive me.
These ladies keep my on track and harass me on Facebook when they know I should be writing: Bianca J and Bianca S. I usually just say Bianca and Bianca, but every single person who has ever read my books say, “Is that a typo or do you have two betas named Bianca?” Nope. I have two! And they are invaluable to me.
Then I have my picky betas. These chicks keep me in check on my details: Tracey and Alexis. I know the word ‘picky’ doesn’t sound like a positive thing, but trust me it is the most precious of all traits in a good beta. I love these ladies.
Let’s not forget my sweet beta: Lakrysa. This woman always points out such amazing positives about my books that it fuels my words.
Then . . . oh, lawd . . . my dirty betas: Amie and Miranda. These ladies just joined the team for Fighting Silence and I have never had more fun. They pretend to be innocent, but honestly they are just amazing. I couldn’t love them harder. Don’t worry they will be sticking around. I’ve promised some spankings.
Oh, we can’t forget the crazy beta: Natasha. This chick. . . . THIS. CHICK. She bulldozed her way onto my beta team a few books ago. I’ve never turned back. I love her so much. She makes me laugh and gives me shit for drinking boxed wine. *sip*. We even snuggled at WBW. Be jealous.
Last but not least on the team, we have the real life betas: Ashley and Autumn. I don’t even have words to describe to you how much these ladies ground me on a daily basis. We may fight and roll our eyes, but every day ends with a text and the mornings start bright and early the same way. I love them hardcore.
Let’s talk formatting for a moment. I’ve said it a million times before and I’ll say it again, Stacey Blake is amazing. I can’t even begin to tell you how much I LOVE this part of the process. You know why? Because working with Stacey is a DREAM! She is prompt, on time, and always available when I start to go crazy because I found a typo the night before release. HAHA!
Oh, and my editors. Lord do these ladies know how to polish a potato. (I hate the word turd. SHIT! I said it anyway.) Mickey and Claire. You ladies are top shelf.
The final proofreaders: Gina and Danielle. These are the ladies who make sure I don’t screw up the edits. (Which I usually do!) I can’t even begin to tell you how much they improved this book. Isn’t that right, Danielle? It was almost the Flinter fiasco of 2015.
I need you all to strap on your imagination cap for a minute. Now, in reality, I’m holding my glass in the air. Pretend you are here with me because I need to tell you about some amazing ladies.
M. “Mo” Mabie is one of the most incredibly talented ladies I have ever met. I don’t mean only because she writes amazing books though. Mo excels at being an amazing friend too. Her heart is always in the right place, and her mouth can move at exceptional speeds at one a.m. while plotting books via Facebook messenger. I can honestly say that Till Page wouldn’t be who he is today without her. Better yet . . . I wouldn’t be the author I am today without her. Okay okay, I’m getting sappy. Yes, we MIGHT have a lady love affair going, but I’ll always be the top! *Flirty wink* DS for life! <3
Erin Noelle is another on of those magical people who make this author thing the best job ever. This time last year I would have fangirled her . . . Oh wait, I totally did that. Now, I can honestly call her a friend. She still thinks I’m weird, and I still stare at her boobs like a creeper, but I’m okay with that. Hopefully she is too!
Chelle Bliss. This freaking woman. I know there is a (hopefully) humorous exchange in this book that goes like this . . .
“If you have a problem, I solve it—”
“That’s actually Vanilla Ice.”
Well, guess what? Chelle Bliss is officially Vanilla Ice. No matter how big or how small my question, Chelle is always there with an answer. And if she doesn’t have the answer, she will call you a dirty name and tell you to Google it. HAHA! I love her so much!
Alissa S: What in the world would I do without her? She is a fantastic PA who keeps my butt in line and holds down the fort when I spend weeks locked away in the cave. I’m insanely lucky to have her and also be able to call her a friend.
Prologue
Ash
“WHERE THE FUCK HAVE YOU been?” a man’s voice growled as soon as I entered the conference room.
My eyes flashed to his for only a single second before I recognized them. The door had barely clicked behind me, but I already wanted nothing more than to bolt. My heart raced, and my mouth dried.
I have to get out of here.
“Um . . .” I stalled, giving myself time to formulate a plan.
“Sit. Down,” he ordered, pushing out the chair next to him, but there was no way I was getting that close.
“I’m good,” I said, taking a step backwards toward the door.
“Don’t even think about it,” he snapped. “I swear to God, if you so much as open that door . . .” His words might have trailed off, but the threat had been clearly stated.
I swallowed hard and slowly walked to the chair farthest away from him, perching on the very edge—waiting for the right moment to escape.
He looked down at the name badge around my neck and quirked an eyebrow.
“Victoria?”
“You can call me Tori if it’s easier.” I tried to fake a smile, but it only seemed to infuriate him.
He took several calming breaths, which did nothing to dampen the blaze brewing in his angry eyes. “I’ve been looking for you, Ash.” He snarled my name.
“Oh, yeah? Well, mystery solved. Here I am.” I pushed back to my feet, but I was halted when his fist pounded against the table. My whole body flinched from the surprise.
When the room fell silent, I slowly looked back up to find him staring at me with a murderous glare. Even while he was sitting down, I could tell he was huge, and as he held my gaze, the tense muscles in his neck and shoulders strained against the cotton of his grey henley. He blinked at me for several seconds before finding his voice again.
“You live in a homeless shelter,” he stated definitively, as if the words told a story all of their own.
>
And maybe they did.
“I work at a homeless shelter,” I quickly corrected.
Only he corrected me just as fast. “In exchange for a permanent place to live . . . in. A. Homeless. Shelter.” He enunciated every single syllable.
I looked away, because it was the truth.
A truth I hated.
But the God’s honest truth nonetheless.
Tears welled in my eyes, and I battled to keep them at bay.
My life was hard, but his being there made it infinitely harder. If I could just escape that room, I could disappear again. It wasn’t ideal, but neither was his showing up.
“I want you to leave,” I lied with all the false courage I could muster.
“I can’t do that. You stole something of mine.”
“Look, I don’t have your book anymore.”
A knowing smirk lifted one side of his mouth. “Liar,” he whispered, reaching into the chair beside him, revealing the tattered book, and unceremoniously dropping it on the table.
My eyes widened, and without a conscious thought, I dove across the table after it.
That was mine. Not even he could have it.
Just as quickly as the book had appeared, he snatched it away and grabbed my wrist.
I slid off the table and tried to pull my arm from his grasp. It was a worthless attempt though, because even if he had suddenly released me, his blue eyes held me frozen in place.
“Three fucking years,” he seethed.
“I had to,” I squeaked out as the tears streamed down my cheeks.
“Three. Fucking. Years, Ash. You took something that belonged to me.” He let go of my arm and pushed to his feet.
My mouth fell open and a loud gasp escaped as he took two impossible steps forward.
Pinning me against the wall with his hard body, he lifted a hand to my throat and glided it up until his thumb stroked over my bottom lip. Using my chin, he turned my head and dragged his nose up my neck, stopping at my ear.
