The Fall of Legend

by Meghan March

  Or really, better than anyone except Ryan and Christine, my brother-sister business and financial advisor team. I inherited them from my mother, who worked with their father. The three of us were all raised together, and Ryan and Christine are the closest thing I have left to a family, other than my father. Well, except for Flynn, my former stepsister. But after Dad’s ugly split with her mom last year, we don’t see each other much anymore.

  “Scar?”

  Kelsey’s prompt makes me realize I’ve been silent too long. One thing is for sure—if I try to bullshit her too much about Legend, she’ll see right through me. I have to go with something as close to the truth as possible.

  “Someone kind of dared me that I couldn’t help bring the club back to life . . .”

  “Oh shit.” Kelsey sighs. “You have no chill when it comes to being dared. Dammit, Scarlett. This is a terrible idea. You don’t want to walk into Gabriel Legend’s world. I don’t care how hot he is; he’s dangerous in a way you aren’t equipped to handle.”

  Kelsey has absolutely no idea how right she is about that, and I’m not talking about my reaction to his video.

  “You don’t think I can do it,” I say, trying not to sound defeated.

  “I didn’t say that. You know I believe in you. You’ve got this drive that makes me feel like a slouch every time I see you. I know you’re capable of amazing things . . . but some things don’t deserve your fire, girl. This might just be one of those.”

  “What if . . . what if I kinda already shook on it?” My question comes out hesitant, because I don’t really want to tell her that, and I also don’t want to remember the unsettling spark of feeling that shot up my arm when I touched Gabriel Legend’s hand. Yet, I can’t deny either one.

  “Dammit. If you gave your word, then I guess there’s nothing we can do but honor it.”

  I smile hearing her say we.

  “You should’ve called me first. This is going to be damn near impossible. Like, you’re going to need a serious miracle to have a shot. It’s been—what—two months since the shooting? And from what I’m told, the only people who go are wannabe bangers and people who’d never be able to get in if the velvet rope had any kind of line. It may have been a high-class club for part of one night, but it’s not anymore.”

  “Then challenge accepted. Tell me everything.”

  “There’s not a lot else to tell other than gossip and hearsay, which, while entertaining, probably isn’t going to cut it for this purpose. Give me a day, and I’ll dig around and see what I can come up with.”

  “You’re the best, Kels.”

  “Yeah . . . yeah. I know. I’ll talk to you tomorrow, girl. Get your beauty sleep so I don’t have to spackle concealer all over dark circles under your eyes.”

  “I will. Promise.” She can’t see that I’m crossing my fingers as I lie to her, but she knows me too well.

  “Liar.” She makes a kissing noise and hangs up.

  I lower my phone and then take it and my laptop and head for my bedroom. It’s an over-the-top feminine space, with pale yellow walls that soothe me when I’m stressed out, a cream, pale blue, and dove-gray bedroom set and coordinating drapes, mixed with antique furniture and fluffy pillows that are delicate enough to send any man running.

  I suppose I can see why Chadwick isn’t a fan, but that doesn’t mean I’m changing a thing. I like my space. I love coming in here after a long day to unwind with a drink and whatever work I didn’t finish. Which is exactly what I’m going to do tonight—review financials on my laptop, with Charlie’s Angels on the TV for background noise, and as an incentive, a little bit of social media time to catch up on my favorite accounts.

  But, first, I head to the bathroom. The color scheme extends in here, with cream subway tile, light gray paint, and cheery yellow and blue towels. After showering and applying my skin care regime—something my mother taught me from a very young age—I tug the belt tighter on my thick cotton robe and pop on my blue-light-blocking glasses and fix the messy bun about to tumble down my face.

  Now I’m ready for bed, or rather, to work in bed. Welcome to the glamorous life of being an entrepreneur. Always more to do, and never enough hours in the day to get it all done.

  After moving the decorative pillows, I burrow under the duvet and cue up an episode. I should dive right into numbers, but first things first . . .

  I pick up my phone and tap the app of my favorite social media platform, the one I like to consider my window into everyone else’s worlds. I think I love it the most because I’m a visual person, courtesy of my mother. I also love the ability to search hashtags to get me to exactly the content I want to see. And tonight, like almost every other night, I type in my favorite: #LifeIsMessy.

  I have to scroll down the feed a little way before I start to see what I’m looking for. Three toddlers covered in flour, one with her hands in a bowl, one proudly holding up a ball of dough, and the other staring at the wall.

  Oh my God. They’re getting so big.

  Yes, I know I sound like a stalker, but the account is public, and I absolutely love the Winston triplets. Their mom, a thirty-something woman named Tina who lives in North Carolina, doesn’t have many followers, but that’s not what she’s about. I click on her handle, MomOutNumbered, and smile when I see a photo of Tina with her hair in a messy bun that looks a lot like mine, except she has three toddlers using her body as a jungle gym.

  The caption reads:

  * * *

  I don’t know what day it is, what time it is, or what I’m supposed to be doing right now, but I don’t care. #LifeIsMessy #MomOutNumbered #TripletLife #EnjoyEveryMoment

  * * *

  A shot of longing rips through my body.

  Families living messy lives are my weakness. They’re not my target market. They truly don’t give a damn about staging the perfect photo, or algorithms and engagement, or likes and followers. They’re just real.

  In my world, that’s a rarity. The people who run in my circles are obsessed with appearances and image. They only show something “real” when the post is designed to elicit shock and awe and a massive comment tally.

  So, why do I do what I do? Because I love it. It keeps me trying to come up with new and original ideas. It makes me work harder and think outside the box.

  Still, I have to have my daily dose of real to keep me grounded. Because life is messy, and this reminder keeps me focused on where I’m headed. Not perfection, because that doesn’t exist. But my own little slice of messiness that’ll fuel my soul to take on the next challenge.

  I’ll have what Tina Winston has someday. Well, likely not triplets, but when I’m ready to take the plunge . . . I want a messy family too. Whenever that might be. With whoever that might be.

  I should be thinking about Chadwick and making a real go at things with him when I peep in on the account of a young couple in Brooklyn who just had their first baby.

  Rona’s been posting hilarious stuff with the hashtag #WhatTheyDontTellYouAboutBabies, and her authenticity is inspiring. I’m also slightly terrified to have a baby now because good Lord, do they ever stop with the bodily fluids? No wonder she loves #LifeIsMessy because it’s appropriate. So appropriate that I can’t imagine Chadwick getting spit-up on his suit and tie and being okay with it. Luckily, Rona has Ben, who is a great sport and gets up to bring her the baby for nighttime feedings. I think I’m a little in love with him just for that.

  Again, the thought of Chadwick doing anything remotely like that results in a totally blank image in my brain. I just can’t picture it.

  Which is fine, I remind myself. I don’t have to figure it all out tonight.

  I spend a few more minutes checking other accounts for updates before I finally tear myself away from the phone.

  Enough fun stuff. Now, work.

  I yawn, wondering how long I’ll be able to go tonight. It’s my personal mission to beat my productivity from yesterday, so I push through the fatigue and stare at number
s, making notes until my eyes cross.

  Eventually, I drift off, one hand curled around my laptop, dreams of a little boy with dark blond hair and bright blue eyes climbing up my leg lulling me into sleep.

  Eight

  Legend

  With Roux trotting on her leash by my side, I make my way to the gym I’ve been meaning to hit more often, but I haven’t been able to make it as regularly as I should. Probably because I’m not training like I used to.

  One of the biggest reasons for taking the ultimate risk and gambling so much fucking money on this club was to get me out of the cage. I’ve literally been fighting for my survival since I was a kid. Only once I got to Jersey did I realize I could make money with my fists. So instead of taking shit jobs, I took every fight I could. When I started to make a name for myself, it could have been a problem, except no one knew a damn thing about the man who called himself Gabriel Legend.

  That was fine by me. No one needed to know my real name in order for me to put on a show for the crowd to make the betting go crazy.

  And I always bet on myself. Every fight. Even when I only had a couple of bucks to my name. Because if there’s one person I believe in, one person who I always think can pull through, it’s me. Maybe I’m not supposed to have that kind of confidence after being shown by the world that I’m not worth a damn, but I do.

  Or I did.

  I don’t know what the fuck to believe in right now.

  Fifteen years of work, sacrifice, and hope are about to disappear, along with everything I put up as collateral. I have two weeks until my first payment is due, and if I miss it . . . I’m fucked, and this will all just be a memory of the time I couldn’t pull off a win.

  As I approach the twenty-four-hour MMA gym, the option I keep pushing out of my mind comes back with a vengeance.

  I could fight for the money.

  A big fight. One with a solid purse and crazy odds. The rematch that people have been dying to see. The rematch I’ve always been smart enough not to take because there’s a good chance I won’t walk out of the cage again.

  Bodhi Black. A ruthless motherfucker that I beat three years ago by the grace of God.

  He slipped when he was going for a superman punch, and I took him down and got in a heel hook. He refused to tap out until he tore almost every ligament in his fucking knee. And ever since, he’s been out for blood, trying to get me to fight him again.

  I could make enough for months of payments, buying us some time to get the club rocking again. But I told myself I wouldn’t take another fight after the doors to Legend opened. No, I promised myself, and those are promises I don’t break. Because the one time I did . . .

  I cut off that train of thought because I can’t ride it tonight. It isn’t going anywhere new, solving my problems, or doing anything other than making me realize I’m still the same kid from Biloxi who doesn’t have his shit figured out.

  When I push open the door to the gym, like everywhere in Manhattan, it seems like the damn thing is never empty. Doesn’t matter the time because this city doesn’t sleep.

  Works for me, even if I don’t plan on talking to anyone, at least not beyond the kid standing in the corner watching everyone with his mouth hanging open. He’ll do for holding the heavy bag.

  I settle Roux in the opposite corner, giving her some pats and a scratch behind the ears. She lays her head on her paws and prepares to nap until I’m ready to go. She’s a damn good dog.

  Dropping my bag beside her, I dig into it for my gear, and tape and wrap my hands and wrists before slipping on my gloves and shadow boxing for a few minutes to loosen up my muscles. It’s not enough of a warm-up, but it’ll have to do, because I need to hit something before my mind goes back to Scarlett Priest.

  Fuck. Too late.

  There she is in my head as soon as her name surfaces. A face like porcelain with expressive gray eyes, rosy red lips, and framed with shiny blond hair.

  Not thinking about her.

  I wave the gawking kid over and point to the heavy bag. “You know what to do?”

  He nods twice, fast.

  “Good. I’m going hard.”

  His eyes widen, and I don’t bother to thank him before unleashing on the bag. No real plan or workout. Just combination after combination. Strike after strike lands, and the impact of each screams up my arms and into my shoulders.

  It’s been too long. I shouldn’t go this hard. Shouldn’t move this fast. But I don’t care, because nothing—not even this punishing, relentless pace—can get rid of the face in my head.

  I see the rug and Bump. I feel the terror she felt. The fear pumping through her veins. And the cold metal of handcuffs wrapping around my wrists if she decides to tell anyone what the hell happened.

  Q’s suggestion, to have someone follow her and tap her phone, comes back to mind, and I know I’d be fucking stupid not to do it.

  I don’t want to fuck up her helping us, but I have to cover our asses too. If it’s not already too late.

  Why didn’t I think of that immediately? Demand she hand over her phone so I could watch her every move?

  Maybe because I was trying to do damage control, and scaring her like that wouldn’t have worked in our favor. She offered to help. It’s not like I forced her.

  The voice in my head, the one that belongs to the only conscience I’ve ever had, surfaces with a tsking reprimand. Splitting hairs, Gabriel. You could have let her walk out with no deal.

  I did what I had to do in the moment, I tell the voice.

  My shoulders are screaming now. Too much time at a desk. Too much time pacing the club, wondering how the hell we’re going to get patrons through the doors. Too much time getting soft and forgetting where I came from.

  Then thoughts of Bump invade. I can’t believe he fucking did what he did. What the hell was he thinking?

  Oh, that’s right. He wasn’t thinking normally because he fucking took a bullet to the skull that was meant for me. When we ran out of Biloxi fifteen years ago, we couldn’t get him all the help he needed because if we didn’t move fast, we’d both be dead. Now he’s never going to grow up mentally.

  It’s all my fucking fault. Every single bit of it. I did this. I did this to all of us.

  The frustration boils over as sweat pours down my face and neck, and I hit the bag, a 1–2 combination, with everything I have.

  “Umph.” The kid lets out a grunt as his ass hits the floor.

  It yanks me out of my silent tirade against myself, and I back up before moving to offer him a hand. “Shit. Sorry, kid. Didn’t mean to beat you up.”

  “Damn, man. You hit hard,” the kid says, but my eyes aren’t on him after he’s on his feet.

  No, they’re on the guy coming toward us with his eyebrows raised like he’s never seen someone work out like this before. Except he’s not an awestruck kid. No, he’s a familiar face . . . one I’ve seen somewhere but can’t place.

  Then he holds out a fist to bump gloves. “Intense combos there. You can fucking move, man. How the hell do you do it?”

  His voice kick-starts my memory, and I school my features not to show the shock at Silas Bohannon, an actor I’ve seen on the big screen, seeking me out in the gym.

  The kid backs away, as if giving us our space, and Bohannon nods to the heavy bag. “You want to keep going?”

  “Probably shouldn’t. Didn’t really warm up.”

  “I noticed. You just went to town. Working something out or working toward something?”

  His question makes it sound like he truly cares, but I’m not a small-talk kind of guy.

  “Something.”

  He huffs out a half laugh at my answer but doesn’t seem affected by my lack of manners. “You’ve got crazy-fast hands, man. Who taught you? Not to be nosy, but damn. You’re all in. No mercy.”

  I study the man in front of me and wonder what his angle is. Does he recognize me, or is he going strictly off what he’s seen?

  Regardless, I go with hones
ty. “Couldn’t afford a top-notch trainer, so I worked out with buddies and offered to spar with guys who outweighed and outclassed me. Spent years getting beat up so I could learn from them.”

  He eyes me with curiosity. “So you’re saying I should be asking to spar with you so I can take some punches and learn your ways.”

  This time, I choke out a laugh. “That’s not exactly what I was saying—”

  “My schedule’s shit,” he says, interrupting. “But if you’re willing to beat on me, I’ll find a way to make it work on your timetable.”

  Something about this guy doesn’t put my back up, but he definitely wants what he wants and isn’t used to taking no for an answer. I wonder if that’s the typical MO of someone famous. I don’t exactly run in those circles, not like the woman in my office this afternoon, but I’m not a complete idiot.

  “Why?” I ask. His answer will determine my decision.

  “Because I don’t want to just be able to pretend to fight onscreen without using a body double. I don’t want it to be fake. I want it to be real. I’m putting in the work either way, and I want to get skills out of the deal.”

  “Why me?”

  Bohannon wraps an arm around the heavy bag and nods. “I saw you fight a couple years ago in person. It was harder to see your moves than on your YouTube videos, but I could feel the energy in the crowd. It was fucking electric, all because of you. That’s the feeling I want to give people forking over their hard-earned money to watch my movie. I want them to have the best.”

  “And you want to be able to kick someone’s ass for real if you need it,” I add, because I’m pretty damn sure that’s his other motive.

  “Wouldn’t you?”

  I nod and undo my glove, then pull out my hand to offer him. “Gabriel Legend.”

  He does the same. “Silas Bohannon. You can call me Bo.”

  We shake hands, and I drop his wrapped fingers to hit him with the rest of the truth.