Fighting to Forgive (Fighting Series)

by J. B. Salsbury

  I glare at the mirror. Is he trying to ask me something?

  “Can only imagine the temptation at the professional level.” His eyes are back on the road. “Especially with a fight coming up.”

  “You getting at anything in particular, or you just talking to hear your own voice?” Pissing this guy off is not in my best interest, but if he’s implying what I think he’s implying? Then fuck him.

  “According to eye witnesses, you snapped tonight. One minute you were fine, the next—boom.” The clicking from his turn signal fills the silence in the car, and its cadence matches my racing pulse. “My experience? Drugs are usually the cause of that kind of reaction. You being a professional fighter, training hard, doubt you’re smoking PCP or snorting coke.”

  My glare spears him through the mirror, daring him to say it.

  “Have you ever seen anybody roid-rage, Blake?”

  I fucking knew it. I drop my head back and laugh.

  Seen roid rage? Of course I have. I’ve been surrounded by some of the toughest men in the world since I was a kid. Military and professional fighting. “I don’t take steroids. That shit’s for the weak.”

  “Yeah, that’s what your buddy Jonah said. But I know how pressure can make a man do things he may otherwise abstain from.”

  “You don’t believe me? Test me. Take blood, piss, whatever you want. I don’t juice. Never have. Never will.” I sit forward, putting my face right up to the dividing bars. “I’m the best middleweight fighter in the UFL. That shit I earned. I fight for the most well respected league in the world. That shit we earned. I’d never throw that away for one fucking fight.”

  Dave grins and nods his head. “I respect that.” He makes a right turn into a parking lot. The words “Las Vegas Metropolitan Police Department” are lit up on a sign out front. “But I’m gonna go ahead and have you tested anyway.”

  “Fine. Like I said, I’ve got nothing to hide.” How do I tell him that my problem isn’t drugs, it’s genetics? My dad’s blood drumming through my veins combined with Stew’s taunts were a lethal combination. ’Nuff said.

  Booking takes hours. Not that I’ve got anywhere to go. Mug shots, fingerprints, and a urine sample later, I’m sitting in a small holding cell, my head in my hands, waiting for instructions.

  I look up when I hear the buzz from the slide lock. Dave’s on the other side.

  “Your lawyer’s on his way.” He walks in and leans against the wall. “I called the Nevada Gaming Commission. They’ve agreed to come down and test you.”

  They’re going to test me for steroids? The heat of anger burns quickly and then dies. What do I care if the Gaming Commission tests me? Either way, my fighting career is over. At least until I serve my sentence. Then it’ll take years to earn back the respect and trust of my fans.

  “Bring on the NGC. They’re not going to find anything.”

  “Make yourself comfortable, Blake. It’s going to be a long night.” He turns and leaves me with my thoughts.

  Layla. Is she sleeping with the lights on, with visions of me bloody fisted? Have I replaced Stewart in her nightmares? And Axelle. She just found out the man who raised her isn’t her father, but her mother’s gang rapist. Is she curled up in her mom’s arms crying? My chest cramps.

  God, I’d give anything to be there for them now.

  My elbows on my knees, I lace my fingers behind my neck. I breathe deep past the nausea the rolls in my stomach. Emotion clogs my throat. My eyes burn.

  I was trying to protect them. How did things get so fucked up? The heavy weight of foreboding settles on my shoulders.

  Something tells me this is just the beginning.

  ~*~

  I don’t know how long I’ve been here. I’d count the days by how many meals I’ve eaten. But I can’t stomach food. Or maybe by how many nights I’ve slept. But as tired as I am, sleep never comes.

  Staring at the gray walls of my cell, time doesn’t move. Voices murmur and echo from nearby cells, reminding me that I’m not alone. But I am. Left with nothing but my anger and remorse.

  And confusion. I’ve been charged for felony assault for what I did to Stew. But no mention of the choking. I rub my eyes until they hurt. Why didn’t she tell them what I did to her?

  I gave the investigators my story in triplicate, at least, all that I could remember. I didn’t complain when I had to repeat myself over and over to every new face that asked. I gave blood, pissed in a cup, and waited. Waited for answers.

  Then they came.

  Positive.

  Deca-Durabolin and Winstrol V. Illegal anabolic steroids.

  That fucking doctor drugged me. That’s the only explanation I can come up with. Everyone looks at me like I’m crazy. Some stupid jock trying to blame someone else for my fuck up. Even my lawyer can’t hide his pity.

  I know the truth. I’d never willingly take steroids. I have too much respect for the sport. I’ve worked way too damn hard to get where I am to fuck it up by juicing. But I have no proof. And unless Doc Z rolls in flappin’ his gums, a simple denial on his part will be the loaded chamber in this game of Russian roulette with my career.

  “Daniels, you’ve got a visitor.” The guard from outside my cell hollers just before the buzz of my cell door unlocks.

  I drag my heavy body from the cot and move to the opening, waiting for him to escort me to the visitor’s room.

  Nervous energy flutters as hope filters through my depression. Could it be Layla? No, she probably wants nothing to do with me. If she’s smart, she’ll be halfway across the country to get the hell away.

  The guard stops at a door, and we wait until we’re buzzed in. He walks me down a series of cubby-like desks with phones attached to the dividers, with glass separating the prisoner from the visitor.

  “You’re in number seven.” He motions down the row and leaves me to it.

  My heart pounds in my chest as I move down. Five, six. I stop and suck in a deep breath. If it’s her… oh, God, I hope it’s her.

  One final step and I’m face to face with…no fucking way. “General?”

  His expression is stony, lips pressed in a tight line, as he takes me in. I drop into the seat and grab the phone, pressing it to my ear and avoiding his eyes. He makes me wait before he picks up the phone on his side.

  “Son. Somehow, I knew we’d be here one day. Orange is your color. Much more appropriate than the dress blues of a Marine.”

  Of course he’d come to rub it in. Remind me of what a disappointment I am. But I’ve lost too much, and his words have no sting. I lift my eyes to his. “What do you want, Dad?”

  He barks out laughter with no humor. “What do I want? I want my son to stop acting like a fucking child. I want you to honor your family—”

  “Honor my family? What the fuck do you know about family?”

  He flinches so slightly it’s barely noticeable. “I suppose this is where you blame me for your screw ups. Getting kicked out of the Marines, ending up in jail.” He shakes his head, disgust coloring his expression. “You need to take responsibility for what you’ve—”

  “You first.” I grind my teeth, biting back the words that fight to be spoken.

  “Me? What the hell did I ever do to you, other than try to get you to be a productive member of society?”

  “Are you fucking kidding me?” Fury bubbles behind my sternum. “You took away everything. My mom, my music—”

  “No, I protected you from the things that made you weak. Your mother coddled you, and that music…” He shook his head. “No man worth his salt plays the piano.”

  I can’t believe it. After twelve years, he hasn’t changed. “That’s it, isn’t it? You’ll never see me for the man I’ve become, or the things I’ve achieved. I’ll always represent your biggest failure. You couldn’t turn me into a clone that would follow you around like a puppy, mimicking your every move, eventually becoming the weak, controlling asshole that you are.”

  “I’m weak? You’re takin
g steroids, and you have the nerve to call me weak? I knew you were irresponsible and immature, but a cheater?” His eyes travel from my bright orange shirt to my hair. “I can hardly stand to look at you.”

  I shrug. He’s not the only one. I can hardly stand to look at myself. It’s no use telling him that I’d never do steroids. I’d be wasting my time explaining that I think the UFL doctor poisoned me. Shit, it sounds stupid in my head. Saying it will only give him more ammo in his character assault.

  “I’m done. Good luck with your life, Blake. I give up.” He slams the phone into its cradle, and the looming presence from the other side of the glass moves away.

  “You gave up on me a long time ago,” I whisper.

  Hanging up, I push from my seat.

  “One more visitor.” My escort hollers down from his position at the door. “Take a seat.”

  Another visitor? I don’t want to see anyone else, but I drop back down and wait. Movement on the other side of the glass brings my eyes to a pair that matches my own.

  Holy shit. I rip the phone from the cradle and press it to my ear. My brother, Braeden, sits and raises the phone to his ear.

  “Brae, man. Hey.”

  His hair is darker than mine and cropped in a military high-and-tight. And he’s huge. Twice the size he was when I saw him last. Looks like he’s been hitting the gym hard. I guess he found a way to channel the caged feeling that accompanies being the son of Duke Daniels.

  “Hey, bro,” he says, his smile genuine, but concern in his eyes. “They treating you okay in here?”

  “Yeah. How are you?” For the first time in I don’t know how long, the tingle of a smile touches my lips.

  “I’d be better if we were sitting at a bar having a beer and not separated by glass.”

  Smile erased, I nod. “Sorry you have to see me like this. I fucked up.”

  “That’s not the story I heard.”

  “No? Well, you need better information.”

  “Talked to Jonah and Raven. They told me everything.”

  That’s about as accurate as he could get. “Oh, okay.”

  “I just have one question.” He leans in on one elbow, putting his face close to glass. “Please tell me you didn’t fuck a stripper on Valentine’s Day when your girl was being held by her ex.” His green eyes dance with humor, and a grin pulls at his lips.

  “That’s the shit you want to ask me? Really?” Damn, I miss my little bro. “No. I didn’t. It took me about eight seconds of being in a dark room alone with her to realize I was fucking everything up.”

  “I knew it. Jonah owes me a hundred bucks.”

  It’s nice to know someone still believes in me.

  We chat for a while, small talk that revolves around him and doesn’t touch my jacked-up situation. The guard calls down that our time’s up.

  “I better go.” I tilt my head toward the guard. “Captain Powertrip gets pissed if I don’t jump every time he calls.”

  “Sounds good.”

  “You leaving town soon or…” I don’t know what to say. It’s not like he’s going to stay for a week just so he can visit his big brother in jail.

  “Yeah, I’ll be here for a few days.”

  “Oh, really? So I’ll—”

  “See you tonight.”

  “What?”

  “Oh, did I forget to tell you?” He scratches his head and takes an exaggerated look around. “I guess I did.” His lips curl into a full smile. “Jonah posted bail.”

  My jaw goes slack. Bail was set at fifty thousand dollars.

  He taps the glass between us. “Hang in there, bro. I’ll see ya later.”

  Thirty-one

  Blake

  It’s after nine at night when I’m finally released. After a process that included a meeting with my lawyer and a series of signatures, I’m walking out of the jail’s release wing and into a dark parking lot. A familiar black pickup truck is parked and idling.

  I should be overjoyed to see Jonah’s truck, but disappointment smothers the good feelings.

  Holding on to the hope that I’d walk out and see Layla’s Bronco was a mistake. And daydreaming that she and Axelle would run to me so that I could crush them in my arms wasn’t smart.

  With a firm shake of my head to rid it of the hopeful hallucinations, my empty chest echoes with what could’ve been. I mourn the loss of the dream.

  “How’s life on the inside?” Jonah asks through the open truck window.

  I shrug, swing open the door, and climb in. “Sucks.” But something tells me it’s a whole hell of a lot better than the shit I’m going to face on the outside.

  He throws the truck in drive and maneuvers it out of the small lot. Silence fills the cab as if he’s waiting for me to ask the question and allowing me to take my time to do so.

  I clear my throat, hoping to hide the emotion that’s riding so close to the surface. “How are they?”

  He shakes his head. “Don’t know. Last I heard? Not too good.”

  My gaze slides to the scenery flying past my window. “Fuck. They must hate me.”

  “She doesn’t hate you, dude. If she did, she would’ve told the cops all that happened that night. She defended you. Down to the last second.”

  Fuck. Why does hearing that make me feel worse? I should be happy that she covered for me. It’s what I’ve always wanted, right? I’ve been carrying resentment around for almost half my life because my mom didn’t protect my music and me.

  Sitting in jail these last few days, alone with nothing but my thoughts, I contemplated all the reasons why Layla kept my attack on her a secret. She had nothing to gain by protecting me, and accepting that gift from a woman who’s been programmed to cover up her pain makes me want to throw my ass back in jail.

  I rub my temples. My gut churns at the combination of conflicting feelings.

  “She stopped answering her phone,” Jonah says. “Won’t answer the door. Killian said he can’t get in touch with Axelle, either. Only thing I’ve heard is that Gibbs gave her a few days off so she could get her shit straightened out.” He exhales a deliberate breath. “That’s another story.”

  Consumed by the situation with Layla, I haven’t given much thought to Gibbs or how I’m going to take Doctor Motherfucker down. “Let’s hear it.”

  “Your story’s national news. Gibbs is rollin’ like a pig in shit with all the attention the UFL’s pulling in. And now that Doc Z ran, he’s—”

  My stomach drops. “Ran? Ran where?”

  “Gone, man. Fucking ghost. Day after that shit went down. Office cleaned out, apartment he was renting vacated. Poof.”

  A tingle creeps along my skin. The only chance to clear my name is gone. Poof? I rake my fingers against my scalp. “Jonah, you know I’d never do steroids, right? That fucking pussy shot me up, or put it in those pills I was taking. Fuck, man, the fact that the asshole ran proves it.”

  His eyes stay forward, his jaw ticking.

  “Don’t tell me you think I did it.” I can take my fucked-up dad not believing me. Layla’s mistrust is expected, considering what I’ve done to her. But after everything Jonah and I have been through, if he doesn’t believe me, I’m totally fucked.

  “It’s a hard sell, dude,” he mumbles.

  Burning rage flares in my gut. “I don’t fucking believe this shit.” I punch his dashboard hard. A crack slices through the plastic.

  “Damn, dude. Chill out. I believe you. I’m just saying it’s going to be hard to prove.” He eyes the damage to his dash. “You know what that shit’s gonna cost me? Raven’s going to make that” —he points to the crack— “an excuse to redo my entire interior.” He groans and slams his hand against the steering wheel. “Shit. I swear if I get hot pink seats, I’m going to beat your ass.”

  I stare at him for a few silent seconds before I roar with laughter. What he said was funny as shit. And so true. I’d have broken the thing weeks ago just to watch it all go down. But the relief of knowing that he believes me
is what makes me feel lighter.

  “Glad you find it funny, asshole.” He glares through the windshield while I catch my breath.

  We pull up to my place, and I sit in the passenger seat, dreading getting out. How can I walk through my condo when everything about it reminds me of her? Of what I had. The only room that she hasn’t touched is the guest room. I make a note to spend all my time there. Until I move. I make another mental note to put my pad on the market first thing in the morning.

  “Oh, Braeden asked that you give him a call. Said your cell goes straight to voicemail.”

  “Yeah, I need to charge it. Thanks for the bail out and for bringing me home.” I push open the door.

  “You’d do it for me.”

  “I’m looking forward to the day when there’s no need to save each other’s asses.”

  He chuckles. “Get some sleep. We’ll figure out how to prove you’re innocent in the morning.”

  I move through the parking lot to the stairs. Each step that brings me closer to my door creates a memory that attacks with vicious potency. Key in the lock, I squeeze my eyes closed and push past the vision of her there in her socks and shining smile. Hurrying inside, I hope to dash the echo of the past that threatens to drop me to my knees.

  “Fuck, don’t be such a pussy.” I throw my shit on the floor in the foyer, and my gaze snags on the wall where I pressed her body before that first time we… made love. My throat swells, and for a minute, I can’t drag my eyes away.

  Forcing myself to walk away, I head to the kitchen. I need to stay focused on my case. I’ve lost her, but I might be able to save my career. Pulling all the bottles and powders from the cupboards, I scan the labels. Memories of Layla in my kitchen doing the same thing push for dominance. I shove them back to the recesses of my thoughts and focus.

  “You’ve got to be kidding me.” There’s not a word on any of the labels that hints to a prescribing doctor.

  What would be his motive for pumping me with steroids? Did Gibbs doubt my ability to win the fight and think juicing me would give me an advantage? I rub my face. That makes no sense. Gibbs benefits no matter who wins. Not to mention that the Gaming Commission tests all fighters before a fight, and I would have been caught then. That rules out Doc Z placing money on the fight, juicing me up so I’d win and he’d get a huge payout.