***
Mike’s energy felt trapped inside him. He needed to train. Just a light workout, nothing heavy. Something to occupy his body and clear his head. He asked Daniella if she could reserve the hotel gym, keeping to her wishes that he not go outside. Hearing his brother’s voice inside his head fueled him. José had reignited Mike’s passion for boxing. A renewed sense of pride overcame him. After thinking about it, the whole damn thing made sense. It took confronting José’s memory to put his past in perspective. He was a boxer, and he was damn good at it, and that was what mattered.
He wasn’t emotionally abusive as Tiffany had claimed. What she interpreted as mistreatment against her had been punishment he inflicted on himself. Because he penalized himself for his actions and lived underneath the shadow of his brother’s death, he’d never moved on, and he’d never released himself from his own imprisonment, until he accepted his brother’s death for what it was.
Inevitable.
His brother chose to join a gang and had never consulted Mike beforehand. He didn’t ask for permission or for Mike to join with him. In fact, his brother had tried to get Mike out of the life. Look out for Mom, his brother had said, somebody has to. He had followed his brother, thinking he could protect him. He’d turned a blind eye to illegal activity, something he now knew was very, very wrong. He fooled himself into thinking that José needed him. None of his gang would guard him the way he could. He did so, because he refused to accept that by joining a gang, José had issued his own death warrant. That was the motto.
Blood in.
Blood out.
No amount of protection, or guns, or guarding would ever change it. The realization filled his heart, not with sorrow, but with peace. With peace came freedom.
“I need a minute,” he told Shakes. “Get the gym ready, I’ll be right back.”
Mike walked out of the room and headed straight for the elevators. He pushed the button and glanced up at the display. Shit. Maybe it was faster if he took the stairs. Growing more impatient, he fled down the hall to the stairway, jogging down them to Ava’s floor.
He reached their room and started to use his key, but chose to knock instead. Lifting his hand, he rapped on the door. And waited.
“Ava,” he called out. “Ava, it’s me. Open up.”
He waited a little longer until his desire to see her drove him to use his key. Pushing the door open, he strode into the darkened room. He looked around from one corner to the next, but it was too late.
Ava was gone.
Chapter Thirty-eight
Ava grabbed a cab and rattled off an address. As the cab raced across the City, she dug her cell phone out from her purse and called Holly. Over the last twenty-four hours there was nothing she needed more than to hear her mother’s voice.
The phone rang and Holly answered. “Hi, honey.”
“Hi, Mom. I made it to New York,” she said, on the verge of tears. Her voice shook.
“Baby, what’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” she squeaked out.
“Ava.” Holly said her name in the way only her mother could, the way that told her she knew her daughter held something back.
She caved. As the taxi zoomed up one street and down the next, Ava told her mother every ugly detail. She’d written a story she shouldn’t have, and her actions bit her square in the ass. Mike left her. He should have, and she deserved to be alone.
“Don’t be silly,” her mother responded. “Everyone makes mistakes.”
“Not this big, Mom, not this huge.”
Her mother exhaled. “I think you’re missing the point. If he loves you, he’ll come back.”
Her heart sank. “But Dad never did.” Instantly, she regretted her words as they left her mouth. God, she didn’t mean something so harsh.
“That’s right,” her mother said. “He didn’t come back, and I let it control me for far too long. I waited for him, until you left for New York with that fighter, and I knew I had to move on, too.”
Tears rolled down Ava’s face. “What did you do?”
“I took Scoop back to the vet.”
Ava felt her face draw down. “What? What’s wrong with Scoop?”
“It was just like you said. Nothing a long trip to the litter box couldn’t fix. Dr. Marx didn’t even charge me for the visit.”
Ava let out a sigh of relief. She guessed Dr. Marx was a good guy after all.
“And guess what?” her mother said, before Ava could ask why the conversation had taken such a weird turn. “Dr. Marx is taking me to dinner.”
“Really.” Ava sat in pure astonishment. Not that Dr. Marx would want to date her mother. Holly was beautiful. But she certainly hadn’t expected that.
“Yes, tomorrow night. He’s taking me out on the Vegas Strip. A real night on the town.”
“Wow, Mom. That’s great.” Then it hit her. Suspicion crawled over Ava like Scoop finding his favorite spot on the couch. Slow and determined. “Mom, can I ask you a question?”
“Sure, honey.”
“Scoop never was sick, was he?”
Dead. Silence.
“You used him in order to see Dr. Marx. Didn’t you?”
Her mother drew in a sharp breath. “Well, this reporter I know once taught me that sometimes to get what you want, you have to follow the story no matter where it takes you.”
A smile crept across Ava’s face. Warmth rolled through her chest, and the last of her tears fell down. “Thanks, Mom.”
“Good-bye, honey.” And with a click she knew what she wanted. She had to have Mike back in her life. If he no longer wanted her as a lover, then she hoped he’d accept her as a friend, because as far as Ava was concerned she wasn’t going anywhere.
She leaned forward and rattled off a new address. When she’d first gotten into the cab, she thought about crashing EverStrong’s corporate headquarters and persuading them not to drop their sponsorship of the fight, but knowing EverStrong, she wouldn’t get farther than the reception desk.
She’d have better luck connecting with the guy who published Tiffany’s article. She’d worked in the newspaper business long enough to know that what could be done could easily be undone, with the right incentive, of course.
The cab stopped and she paid the driver. Stepping out, she looked up at the tall, intimidating building. She knew walking through the glass doors equaled taking the first steps to getting Mike back into her life.
Ava didn’t hesitate.
“May I help you?” the receptionist asked.
“Mr. Josh Johnston, please.” Ava smiled.
Two lattes and forty-five minutes later, Ava glanced over her coffee cup and evaluated Mr. Johnston. She’d told him everything about Mike. How he’d succumbed to gang life. His brother’s death, and how he’d lived in a self-imposed exile from his family as penance. Even though everything she’d said was true, Mr. Johnston showed no emotion as she spoke. No reporter liked hearing that their story had another side, one they failed to see. Mike had taught her a valuable lesson, one she’d carry with her for the rest of her career—the story you can’t print is sometimes more important than the one you can.
“So you see, Mr. Johnston”—Ava smiled over the rim of her cup—“Perez may have made a few bad decisions as a teen, but it was only to protect his brother, who’d succumbed to the most dangerous gang in Miami.”
Mr. Johnston’s brows knitted together as Ava continued. “I know I’m asking for a lot. However, I’m hoping you’ll consider printing a retraction.”
He sipped his coffee and stared out the window of the shop, presumably letting Ava’s words sink in. One thing she knew she had on her side was that Josh Johnston was young, not jaded, and therefore still bore a fire in his gut for reporting, a trait among reporters that faded with age and experience.
“How about this?” Ava asked. “Now that you know the truth, come with me, and get the other side of the story from Perez himself.”
“And Perez would talk to me?
Exclusively?”
Ava nodded. “You can leave that up to me. I’ve got the access and I can get him alone.”
“Past the other reporters?”
“Absolutely.” Her heart swelled. “Can you get a story online before the fight?”
“Yes,” he said.
“Great.” She drew in a quick breath. With any luck, she might save her relationship with Mike after all. “Let’s go.”
***
Mike always did as Daniella told him. So when she said there was someone she wanted him to meet, waiting in her hotel room, he dropped his gloves on the floor, changed into a dry T-shirt, and headed for Jack and Daniella’s room.
On the way, he guessed the mystery guest was probably a fan. He hoped for a kid. Those fans were the best and the most exciting to meet. And they wouldn’t care about the article. Daniella had given him the key to her room when he left the gym, and once at her door, he slid it through the reader.
Her door opened.
Inside, a man sat alone at a table, waiting for him. As Mike entered, the guy stood up and extended his hand.
“Josh Johnston,” he said. “From the New York Post.” Before Mike told him to get the fuck out, he said, “Ava sent me.”
“Ava sent you?”
“Yes. She approached me and told me that Ms. Longoria’s claims weren’t one hundred percent true. She said you’d be open to giving me the other side of the story.”
Mike took a moment. Letting José go in his heart was one thing; letting his past go into the world was another. But it wasn’t bad. Real acceptance came with that kind of release.
Mike gestured to a chair. “Have a seat.”
Mr. Johnston returned to his seat. “It seems I owe you an apology for running Ms. Longoria’s story.”
Mike’s jaw clenched, and then he said, “No apology needed. You were just doing your job.”
“I was,” he said, pointing his pen to paper, scribbling notes. “But I didn’t do it well enough. I failed to get the whole story. Your side. Ms. Phillips pointed that out. I’m deeply sorry.”
“We’re moving forward. I don’t want to dwell on the past,” Mike said in an absolving tone.
“I’d like for you to set the record straight. Ms. Phillips was kind enough to fill in some of the blanks for me. The truth that Ms. Longoria left out.”
Apprehension welled up inside him. “One question first.”
“Of course.” Mr. Johnston straightened in his seat.
“Did Tiffany ever tell you how she found out about my past? I never told her.”
The reporter shifted uncomfortably. Then, he gave a slow, deep nod. “Your mother told her.”
“What?” Mike read the fear on the reporter’s face.
“Tiffany actually recorded the conversation. She played it for me on her phone. Your mother told her the story of your childhood, the gang involvement, and all of you and your brother’s troubles.”
His stomach ached. “Why?”
Mr. Johnston swallowed hard. “Tiffany told your mother you two were engaged. She said she wanted to help ease the strain of family relations, and your mother started talking.”
“Shit.” Tiffany had lied to his mother. Mike tensed. He had accused Ava of being heartless and self-serving, but nothing Ava could do would compare to the lengths Tiffany went to to see that she got what she wanted. She’d hit a new low.
Her actions had also forced something he didn’t know if he’d be able to do: talk to his mother. But he couldn’t let her go on thinking he was engaged, especially not to someone like Tiffany.
His hand curled in a fist. Oh. That woman. He’d never forgive her for this. But Ava?
He knew in his heart she was sorry for what she’d done, and bringing Mr. Johnston here was her attempt to make it right. She was trying to fix things, for him. Even as he abandoned her, walked out thinking only of himself and his career, she thought of him.
He drew in slow, easy breaths. “What would you like to know?”
Mike told the reporter everything. How he followed his brother into the life, and stayed there, trying to prevent what he knew would happen, death. Futile. Looking back on it now, the years he’d spent attempting to protect his brother were worthless, yet he wouldn’t trade them for anything. For if he hadn’t, he would have lost his brother long before he died.
“There are no excuses for what José did, and what I allowed to happen. I made it right with the authorities, by helping to shut down the Latin Boyz, and after all these years I’ve finally accepted my past, my brother’s fate, and made it right with myself.”
The reporter sat, stunned and listening.
“I’m not a hero. Nor am I any of the things Tiffany claimed. I’m just a middleweight boxer, pursuing his passion, fulfilling a dream that my brother would have wanted for me.”
The reporter closed his notebook and extended his hand. “Thank you. I’m sorry your sponsorship pulled out. Hopefully, with my follow-up article, they’ll change their minds.”
Mike shook the reporter’s hand and watched him leave. It didn’t matter if EverStrong returned with money in hand. Even if they came back, their involvement wouldn’t get back the money Stamina had to spend for him to fight, but he’d damn sure have a new sponsor by the next match.
More than anything, even more than a new sponsor, he needed to find Ava, thank her for bringing Mr. Johnston to him, and hear her out. And he would if he ever saw her again.
Chapter Thirty-nine
“Don’t be nervous,” Shakes said, rubbing Mike’s shoulders. “I know this is your first weigh-in of this capacity, but don’t let it rattle you. Littleton’s people, well, they’re going to try to psych you out and bring the drama. Don’t let it mess with your head.”
Mike stood outside the pressroom door and prepared for the weigh-in. He’d worn a Stamina T-shirt and shorts. Once on stage, he planned to shed his shoes, strip down to his boxers, and climb up on the scale. He expected Littleton to match his weight. Pound for pound, they were the best matchup in boxing. Both men were equal in weight, reach, and demeanor.
This was going to be the fight of the century.
“You got this, man.” Jack stood behind him in full support. “Littleton’s people are going to bring the show with them. Expect music and throngs of fan support. Not that he needed to, but he’s gone so far as to plant them in the audience. It’s just another move to unsettle your nerves. Don’t fall into their trap.”
Mike knew about the seedy side of boxing. Hell, he’d watched Jack suffer one injustice after another. There was no way a little dramatic hype was going to shake him.
“Has anyone seen Ava?” he asked before the door opened.
No one spoke.
Maybe she’d left. Knowing her, she probably caught the next flight to Vegas and went back to work. His heart sank. He’d never get to tell her he understood. That she’d fixed what she’d broken, and maybe he could, too.
As it did the day before, the door opened and cameras flashed.
“Let’s go,” Daniella ordered.
Mike walked forward, and the buzz in the room increased. In a second the press was all over him, shouting questions, asking if he was going to finish his interview today. Mike ignored them. At the same time, through opposite doors, Marlon Littleton appeared in the distance.
He was the most respected boxer in the sport. He had a full ten years on Mike—at thirty-eight years old, Littleton had an extensive boxing career. Remembering Marlon’s record, forty-eight wins, nine losses, and a fifty-three percent knockout rate, buckled Mike’s knees.
Fuck.
Standing at five eight, Marlon Littleton commanded the room. A silent hush fell over the crowd as the African-American powerhouse glided toward the stage. Marlon sized Mike up. Mike stood straighter. Sure, the current champ had exceptional skills, and biceps the size of boulders, but even with his natural ability and good ring instincts, Marlon had yet to meet his real match, a real contender, and that challenger wa
s Mike Perez.
Mike’s mouth went dry. Unable to stay still, he shed his clothes and stepped on the scale.
The announcer told the room his weight. Perfect. Just as he’d expected.
Littleton’s crew surrounded him. He looked like he was headed to the ring instead of a weigh-in, engulfed by all of his supporters. Rap music blared. Attention quickly faded from Mike and everyone turned an eye to the undisputed best fighter in boxing.
Littleton approached the scale, and his weight was announced. Yes. The fight was going to be perfect. Marlon flexed his muscles and posed for the cameras. Mike knew his moves were all for show, intimidation, and if he were anyone else, intimidation would have surrounded him like an old friend.
Then, Mike walked across the stage and did something even he didn’t expect. He outstretched his hand to Littleton. “A good fight,” he said as they shook.
Littleton pulled him close. “Yeah, man, a good fight. I’ve been waiting for this.” Admiration shone on his face.
Their mutual respect sent an adrenaline rush through Mike’s body. Mike patted Marlon on the shoulder. While much of boxing was dirty, overpromoted hype, Mike knew right then and there that Marlon Littleton was one of the good guys.
Too bad the press didn’t think Mike was. “What’d Mike say?” one of the reporters shouted to Littleton. “Planning to beat you to a pulp?”
“Nah,” another reporter shouted. “Said if he didn’t get him, his gang brothers would.”
Littleton walked back to his crew, saying something only to them.
“Perez, what are you going to do if you lose? Return to life on the streets?” some obnoxious man shouted from the rear of the room.
He rose above their hatefulness. Obeying Shakes and Daniella, Mike knew the reporters in the room egged him on, hoping he’d lose his shit. With the exception of the Stamina crew, everyone in the room preferred Littleton. No one wanted to see him lose, especially to no-name Mike Perez.
Going The Distance (Ringside #2) Page 19
