My eyes lock with his. “I just want to fight.”

“Why?”

“Why?” I repeat.

“Yeah. Why?” He sighs and rubs his jaw. “Why do you want to fight?”

I give him an answer I know will intrigue him. “Because if I don’t beat someone’s ass in a controlled environment, I’ll end up killing someone. That’s why.” And with that, I stand up, throw some cash on the bar and head for the door.

“Wait for the text,” he shouts.

Raising my hand, I let him know I’ve heard him. I pass Tiny—arms crossed—just inside the entrance.

I wait until I’ve walked a few blocks away before calling Jackson. He tells me to meet him at my apartment. I’m about to ask him how the fuck he knows where I live, but then I remember who he is now. A knot forms in my stomach, slowly releasing the guilt I’ve been repressing for years.

I should’ve been there.

I should’ve known the man he’d become.

KY

Age Sixteen

For days after my sixteenth birthday, I refused to talk about what happened. Jax’s parents walked on eggshells around me. Christine tried to make me feel as at home as possible, but it was hard. I wasn’t used to the attention and I didn’t know how to act. After a few nights of Jackson tip-toeing around me, I finally caved and confided in him. “My dad found out I wasn’t his,” I told him, sitting on the edge of the bottom bunk.

“You didn’t know?” he asked.

I took one more look at the framed picture of Jackson and I sitting on his bookshelf. Then I let out a bitter laugh. How did I not know? I glared intently at myself in the picture, smiling and dimples on show, my blue eyes reflecting the sunlight. Neither of my parents had dimples or blue eyes.

I shook my head in answer to Jackson. “He beat the shit out of Mom and I. Mom got in her car and took off. She just left me there, Jax. She left so that he could take it out on me. Steve doesn’t know.”

“Who the hell is Steve?”

“My brother,” I said incredulously, like he was a dumbass for not knowing. “Or half-brother, I guess.”

He shook his head slowly. “I’ve known you over a year now, Ky. I’ve never seen this Steve guy around, and you’ve never mentioned him.”

“He couldn’t put up with Dad’s bullshit and left years ago. He used to come around to check on me...” I cleared the lump in my throat. “He wasn’t there to protect me. And I’m not even mad because I should be able to protect myself.”

“You’re a kid,” he told me. “It’s not your job to protect yourself, especially from your family.”

“But they’re not,” I stated.

“Not what?”

“My family. I have none.”

He huffed out a breath and sat down next to me. “We’re your family now.”

***

Jackson barely steps foot in my apartment before doing a slow turn in the middle of the living room, hands in his pockets and his gaze everywhere. “This is...”

“It’s enough,” I interrupt, walking to the kitchen and pulling two bottles of water from the fridge. I lift one in offering, but he shakes his head.

He moves on from his appraisal of my furnishings or lack thereof, and sits on the couch. “You probably have to train now, right? I mean, throwing punches at drunken assholes is one thing—but being in a competition...” he trails off.

“Leave that to me. I’ll handle it.” I lean back on the kitchen island, watching the back of his head, and wait for him to go on.

“So you’re fighting soon?” he asks, half turning to me.

“No. He said I needed to see a few more fights, get to know the process, get to know him...”

He smiles. “That’s perfect.” He pulls a phone out of his pocket and throws it at me.

I catch it. “What’s this?”

“Your new phone. Department issued. We can listen in on your calls and track you.”

“Are you fucking kidding me?”

“This isn’t a walk in the park, Parker.” He grins. “Oh, and there’s one other thing,” he says, scratching his jaw. “The department needs you to do one more thing.”

“What now?”

He sucks in a breath with a hiss.

I already know I’m going to hate what he says next.

“Anger management therapy.”

“You and your department issued phone and therapy can fuck off.”

He shrugs lazily, but I can see the hesitation in his eyes. “Looks like jail time for you then,” he says, standing up and making his way to the door. “Oh, and call Mom.”

My gaze snaps to his. “Did you tell her I was back?”

“And have to deal with the wrath of my mother? Fuck no. I’m good. But don’t be a dick, Ky, call her.”

I stay silent.

“I’m serious, man.” He opens my door and gives me one last disapproving look.

A second later a text comes through on my non-department issued phone.

DeLuca: All my fighters train at Xtreem MMA gym. Be there in ten. Gunner’s your man.

Ky: Got it.

***

Ky: Got a text from DeLuca—I’m training at Xtreem MMA gym—it’s only a block from me. He says it’s where all ‘his’ fighters train. I kind of hate this guy already. I’ll be there in ten. Call you after.

Jackson: I know the one. We’ve seen him go there a few times. Thanks.

Jackson: By the way, I’m sorry about the therapy thing, but it’s out of my hands. Who knows? It might do you some good. I’ve made an appointment with the therapist. Trust me. You’ll like her.

***

I wasn’t expecting to see DeLuca at the gym—but here he was. So too, of course, was Tiny. I bump fists with him as I enter, attempting to build some form of camaraderie. He jerks his head in a nod, then continues his stance—arms crossed over his fat gut.

“You his bodyguard or something?” I say, motioning my head toward DeLuca.

“Something,” Tiny answers—his deep voice lacking any trace of humor.

My gaze moves back to DeLuca—his eyes squinted, focused on a laptop on the table in front of him. He’s leaning forward; rubbing his chin as his eyes move from side to side.

“Boss Man,” Tiny shouts, and DeLuca’s eyes snap up. He smirks when he sees me, shuts the laptop, and carries it under his arm as he makes his way over to me. He hands Tiny the laptop, which Tiny locks securely in a briefcase. Then he pats me on the shoulder and says, “I hope you don’t mind. I like to keep all my fighters in one place. That way I know who I can trust.”

“Whatever.” I shrug. “Just tell me what I need to do to fight.”

Tiny’s deep chuckle has us both turning to him. “Sorry, boss,” he says, his slight smile still in place. “This kid’s hungry. I like it.”

DeLuca’s eyes trail back to me—his head tilted to the side. “Me too, Tiny. Me too.” He shoves his hands in his pockets and takes a few steps toward the cage in the middle of the gym. After a beat, I put one foot in front of the other and follow behind him.