Eleven

Rhys

My fist slammed into the bag. Jab. Jab. Cross. Jab. Hook. Cross. Jab.

Calm settled into my bones even as they felt each impact. Hitting something didn’t exactly hurt. Not anymore. But I definitely felt it. Working the bag drew my awareness inward. It clarified things.

I needed clarity. Because I was in very real danger of losing it around Parker. Freaking disturbing. Control wasn’t something I lost. Never. I’d spent my life honing it.

I had excellent control.

God, she tasted sweet. Felt even better. Her mouth should be listed as a national treasure. Freaking perfect. And when she wrapped those tight thighs around my waist…

My glove glanced off the edge of the bag. The bag swung back into me, knocking my ribs.

“Shit.” Disgusted at myself, I ripped off the gloves and tossed them aside.

“Losing your touch?” Dean lounged at the far side of the sparring room.

Grabbing my bottled water, I took a long drink before answering. “Get in the ring with me for a couple rounds and find out.”

“I’m a smart-ass,” he said, walking farther into the room. “Not a dumb-ass.”

That made me laugh. I set the bottle down and grabbed a towel to wipe the sweat off my face. “What’s up, little brother? Bored already?”

“Of course, I am.” He shrugged. “Aren’t you? Or do you like hanging out in empty gyms on a Friday night?”

Dean might not have been able to box at a pro level but he was an expert at verbal hits. I kept my eyes on the tape I’d started unwinding from my fingers, not wanting to look at the forlorn gym that should have been full of members on this rainy evening. Fact was I often closed early because the bulk of our members used the gym during the day.

Failure never sat well with me, and this place reeked of it. Sometimes, I imagined I stank of it too, that it followed me around like a fug, keeping everyone away.

Snorting, I tossed the tape in the trash and flexed my fingers. Self-pity wasn’t my thing either, and I’d be damned if I’d fall into that trap.

“No, I don’t like it,” I told Dean truthfully. “But I’m stuck here. You, on the other hand, are not.”

He’d ditched the suits and was now wearing jeans and a T-shirt. Thank fuck. The sight of Dean in a suit while hanging out here annoyed the shit out of me; he should be in a corner office somewhere changing the world with that big brain of his. He should be hanging with someone like Parker, creating algorithms or having in-depth conversations about chaos theory.

How would it have gone if Dean had been the one to meet up with Parker like she was expecting? Would she have stuck to the whole “business only” thing? She disliked me on sight. Dean, she’d recruited.

A sour taste filled my mouth, and I walked over to the vending machine. A sports drink tumbled down to the open slot in the silence, and I knew Dean was watching me, thinking God knew what.

“Why do you keep this place?” he finally asked.

It was the earnest tone, no longer pissy or trying to piss me off, that had me answering with another truth. “It’s all I got.”

It hurt to say. Hurt to admit to myself. But I was used to pain. I turned and found him staring at me with sad eyes.

“You had it all.” A frown worked its way over his forehead. “Shit, I was so proud of you. My big brother Rhys, kicking ass and taking numbers.”

Jesus, this kid. He never needed to use his fists to lay someone flat. He just needed to open his mouth.

“Dean …” It was a plea but he didn’t seem to hear it.

“And for what? This dump?”

My back teeth ground together. “This dump was Dad’s dream. Mom’s dream. It was responsible for putting food on our table and training me to be the fighter you claim you admired so much.”

Dean nodded, clearly unfazed. “Yeah, it was. But now? Rhys, it’s falling apart around you. I’ve seen enough of the accounting to know it’s so far in the hole only a miracle can save it.”

Parker was that miracle. Or the cute fairy who’d get me one step closer to it.

Dean threw up a hand in irritation. “So, don’t tell me that this place makes you happy.”

“It doesn’t,” I snapped, unable to hold back. “All right? It doesn’t. Not now. But it could, Dean.” I glanced around, imagining it like it was in its heyday. Imagining it better than it was. “It’s something worth saving.”

He fell silent and studied the room with a jaundiced eye, seeing all its flaws. I didn’t know if he cared to remember the old days, or if he saw a different version of it than I did. Likely so. This place had been my second home. It had given me a sense of myself that nothing else ever did. I’d become a fighter here. It was part of me. And if it was worthless, what was I?

Dean met my gaze again and his was still troubled. “If you were fighting, you’d bring in enough money to fix all this. In a heartbeat.”

“Dean …”

“Don’t ‘Dean’ me in that way. Jesus, you sound like Ma when you do that.”

“I sound like Ma? Somehow I doubt that.”

“Well,” he said with a slight smile, “your voice is a lot lower and you’re ugly to boot, but you have that same repressive ‘You’re getting out of hand and do I need to put you in time out?’ tone.”

I laughed again, even though my chest felt tight and heavy.

Dean shook his head in disappointment. “I just don’t get it. You said you took time off to look after me. As if I couldn’t do that at twenty-two.”

“Could you?” I countered, dryly. “Because the way I remember it, you were a fucking wreck, well on your way to becoming a deadbeat drunk.”

Annoyance flashed in his eyes, and he sucked in a sharp breath. “Okay, fine. It was … nice of you to do that.”

I snorted. “High praise.”

“But I’m out of college, and I don’t get drunk anymore. That shit won’t fly anymore. You can’t hover over my life. Unless you’re aiming to become one of those creepy pseudo-helicopter parents? Which, I’ve gotta say, you’re skirting the edge of that already.”

“Like hell,” I muttered. Shit. I had been hovering. Like a fretful parent.

He ignored that, thankfully. “So why not get back into fighting? You’re too good for this.” He spread his arms out to encompass the gym. “You’re too good to be running around town as some fake-ass boyfriend—”

“You wanted to be her fake-ass boyfriend.” The thought of Dean with Parker rubbed raw on my skin. “So you’re saying it was okay for you but not me?”

“Yeah,” he countered. “I am. I’m the fuck-up. I don’t have a job. You …” He pointed a finger in my direction. “Were a world-class boxer, a fucking champion. If I had that talent, I wouldn’t be wasting my life in this shitty gym.”

“Don’t call this place shitty.”

“Don’t prevaricate.”

“Using big words on the stupid ox brother?”

“Don’t pretend to be stupid. You’re smarter than you look!”