For today, at least, I driveawayfrom Anna. Away from the horror I saw in her eyes when she read the things about Dean Warner. The Dean who came before me, that self-serving, wife-beating, narcissistic shit stain on society.
Not once in all my time inside her home did she ask where I lived. She had no clue my Dodge sat waiting for me just three streets over, parked outside my house. It’s as though she never even considered I had to have come fromsomewhere, and I didn’t want to tell her, because I was scared it would prompt her to tap me on the rump and send me away.
Why’d she look into my dad’s past? Why ask Detective DumbFuck, when I was right there, willing to tell her anything she wanted to know?
Because she didn’t trust me.
Doesn’t trust me.
Will never truly trust anyone.
Scrubbing my hand over my face, rubbing my tired eyes, I blink through the exhaustion and stick to my lane—the slow lane—because my poor old truck isn’t up for a drag race so early in the morning.
It takes only an hour to get from her place to the town I travel to every single December, to wind through forest-lined roads and cross over a set of train tracks.
My truck rumbles along Main Street, past a diner already lit up despite the early hour, past an ice cream parlor—not yet open for the day—and eventually, around a corner or two until I pull up a half a block away from the gym already bursting at the seams.
The scent of bacon and eggs penetrates my closed windows, and the laughter of fighters makes my lips twitch.
Fuck me.I’ve never even met ninety percent of these people,but I’ll be damned if being with mykindisn’t like being with family.
When you’re me, a man whose momma died way too young, and whose father spends his time rotting behind prison iron, youneedto find a family for the holidays, or risk going insane.
It’s too bad Anna’s not ready to open her heart just yet, because theRollin Onfamily is the best kind to have when you’ve got no others.
Cutting the engine and collecting my keys, I pull my beanie down to keep my ears warm, then I settle my wrecked arm in a sling, something I should’ve been wearing from the moment Anna peeled my sorry ass off a frozen road.
Sliding out of my truck and onto the ground, I slam the door and slip my keys into my pocket, trading them for a peek at my phone—no calls, no texts.
I drop my head and start across the street, nodding to fighters as they pass, even fighters I don’t know.
Who won this year? Who lost?
I wonder how I would’ve fared, had I not been outside that night Anna and I met.
“You’re such a fake!” Evie Kincaid,theKincaid who created this tournament, holds a little boy on her hip and shakes her head when our eyes meet. Wild blonde ringlets halo her face, while bright blue eyes look me up and down. “You don’t look wounded to me, Warner. You just didn’t wanna face my sasquatch in the finals.”
I step off the road and onto the curb, crossing the parking lot where dozens of folks stare back at me.
Because Evelyn Kincaid isalwaysmaking a scene.
She shifts her kid from her left hip to her right, bouncing the giant toddler and extending her arm, fist ready, so as soon as I’mclose enough and tap her offering with my own, she drops her hand and laughs. “I mean…” She studies me with fresh eyes. “I supposemaybeyou got hit by a car.” She gestures toward my face. “Scraped. Bruised.” Then to my arm. “I guess youappearto be in genuine pain.”
“So glad to have your seal of approval.” I settle onto my heels and look to the champ manning the barbecue.
Evie’s husband.
Her baby daddy.
Her leash, sometimes, when he needs to quiet her down.
He’s not wearing his shiny new championship belt, but the black eye he boasts proves he competed, and the smug grin tweaking just the corner of his lips tells me all I need to know.
“Benny Conner.”
He knows what it’s like to have a father intent on hurting women, too.
“Sorry I missed our fight.”
