“Dax. I should have called sooner. I’m around. Not taking on any jobs for at least another week or two. Sampson just got back from his honeymoon. I…I went to the wedding. Bet you thought you’d never see—shit. I’m sorry, man. Wren says hi. Uh…call me back. If you want.”
The elevator doors slide open, and I take two steps forward, listening for the telltale rumble of an idling engine. “About damn time,” Ford says from somewhere off to my left. As the car door thunks, I get my bearings and wave him off when his shadow moves close to my elbow.
“I got this.”
“Sure you do. Like you’ve got everything else in your life,” he mutters under his breath.
“Enough.” I slide into the back seat, fold my cane, and shut the door, giving him time to round the car and join me. “One more word, and you’re handling these on your own. You want a fight, I’ll bench you and put Trevor on intake. I’m still the fucking boss, Ford. Don’t forget it.”
The office quiets down after five, my team leaving one-by-one. Trevor’s the only one with an after-hours gig this week, and he’s holed up in the media room watching surveillance video of the thief who hit the Boston Museum of Art two weeks ago.
The three raps startle me as I down the last of my lukewarm coffee. “What is it, Ford?”
“I was about to head home. But,” he sighs, “I’m a glutton for punishment. You want to tell me what’s going on with you and Ryker?”
“No. Talk to you tomorrow.” I don’t raise my head, don’t bother moving my hands from my keyboard. I have to wrap up a few outstanding email inquiries before I can take a couple of days away from the office—try to shove all those fucking memories back where they belong. Out of my head.
“Jesus, Dax. You ended up in a fist fight with the guy because he ghosted you, and now when he calls, you ignore him? Make up your damn mind.”
I try to glare at Ford, but since he knows I can’t see him, I doubt it’s very effective. “I’ll call him back. Later.”
“You mourned the loss of that friendship for six fucking years. ‘Later’ isn’t good enough. When?”
Anger stiffens my shoulders, and I swallow hard. “VoiceAssist, close email. Shut down computer,” I say. Pushing to my feet, I straighten to my full height and face my second in command. My friend. “When I’m goddamned ready to. Don’t bring it up again.”
“Dax,” Ford reaches for my arm as I try to shoulder past him, and I jerk back, hitting the door jamb and losing my grip on my cane.
“Don’t touch me,” I growl. “And get the fuck out of my way.”
But he doesn’t back down. “You want a fight? Let’s go.”
Twenty minutes later, I slam my locker door at Beantown Boxing and head for the ring. “Sal?” I call when the tip of my cane finds the steps. “You around?”
“Right here, Sergeant. You need help with your gloves?” As Sal’s heavy footsteps thud closer, I fold the red and white monstrosity and hold up my hands. He tugs the boxing gloves over my taped knuckles and secures the wrist wraps firmly. “Been a while.”
“Busy few weeks.”
“You ready to get your ass kicked?” Ford asks as he claps his gloves together.
“Ready to take you down.”
Sal wraps his thick fingers around my elbow and helps me into the ring.
I run my gloved hands across the ropes, getting my bearings. A few feet away, Ford clears his throat, and I scan the hazy, diffuse colors in front of me for his shadow. “On three,” I say.
His countdown lets me know how far away he is, and I bring my hands up to guard my face. His first punch sails wide as I weave to the right, and I send an uppercut to his jaw.
“You going to forget about that damn phone call?” I ask as I take two quick steps back into the ropes. The corner of the ring gives me a point of reference, and I tuck and roll towards where I think Ford’s standing, sweeping my leg out and catching him behind the ankles. He hits the mat with an oof, and I push to my feet and dance back until I hit the ropes again. “I’ll call him. Eventually.”
Ford lands a jab to my obliques, and I try to dart away, but he sidesteps me and grabs my shoulders. “I don’t give a fuck when you call Ryker. But you’ve been a shitty boss and a shittier friend the past two weeks.”
His knee rams my solar plexus, and I go down, coughing and sputtering. “What the hell does that mean?” Staggering to my feet, I raise my gloved hands and wait for him to give some form of audible cue.
“Fight now. Talk later.”
Whirling around, I curse under my breath. How the hell did he end up behind me? I may be blind, but I’m fucking Special Forces. We trained for missions in near darkness. In some of the worst conditions imaginable. Learned how to echolocate. How to anticipate our opponents. And Ryker and I spent most of our time in Hell blindfolded, relying on our other senses to help us survive. Pay attention, fucker. Get your head in the game.
We spar until sweat drips into my eyes. And then, Ford lets loose with a barrage of jabs and crosses that drives me back into the ropes. “Enough,” I grunt, dropping my arms. “You win.” After a breath, when the heat from his body disappears, I add, “Today.”
