As I pull into the parking lot, I would totally agree with that assessment.
“Don’t break your fucking nose again,” I mutter to myself as I pull open a door that feels sticky.
The Last Ace greets me with a wall of stale beer and smoke. They have an actual jukebox, so that’s fun. It probably hasn’t been updated since the 90s. At least country music was better in the 90s. The vinyl booths are split and patched with duct tape. It’s the kind of place where nobody makes eye contact unless they’re looking for trouble.
Perfect.
I slide onto a bar stool, keeping my back to the wall. “Whiskey. Neat,” I tell the bartender, whose nose has been broken more than mine.
He slides the drink over without a word. Good, I’m not in the mood for a chatty bartender. I take a slow sip, letting the burn replace the taste of anxiety in my throat. I need the liquid courage before I take a spin around the room and look for Randal Voss.
“Holy shit. Pierce Dawson.”
I turn, trying not to look as startled as I feel. A man approaches, silver threaded through his once-black beard, and an extra fifteen hanging out right on his belt line.
“Mickey Esposito.” I’m genuinely surprised. “What the fuck are you doing in Nashville?”
“Could ask you the same thing, kid.” He claps a hand on my shoulder. “Got a buddy that owns a gym here. Training some new kid that’s all piss and vinegar, but he’s got promise. Like you did back in the day. Still pissed you left me high and dry.”
“Yeah, man, sorry. Detroit’s fight scene wasn’t for me.” The fighting was great. The publicity wasn’t. All it took was one hot new story about my undefeated string and I was out of there. We had just moved in with Beckett and were still looking over ourshoulders for the police to piece together what happened to Reed. Or for Voss to come and shake us down.
“Is that right? What happened to your face?” he asks, gesturing to the tape across my nose.
“Hockey fight.”
He laughs, that same barking sound I remember from countless sparring sessions. “Grab your drink. Let’s catch up.”
Part of me wants to refuse. I’m here on a mission, not a reunion. But I follow anyway. The vinyl seat squeaks as I slide in across from him. From here, I can still watch the door just in case Randal decides to make my day and walk in.
“So,” Mickey says, taking a swig of what looks like club soda. “You gonna tell me what’s got you wound tighter than a championship match, kid?”
“Just catching up with an old friend.” I keep my face neutral.
“Bullshit.” He sets his glass down with precision. “Your shoulders are up around your ears, you’re scanning exits like you’re expecting a SWAT team, and you’ve touched that broken nose six times since we sat down.”
My hand freezes halfway to my face. Fuck.
“You always did carry your stress in your body. Could read your mental state from across the gym.”
“That’s a fucking lie. I have a great poker face.”
“You know,” he says conversationally, “I got a therapist now. Processing all that childhood trauma shit. You’d be surprised how much baggage we lug around without realizing it.”
“You? Therapy?”
“Don’t look so shocked. My omega got tired of me going off half-cocked all the time. Good for the soul, you know.”
“I just can’t picture you talking about your feelings.”
“So, what is it? Money trouble? Pack issues? You got that same look you had before your first professional fight, like you’re about to either puke or punch someone.”
The familiar way he cuts through my bullshit creates a crack in my armor. Maybe it’s the way Mickey’s looking at me like he already knows the answer and is just waiting for me to catch up. Or maybe I’m just tired of carrying it all alone.
“You ever…” I start then stop, unsure how to continue. “You ever do something you can’t take back? Something that follows you no matter how far you run?”
“We talking hypothetically, or is this confession hour? I ain’t no trained shrink.”
I trace a water ring on the table with my finger. “There was an accident. Years ago. In Florida.”
