“Always,” I say dryly as I put the car in gear.
I ignore the lurch in my gut as I lock eyes with my brother. I’ve always wondered if I could do it, stomach it. Take him down like I want to do to his prez. We’re on opposite sides. It should be easy. But with every turn I take towards the station, the knowledge that it’s not that simple grows. Because the two of us, much as I sometimes wish we weren’t, are family.
Allen meets us in the PD parking lot and grins at Jack as he slaps me on the shoulder. “Good work, Decker. I knew you’d eventually come through for me.”
I pull the coke out of my pocket and dangle it in front of his face.
His expression turns menacing. “Gold star. Interrogation room, cameras off.” With a nod, I tug Jack up the stairs. When we’re halfway up, Allen says, “You’re in with me this time, Decker.”
I’m not a good man. And yeah, I’ll have to atone for that one day. But I’ve always tried to be a good cop. Shit I do for Axe aside, when I put on this uniform, I try my damndest to protect South Bay, to put on a face that my old man, the man who raised me, would be proud of.
All that goes out the window the second I step into that interrogation room and handcuff Jack to the table. Today it’ll be my fists laying out Allen’s justice.
Guess I’m about to test out how much of this I can stomach.
22
“Keep your hands up!”Decker yells.
He’s pacing the edge of a boxing ring, observing the two teenagers throwing gloved punches at each other.
“You’re wasting energy. Pick your shots. And keep those feet light.”
The fighters circle each other, and the bigger of the two launches forward. A swing and a miss. He stumbles, and then he’s on the ropes, taking punch after punch to the sides of his padded helmet.
“Tighten your guard, Eli. Elbows up!” Decker calls out.
I spectate from the other side of the Ringhouse, arms crossed and leaning against the brick wall of the old gym.
The man who threw my brother in handcuffs less than twelve hours ago gave me a questioning look when I walked in here, but he hasn’t sought me out again since.
“Get on the offence, Eli. Let’s go—yes, exactly like that. Break his rhythm. Davis,” he barks. “Quit running your mouth and focus on your footwork. He got out of that too easy.”
While the boys continue, Decker remains focused on them.
Linc has this way about him, this intensity. Like he doesn’t know how to fully relax. It’s in the way his muscles lock up, in those big breaths he takes, in the way his eyes constantly scan a room, as if searching for a threat.
Here, he’s in his element. All that tension he carries with him melted away.
“All right, all right. That’s good. You’re done,” he says as he hoists himself up onto the raised platform and dips under the ropes.
The kids separate, their chests heaving, faces flushed and sweat-covered. They grin at him, and he smacks one on the shoulder, muttering words I can’t hear from here. Both boys laugh in response. It’s weird seeing him like this. So unguarded. That easy smile he lets slip sometimes is in full force tonight.
Once the boys have made for the changerooms, Decker gives me his back and disembarks from the ring, heading towards the matted area deeper inside the empty gym.
The Ringhouse Fight Club is a mishmash of old and new. The green linoleum floors are outdated, the yellow and green paint peeling. Championship banners, plaques, and promotional fight posters from decades ago adorn the cracked brick walls. And the bulletin board is covered in yellowed newspaper clippings from before I was even born. The workout equipment, though, looks to be from the current century. Shiny free weights, a row of sleek treadmills, polished cable machines. Half a dozen heavy bags hang from the ceiling, and well-kept mirrors line the bottom half of the weathered walls.
Decker is rummaging through his gym bag when I approach. “Evening, Gracie,” he says casually.
“Decker.” My tone is less friendly.
He smiles in response, finally sparing me a glance a second before he rips off his T-shirt.
Without my permission, my focus pulls to his torso, and my neck heats instantly. Bulging biceps, the ripple of his abdomen, the broad plane of his scarred chest. His skin is damp with sweat, his joggers sitting low on his hips. Really low. So low I can almost see just how far those pretty lines slicing down into his waistband go.
He runs an eye over me, quirking a brow as he sips from his water bottle. “You good?”
I purse my lips. “Put on a fucking shirt, Decker. I’m here to yell at you, and I can’t focus when you look like… like that.”
