The name came out before I could stop it.
Luka's expression didn't change, but his attention sharpened. “Your stepfather.”
“Yeah.”
“You two close?”
Close. What a fucking word. We were close the way scar tissue was close to the wound it covered. Close the way history was close to trauma. Close in every way that mattered and none of the ways that helped.
“It's complicated,” I said.
“Most families are.”
“Not like this.”
Luka didn't push. Just nodded, filed the information away in whatever mental catalog he kept of his people and their damage. “You need space from him, you take it. Don't force proximity if it's going to make things worse.”
“It's his house.”
“Then get a hotel.”
“That's not—” I stopped. Started again. “It's not about the house.”
“What's it about?”
“I don't know,” I said finally. “That's why I need to go back. Figure it out.”
Ash and Luka exchanged a look, one of those married people conversations that happened without words. Whatever passed between them stayed private, but when Ash turned back to me his expression had softened.
“Just promise you'll call if it gets to be too much,” he said.
“I will.”
“Troy.”
“I promise. Fuck. I'll call.”
They let it drop after that. Luka went back to his phone. Ash picked up his book. I nursed my whiskey and stared out the window at nothing but sky.
The hours bled together. Somewhere over the Atlantic the sun started its descent, painting the clouds in shades of orange and red that looked almost violent against the blue. Beautiful and wrong at the same time, like everything else lately.
TWO
GLOVES OFF
DECLAN
The kid across from me had youth on his side and speed that came from not knowing better yet. Twenty-three, maybe twenty-four. All coiled muscle and hungry eyes, bouncing on his toes like the canvas was made of springs. He'd come out swinging in the first round, throwing combinations that looked good on paper but left him open in all the places that mattered.
I'd let him think he had a chance. Let him wear himself out chasing the knockout while I waited, watching, cataloging every tell his body gave me.
Round three now. The lights were hot and bright, turning the ring into an island of violence surrounded by darkness and noise. My ribs ached from a body shot I'd taken in the secondround. Good placement, solid power. The kid had potential. Just not enough experience to know what to do with it.
The bell rang. We met in the center.
He came in fast, jab-cross-hook combination that I slipped easy, angling my head just enough to let the punches pass. His follow-up kick came high, aiming for my head. I blocked with my forearm, absorbed the impact, and drove my knee into his exposed ribs while his leg was still extended.
The air left him in a rush. I pressed forward, not giving him space to recover. Jab to the face. Cross to the body. Low kick to his lead leg, targeting the same spot I'd been working all fight. His knee buckled slightly.
