Page 87 of Road to Absolution

Chuckling, the other officers drank their whiskey, then spun on their stools to lean elbows to the bar, preparing for the show.

As if forcing himself to play nice, Art came to me, exhaling and holding out his hand. “Nice to meet you, Maverick.”

Art was shorter than me, but height seemed to be the only thing I had on him. His hair was on the darker side, like mine, which made his blue eyes—which I was sure girls fell for—beam from a mug I had wished was a train wreck. Nope. This asshole could’ve just walked out of a GQ magazine. The biker’s edition.

So, this is your ‘friend’, Lilah?

Art was living up to the nightmare my jealously had created as a worst-case scenario while I laid in a hospital bed feeling inadequate.

Now I had to shake his hand because Lilah wanted me to play nice. “Yeah. You too.” Not. At. All.

I understood him trying to lighten the tension. “Sorry I didn’t live up to your high expectations of me being a creepy old geezer.”

“Heeeey!” the old men yelled, even louder this time.

Art laughed at them. “I said high expectations!”

They grumbled in unison.

Waving them off, “Don’t you guys need a nap or something?” he smirked at me, like, am I right?

Wouldn’t it have been the perfect beginning to my new world if I could say this guy being a jokester had me appreciating his humor?

Fucking life and all its goddamn surprises.

That smirk and the word nap had my mind playing more Ping Pong, but I struggled to remember what it was telling me. Head tilting, I asked, “Have we met before?”

Blue eyes, that looked so much like Diesel I couldn’t believe this guy hadn’t figured out who his pops was, squinted at me. Then, slowly, he shook his head. “Not officially.”

What the fuck does that mean?

“Have we met unofficially?” Yes, the question carried attitude.

Like one of my flashbacks from the accident, I suddenly remembered being in a pantry at a college party, Lilah’s core dripping wet around my dick. When she screamed out during an orgasm, and the pantry door swung open…

It all began after a match I had won that night. On a small bus, we boxers were heading back to school when my boxer roommate, Pete, received a call from Sadie, his girlfriend. Sadie was my girlfriend’s dorm roommate, who hung with Lilah all the time. She was upset, warning me that I was losing Lilah.

As soon as Pete and I got back to school, we jumped in my truck and rushed to the party so I could save my relationship with Lilah.

After a heated argument, Lilah and I ended up fucking, hardcore, in the pantry.

Now, in the Cave, noticing Art’s nostrils flaring, I knew he was the fucker who had opened the door that night.

Holy fucking shit. Art was at the party, with my girl, before I even got there.

My brain started to short out like a fuse box popping circuits. Intense jealousy had chemicals racing through my body. I was powerless to control the reaction.

Shoulders rounding, stomach tightening as if preparing for a match, I seethed, “Why were you with my wife that night I fucked her in DC?”

Knowing me like the back of his hand, and that getting between me and my girl was a First-Class ticket to Hell, Tuck’s upper body leaned back, and he spoke over his shoulder, “Ohhhhhh, hell,” as if to give a heads-up to the officers that shit was going down.

Apparently, Tuck’s comment was comical, according to Art, because he had the audacity to smirk at me. “She wasn’t your wife then.”

Wrong answer, fucktard. I took a step forward.

“Bro, no,” begged Tuck. He had been excited for this a moment earlier. I guess he hadn’t seen this coming.

Not able to look away from Art because I was now teetering on the edge I’d been too close to since leaving Lilah in our room, out of the corner of my eye, I saw the officers slowly getting off their stools.