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“Eh, it’s not serious. She’s mostly a distraction. Her schedule keeps her busy and I’m not interested in getting married again or having kids, which I know she’ll want eventually, no matter what she says now.”

“Then why waste your time? Why not find someone your own age?”

“Come on—have you looked at her? She’s fucking gorgeous. Who wouldn’t want to hit that given the chance?”

“Not me,” I say. “She’s young even at my age. I don’t know what we’d talk about. Not to mention, I might break her in half if I touched her.”

He laughs again. “I’m not nearly as big as you, so I get that. Anyway, she’s a nice girl, but it’s not going anywhere. We’ll probably call it quits once the event is over.”

“I meant to tell you how sorry I am about Marissa.”

“It’s been a few years,” he says with a sigh. “It was hard at first but the last year was so hard on her, I was just glad she wasn’t suffering anymore. Cancer is a bitch.”

“Yeah, it really is.”

We’re quiet for a beat.

“Anyway.” He clears his throat. “You still hang around with your buddy from the Marines? What was his name?”

“Grim? Of course. He’s my brother. He and his girlfriend are probably going to drive down to L.A. with us. He’ll be my cornerman for the event.”

“Oh, okay. I was going to ask who you were going to have with you. I figured it wouldn’t be the girlfriend.”

“Luna will be there but no, she’s not involved with or interested in fighting.”

“Candy’s actually pretty into it. She was excited when she found out you were going to join. She’s a big fan.”

“Well, I hope I live up to her expectations,” I say lightly.

“You know, she’s a good girl underneath the diva façade,” he says after a beat. “You at all interested?”

“Didn’t we already cover this?”

“So, you and Luna? You’re serious?”

We’re making a baby.

I think that’s pretty fucking serious.

Not that it’s any of his business.

This attitude is one of many reasons I left the life—it’s exhausting having to defend every decision you make from who you date to who your friends are.

“Yeah, it’s serious,” is all I say.

“How come?”

“How come?” I demand, getting annoyed again.

“I just mean, where’d you find her? I don’t picture her as your type.”

He was good to me once but he’s starting to annoy me. “What’s my type, exactly?”

“I don’t know—more like…”

“Candy?” I demand sarcastically. “Someone too young to make conversation with and not the kind of woman who plans to settle down?”

He undoubtedly knows I’m irritated now.