One Good Reason (Boston Love #3)(40)

I’m a dick. Forgive me anyway?

Got a fight tomorrow night — need you there, babe.

8PM. Lansdowne Gym.

He doesn’t sign his name. Doesn’t apologize.

Typical Luca.

But he knows I’ll be there. Just as he knew exactly what kind of cupcakes would be most effective in leveraging my sympathies.

Parker may think Luca is in love with me, but he’s wrong. Sure, we love each other — but it’s familial, not romantic. We’ve seen all the ugly, awful parts of each other. We’ve hated each other. Pushed each other. Forced each other to carry on when the whole damn world seemed to be telling us not to bother.

You can’t love someone who knows you like that.

Or at least… I can’t love someone who knows me like that.

Luca and I both gravitate toward darkness. Distrust. Destruction.

And, the truth is, you can’t drive out shadows in a windowless room. At some point, you have to let the light in. Find someone who glows bright enough to lessen the burden of your misfortunes.

Luca deserves someone who can bring that light into his life.

Out of nowhere, Parker’s face flashes in my mind. And for the rest of the night, no matter how hard I try, no matter how hard I focus on financial data and executive email streams… I can’t quite seem to banish it from my thoughts.

Later, when my eyes are drooping shut and I can no longer make out the words on my screen, I can’t stop myself from crossing to my dresser, pulling his large black sweater from the back of the drawer where I hid it last week, and tugging it on before sliding beneath the sheets.





10





The Invitation




I push my way through the crowd, my don’t-f*ck-with-me expression firmly in place. It makes little difference — no one pays me a bit of attention. Everyone’s eyes are on the center ring as the crowd slowly moves inward, jostling for better positions. This isn’t an official fight, so there are no seats or press boxes; the UFC doesn’t sanction underground bouts. But, for a twenty-five-dollar cover charge at the door, anyone can get in… so long as they know where to go, of course.

The gym is well over the fire marshal’s designated capacity, but no one seems to care. Money flows freely as bets are exchanged last minute. Fans trash-talk about the competitors, discuss the odds. I overhear someone saying Luca is expected to take a heavy beating against Dean “Iceman” Bailey, a massive lunkhead from New Jersey with a killer right hook and a twelve-match winning streak under his belt.

Go ahead and underestimate Luca, I think, pushing past them. You’ll be eating your words by the end of the night.

From what I hear, there’s a shitload of money on the line. I’ve never been one to place bets, but if I did I’d bet on Luca every time.

Times like this, being petite comes in handy. I duck under arms and between groups like a shadow, finding space to maneuver where there is none. By the time I make it to the ring — a raised, fenced-in octagonal platform surrounded by metal barriers to keep the fans back — the roar of the crowd has reached a crescendo.

Groupies push up against the metal fencing, their boobs straining inside see-through white t-shits. Bouncers make a half-hearted attempt at holding them back from the narrow ringside area where corner men, octagon girls, and coaches gather before the fight. The male fans in the crowd are a little more subdued, but not much — they eye the empty octagon with an anticipatory look, taking stock of the bets they made upon arrival.

They crave blood, tonight.

There’s an uncomfortable flutter of nerves in my stomach; the same one I get every time Luca fights. No matter how often he goes up against impossible odds and makes it out alive, it never gets easier. Tonight, when he’s battling one of the best fighters in the underground circuit, my heart is lodged firmly in my throat.

He’s still backstage, likely getting psyched up and going over his strategy for the match. He likes to be alone, before all his fights. He’s not the biggest fighter, not the strongest or the most muscular in the heavyweight division, but he fights fast, he fights smart, and he never goes into a fight blind. He says dominating in the ring is as much mental as it is physical.

His sparring partner, Colton, somehow spots me from where he’s standing in the blockaded area by the ring. In a flash, he’s there in front of me, nodding to the nearest bouncer before extending one huge hand and hoisting me over the barrier with a single flex of his bicep.

“Thanks, Colt,” I say breathlessly, when he sets me down. I hear whines of complaint from the groupies along the fence.

“Hey, why does she get ringside access?” a busty brunette squeals.

“Take me, too!” a hopeful blonde suggests.

“What’s so special about her?” a redhead sneers.

Colt shoots them all a withering glare. Despite his blond, surfer-boy good looks, he can bring the heat when necessary.

“She is with Blaze.”

Without another word to them, he hooks one arm around my neck and walks me to the cluster of metal folding chairs reserved for the fighters’ teams.

“He’ll be happy you’re here,” Colt yells into my ear. I can barely hear him, over the din behind us. “He’s been a total nutcase all week.”

I shrug. “He’s always a nutcase, Colt.”