Raw Deal (Larson Brothers #1)(16)

It was still the hardest lesson.

They’d begun with boxing, progressing later to kickboxing and mixed martial arts. He practically lived in Jon’s gym and shuddered to think where he would be if not for the man standing next to him right now, eyeballing him warily. That alternate universe would probably involve a lot more carnage and a cage he couldn’t step out of once the fight was done.

“You went after it like it was trying to hit you back,” Jon drawled.

Everything he touched tried to hit him back. “If you want me to dial it down, then tell me.”

“If that had been a fight, you’d have been out of steam before the end of the round.”

“Except it wasn’t.”

“All right,” Jon conceded, obviously sensing his dark mood. “Are you sleeping at night?”

“What are you, my f*cking doctor?”

“You look like shit.”

“Thanks.”

“You need to talk to someone.”

“I talk to you.”

“The hell you do. And as we just established, I ain’t your f*cking doctor.”

Mike rubbed a hand through his short hair. “Then drop it.”

“Great. I might not be a doctor, but I’ll give you my assessment. You aren’t sleeping, you aren’t eating clean, and you’re drinking more than you should. Am I warm?”

He tossed and turned most nights, ate okay, and hung out with Damien way too much, which was answer enough to the last of Jon’s assessments. Looping his towel around his neck, he shrugged. “I’m doing all right. Don’t worry about it. I’m still getting my head straight, it’s just taking some time.”

Jon’s large, heavy hands came down on his shoulders. Mike was tall enough that he had to look slightly down at him, but it never felt that way. The guy had a tendency to make him feel fifteen again. “Listen to me. Whatever you need to do to deal with this shit, do it. There’s no shame in asking for help if you need it.”

The only thing that would help was something he couldn’t ask for, and damn sure couldn’t demand. Something completely out of his control. “I’m doing all right, J. I’m dealing.” He laughed without humor. “You know how I am.”

“Yeah,” Jon said, letting his hands slide away. “That’s what has me worried. Mike, let’s remember our game plan, all right?”

Mike repeated it with him. “Stay ready so you don’t have to get ready.”

Except they were only meaningless words that echoed hollowly in his head. The motivation behind them was no longer there.

It was the same story in the locker room; eyes shifting away when he came in, conversations dropping. A couple of the guys nodded greetings, but they were fast to clear out. What the hell did they think he was going to do? Kill them? Feeling tight as a bowstring stretched to its limit, he stared into the depths of his locker and despaired at how everything had gone to hell. This had been his sanctuary. This had saved him. And it had been violated. It had become a personal hell where he was tormented by a ghost. It had been his salvation and now it might be his damnation. He slammed his locker door a little too hard on his way to the showers, and the dude a few feet down from him practically jumped.

Mike kept the shower spray as hot as he could stand it, hoping it would ease his tight, aching muscles, but that tension had nothing to do with the workout he’d just endured. Nothing at all. On his way back to his locker to get dressed, a towel wrapped around his waist, a trio of guys came in laughing. He didn’t know them, but he’d seen them around—the kind of smarmy frat douches he tried to stay clear of. Adult versions of the little *s who’d given him the most shit throughout his life. The loudest and blondest one of the bunch made direct eye contact with him, tilted his chin up and said, with a shitty glint in his eye, “What’s up, killa?”

Mike stopped dead, fury seeming to boil up from the very soles of his feet. “The f*ck you just say to me?”

Slack-jawed, the guys froze. The speaker, the blond king of the douches, put his hands up palms out. “Bro, I didn’t—”

“I’m not your f*cking bro.”

“It was just a—I didn’t mean—It was a figure of speech—”

“It was the wrong one. Try again.”

“Um . . .” Chuckling nervously, the guy glanced to his friends for help, but they were pulling the whole look away thing. “What’s up . . . dude?”

It wasn’t much better, but since the guy looked like he was about to piss himself, Mike gave a curt nod and moved on to his locker to get dressed. The room was silent enough to hear a pin drop until he left a few minutes later, his heart still beating a ragged, unfulfilled rhythm. Little shits. He had no doubt they’d known exactly who he was, but had felt safe in their numbers. Mike had faced worse odds than that and come out on top; numbers didn’t impress him and they damn sure didn’t make him back down.

He threw himself into his truck, only then realizing how hard he was still breathing from the encounter, thinking maybe he’d cut out from his workout too soon. Right about now it would feel good to beat the hell out of something. It was Jon’s influence that he was thinking about the bag and not that other guy’s face. They were probably running to Jon to complain; Mike would expect a call about that later, if not in the next ten minutes.