Raw Deal (Larson Brothers #1)(2)
“I know. I only told him.” She looked up at the sky again. “Think it’s him saying goodbye?”
Savannah shrugged. She’d had the thought herself, but it seemed silly now. The truth probably wouldn’t make Rowan feel any better, though. “Maybe so.”
“If Mike Larson were here right now, I’d spit in his face.”
And there it was, the same hate and blame Savannah had been hearing thrown around since the night of Tommy’s ill-fated MMA fight with the number-one ranked contender poised to challenge the heavyweight champion.
While Rowan might be brave enough to spit in Larson’s face, Savannah wasn’t so sure herself. His scowl alone could make the blood run cold; she couldn’t imagine insulting the man. During all of the prefight press, she had observed his sullen, ice-blue eyes, arrogant swagger, and swollen muscles and been damn glad she didn’t have to fight him. She hadn’t admitted it to anyone at the time, but she’d felt a little sorry for Tommy having to get in the cage with him.
“He claims it was a freak accident,” she said softly. In the postfight interviews, she’d noticed some of the iciness had melted from Larson’s eyes. Some of the gravel had smoothed out in his voice; he’d looked sorry. Sounded sorry. She, at least, wanted to believe he was sorry, while Rowan wanted someone to blame so she didn’t have to feel like fate would be so cruel as to yank Tommy away for no reason whatsoever in the prime of his life.
The fight that could make his career, he’d said. He’d trained so hard. If only he’d known it would end his life—well, knowing him, he probably still would have taken the risk. The match hadn’t been one-sided; Tommy had given as good as he got, at least in the beginning. She’d had hope. She’d been so proud. But when he’d begun to run out of steam in the third round, she’d seen it, and then at the end . . . with one devastatingly placed blow to the head . . .
Subdural hematoma, the doctors had said. Bleeding in the brain. He’d been knocked out cold, but he’d regained consciousness only to collapse again at cage side. After that, he hadn’t been able to fight his way back to them.
She couldn’t let herself think about those chaotic few minutes too much, or she would be in worse shape than Rowan. One thing was for certain: she didn’t think she could ever watch another fight again.
Sucking a deep breath and locking down hard on those memories, she absently stroked Rowan’s back and stared at the distant mourners. God, would that preacher ever stop preaching? It was all a show to cover the fact that everything Tom Allen Dugas was, everything he had been or would ever be, was gone, reduced to a name on the plaque on the family tomb. Nothing to tell of his accomplishments or his passion or his love for the woman sitting beside Savannah right now.
“An accident,” Rowan scoffed. She didn’t elaborate, but Rowan knew her thoughts well enough.
This particular truth definitely wouldn’t make Rowan feel better, but Savannah gave it to her anyway. “What else could it have been? Surely you don’t think he did this deliberately?”
“There isn’t a tiny bit of you that realizes Tommy would still be here if not for him?”
“Yeah, but Rowan . . . Tommy got in the cage. He took on the risk. I saw Larson as bloody as Tommy was. All I saw were two men trying to win a fight.”
“You can win,” Rowan said bitterly, “without pummeling the other guy to death.”
Savannah fell silent. It was useless, and she guessed it didn’t really matter. Whatever made Rowan feel better, well, that’s what she could believe. Besides, Savannah had looked away the moment things had gone badly for Tommy, as always. Seeing someone she loved take punishment like that had always been difficult for her. Thankfully, for that reason, she hadn’t seen the final moments. She never wanted to see them—ever. Larson had been cleared, Tommy’s death ruled accidental. That was all she knew and all she had to keep telling herself.
So she let the subject drop. “Are you feeling any better?”
“A little. I can’t go back over there, though. Can we sit here until it’s over?”
“Sounds wonderful to me.”
“Thank you, Savannah. I love you.” Rowan nestled her head on Savannah’s shoulder. Savannah held her, stroking her arm, and glanced up at the sky. The eagle was gone.
It was often said there was nothing more depressing than a funeral in the rain. Mike Larson begged to differ.
It was far more depressing, he thought, for the sky to be blue and cloudless above, for the birds to be singing from high perches in trees budded with new springtime life, while the group of mourners down the hill stood as if frozen in wintry grief.
He knew how that felt. For the earth to dare to keep on spinning while you were falling apart.
“This ain’t the time, man,” his brother said. “I keep telling you. You can’t crash a family’s private memorial service. It just isn’t done.”
Mike glanced over at Zane and nodded. “I know. You’re right.” Since learning about the service, he’d had the driving, irresistible urge to show up, do something, at least say something, but now that he was here . . . what was there to do or say? Tommy Dugas was down there in a casket, about to be—well, whatever they were about to do to him. He couldn’t really tell, as the family was gathered around the opening of what looked like a marble mausoleum. Back home in Houston, Dugas would’ve been buried in the ground. But right now Mike and his brother stood among dozens of similar structures to the one surrounded by the family, some with elaborate statues and carvings, some plain, some pristine, some weathered, all situated like houses along narrow streets. But however anyone looked at it, and wherever Dugas was going, Mike was responsible for putting him there. He was the last f*cking person the family would want to lay eyes on right now, or ever.