Raw Deal (Larson Brothers #1)(55)

“I feel the same way,” she admitted, but the comment didn’t bring him the joy it should have. She said it as if it were her doom.

“Savannah . . . I can’t walk away. It’s not in my nature. I thought maybe I could. I thought maybe if it meant the best for you, I could make myself do it for your sake. It’s what I should do, but I don’t know how. I’ll fight for you, baby, fight until they put me in the ground.”

“Rowan hates me. And that’s only a fraction of what I’ll be dealing with when she tells my parents. And I know she will.”

“No one could hate you, no one who deserves you.”

“I’m okay,” she said at last, infusing her voice with a little bit of the steel he loved about her. “It was just hard. But if that’s what she needed for us to get past this, fine. And I guess I needed it too, in some weird way.”

Mike wiped a hand down his face, pausing while a couple of giggling girls clad in skintight dresses scuttled by him in the hallway, sliding him inviting looks he almost missed because he absolutely did not give a shit. He couldn’t say he agreed with Savannah’s words; it seemed exceptionally cruel to him to force her back to that night. But if she was right and it truly was something she needed to see, he wished he could have been with her to hold her afterward, wipe her tears. But he was done telling her how sorry he was. There simply weren’t enough words to convey it. “I’ll do whatever you need me to do. If you want me there, I’m there.”

“Of course I want you here. Or I want to be there. But . . . we each have our lives, don’t we?”

“You’re a part of mine now. A big f*cking part. ”

“I wish I could have met you some other way. I wish I could bring you home and let everyone get to know you and realize how amazing you are.”

No one had ever said anything like that to him before. None of his past women had ever given much of a shit whether they took him home to meet the parents or not; most of them had probably preferred not to. “I’ve thought the same thing every day since I met you, about wishing we’d met under different circumstances.”

“Is it hopeless?” she asked, voice cracking and shredding his f*cking guts.

“No, baby. It’s not. As long as I’m in and you’re in, that’s all the hope I need. And I’m all in.”

“Okay. We’ll just . . . figure something out.”

“Try to get some sleep. You’ll feel better in the morning.” He hoped.

She said her goodbyes and was gone, though he would have happily stayed on the phone with her all night. A long-distance relationship was something he’d never bothered to participate in, or even contemplate, though it would probably be ideal for him. He was a guy who liked his space and knew from experience that he didn’t need or even want someone in his home, in his bed, every night. He had always promptly shut down any cohabitation discussions broached by the women in his life; he hadn’t wanted to subject someone else to him 24/7. It seemed a shitty thing to inflict on another person. He was extremely single-minded in his training, and especially when fight time rolled around. He didn’t have the time or mental focus for anything or anyone else, often moving his camp to a remote location when he needed to get serious. How would someone like Savannah react to that? Hell, how would he react to it, if she became a permanent fixture?

Of course, Savannah still expected him to retire, and depending on the atmosphere that welcomed him when Brad tried to get him back out there, that might still come to pass. Only time would tell.

Damien and Zane fell silent when he reclaimed his seat at the table, which led him to speculate that they’d been talking about him. Great.

“Everything cool?” Zane asked.

No sense in lying; they would smell it on him. “Not really,” he grumbled, and Damien waved for someone to bring him a fresh beer.

“Savannah?”

“She’s hurting, and I can’t do a f*cking thing about it. Rowan is giving her a lot of shit.”

Zane perked up. “My Rowan? No way could she give anyone shit; she’s too sweet.”

“Not that sweet.”

Damien looked back and forth between them as if they were speaking Swahili. “Wait, are we talking about the Dugas guy’s people? Where the hell is this coming from?”

“Mike brought them over for the show the other night,” Zane explained. “Rowan’s a big fan.”

“Is she an even bigger fan now?”

“Dude, she’s a grieving widow. Give me at least some credit.”

Damien didn’t look convinced. Mike stared at Zane, one hand pensively at his mouth. There was an idea formulating in his mind, but he wasn’t going to speak it. Just wasn’t. It seemed manipulative and underhanded and—

“I could talk to her,” Zane said.

—exactly something his little brother would act on.

“No,” Mike said, waving the idea away completely. “She’s got a lot of respect for you obviously, and you have a lot of influence on her. Sending you to do my dirty work wouldn’t be right.”

Zane looked him square in the eye. There were a lot of harrowing truths behind the gaze he often masked with mischief and a sardonic grin, but every now and then, those truths peeked out. It was a terrible thing to see. “How many times have you gotten dirty for me? Stood up for me when no one else would bother?”