Raw Deal (Larson Brothers #1)(68)
“No, I think you were right. He would be good for getting her mind off her problems, but her problems would only still be there when he splits.”
“She needs a friend, though. She doesn’t have many; she never did. She needs someone, aside from my parents. She always had me, but I can’t be that friend for her right now. I’ve hurt her too much.”
“I’m not sure how well Z would do with the whole friend thing.”
“All right,” she said miserably, scuffing at the pavement beneath their feet with the toe of her shoe. “It was just a thought.”
“Hey.” He tipped her chin up with the crook of one finger. Her brown eyes searched his, heartbreakingly, for an answer. If only he could give it to her. “If you want me to, I’ll set it up.”
Those eyes drifted to her brother’s name on the memorial plaque, freshly inscribed. She seemed to come to a decision. “Tommy wouldn’t want her like this. He wouldn’t. But he wouldn’t want her hurt, either. Zane can’t hurt her, or . . .”
“I know, but I can’t promise that. The last thing you or I need on our conscience right now is knowing my brother messed with her head, or worse, and we set it all in motion.”
“We can set it in motion, but whatever she decides to do is on her. Same with us all.”
“How about you ask her what she wants? Go see her. Take her to lunch. Something. Whatever his motives, Zane wants to see her again. Let her know that, and let her decide.” She drew a deep breath, and he saw on her face how much the thought of facing Rowan alone scared her. “She said some pretty harsh shit to you, didn’t she?”
“Yeah. I can’t blame her, but I don’t want to hear it again. I guess that seems cowardly to someone like you.”
“No.” He shook his head. “Words hit harder than fists ever will.”
Savannah stared up at him as seconds ticked by, then shuffled the last couple of steps toward him, letting her umbrella fall with a clatter and putting both arms around him. He held her as her head rested on his chest. “It’ll be okay, sweetheart,” he murmured, then turned to look at the ornamental structure where Tommy and his ancestors rested.
There aren’t many things I can do for you, man, he thought, hoping that wherever he was, Tommy could hear him. But if I have anything to say about it, you don’t have to worry about this one.
They walked the wet streets of the French Quarter hand-in-hand, where the weather had done little to chase people indoors. Savannah brightened considerably, he noticed, and it brightened him in turn to see her smile. This emotional roller-coaster ride would eventually end for her. He doubted she had much to worry about anymore in the way of her family staying angry with her. What he’d seen at the cemetery was three people ready to move on . . . maybe he could finally count himself among them.
She insisted on getting the beignets this time. He fought, but eventually submitted to her intimidating stare-down, joking that she was scary and he would be glad to show her a move or two if she ever wanted to fight.
“Hell, no!” she gasped in astonishment as they sat. “The thought of hitting another person makes me physically nauseated.”
“You never got in any schoolyard scraps?” he asked with a grin, and stuffed his mouth with decadent pastry and powdered sugar, thinking Jon would disown him before long.
She shook her head adamantly. “No. Never.”
“Never fought some other chick over a guy or—”
“Another chick being in the picture at all was always my cue to run.”
“If only some of the girls I fought over could have been as smart as you.”
Smiling, she leaned over to wipe away a bit of powdered sugar from the side of his mouth, then licked it off the tip of her thumb, holding his gaze. “Or maybe you should have been smart enough not to fight over them.”
“Touché.”
“Still, I guess I wouldn’t object to you showing me a hold,” she told him with a wink.
“Oh, yeah?” Noticing a speck of white at the corner of her mouth, he leaned closer and returned her earlier favor, only he kissed away her smudge of sugar. “I’ll hold you all night, baby.”
“Mmm. Just don’t make me tap out,” she murmured against his lips.
They walked more, flirted, laughed. Kissed. Listened to street music, shopped in the shops. She showed him Marie Laveau’s tomb in the Saint Louis Cemetery. And since the beignets hadn’t exactly counted as lunch, they grabbed some po’boy sandwiches on the way back to her apartment.
Mike hadn’t been on top of checking his cell phone all day. And it was just as he expected when he plucked the device from his bag—Jon and his training partners had been blowing it up. But there was another missed call that made his eyebrows draw together: his manager, Brad Eastman.
It wasn’t unlike him to check in occasionally. They had to make a decision about his future in the business at some point, because the speculation was still rampant. Mike had disappeared from social media, from public appearances; he’d basically gone into hiding, not giving interviews since the immediate aftermath of Tommy’s demise. He’d hoped that tactic would make the press forget about him, but instead, it only whipped them into a frenzy when Tommy was who they should be remembering.
Savannah turned on the TV while they sat down on her couch to eat, and he set his phone aside, deciding to enjoy her company and deal with it later. She was flipping through the channels while he took a bite of his sandwich when she passed ESPN, where on the screen next to the anchor was an image of Frank Meyers, current AF heavyweight champ, facing off with challenger David Anderson.