Raw Deal (Larson Brothers #1)(70)

Mike picked at the rumpled sheet on Savannah’s bed, still unmade from their lovemaking this morning. A month, he thought. A month without her. And probably forever without her, if she decided she couldn’t deal with him stepping back in the game.

“But personally,” Brad went on, “I say the iron is still hot, so let’s strike. Let’s cement your future, Mike. Train your ass off. Go these five rounds, these twenty-five minutes, with that big-mouth prick, see how it feels, and make your decision then.”

Because retiring after a third loss to Meyers wouldn’t give the * something to gloat about from now until the end of f*cking time.

But I won’t lose. I can’t lose. I can’t go in thinking about losing, or I’m done before I start. The old adage he’d lived by for years.

“Hey, think about it if you need to. I know it’s a lot to swallow. But like I said, let me know before the day is out, because this opportunity won’t be there for long. You aren’t the only name on the table.”

“I didn’t figure I was,” Mike told him. “I’ll call you back in a few hours.”

Then he sat numbly, staring at the hardwood floor, wondering what the hell he was going to say to that sweet smiling face on the other side of the door. That everything he’d said to her about retiring had been bullshit all along? That he’d taken her to bed knowing his fighting was her kryptonite, but he hadn’t given a shit?

He realized he was already thinking about it as if the fight were already set. On impulse, he dialed Jon, who answered with frantic concern over Mike’s whereabouts and excitement over the news of him possibly taking Anderson’s place on the main card at Mayhem. “We got this, baby,” Jon told him with a fervor that bordered on ecstasy. “This is the one we’ve been waiting for.”

“I haven’t said yes yet,” Mike pointed out.

“I’m here for you. Whatever you need. You want to spend the month in Mexico City training in the altitude, we’re there. We won’t stop.”

“Yeah, Jon, it’s a month. A month when I’ll be doing as much press as training. I don’t know if it’s enough time, and yeah, I know that’s my own fault for slacking off, but—”

“I’ll be with you every step of the way. Let’s go after this * hard. Set it, Mike. We can get it done.”

There was an awful lot of we, we, we coming out of Brad and Jon’s mouths, but Mike would be the only one of them getting his face kicked in four weeks from now.

If he had really made up his mind, why was he arguing so hard against it?

“All right,” he told him. “I just wanted to see what you thought given my conditioning right now.”

“I say we’re good to go. Lay down the carbs, boy, go have your meeting, and then we’re getting down and dirty.”

Oh, God. He hurt just thinking about it. “See you soon,” he said, and hung up.

He didn’t have to call his brothers to ask what they thought. They would both be cheering him on. There was only one person who wouldn’t be, he thought, and he couldn’t hide out in her bedroom forever.





Chapter Twenty


She was sure he hadn’t realized how thin her walls and doors were. It wasn’t that she’d meant to eavesdrop; there was simply no way not to hear what he’d been saying. His voice was deep, and it carried.

Savannah sat staring at the half of her sandwich that remained untouched, trying to deal with the sick feeling churning in the pit of her stomach.

The Meyers fight. Mexico City. A month from now. The words swirled in her head, a maelstrom of pain and fear following them, chasing out any of the good feelings he’d given her these past few hours. She’d begun to put the pieces together after the ESPN report had triggered his escape into her bedroom.

All conversations had ended in there now, given the silence, but he wasn’t coming out. She got to her feet, feeling shaky and weak, and moved to the French doors that led onto her little Bourbon Street balcony. There was a small bistro table with a couple of chairs out there, and she sat there now, watching the tourists stroll the street. A horse-drawn carriage clattered by, the people inside laughing along with their tour guide. Probably headed for a stop at Lafitte’s Blacksmith Shop for a hurricane. She could use one herself, had hoped they might go for one later.

Five or so minutes passed, and he stepped out on the balcony with her, his handsome features tight and closed off. Even those full lips were in drawn into a grim line, and a hard, steely determination had seeped into his eyes. The Michael who had emerged from her bedroom bore little resemblance to the man who had gone in twenty minutes ago.

This man looked like the one who had stepped into the cage with Tommy.

But his dangerous expression somehow drew even more attention to that dangerous body, and she had to suck in a breath and tear her gaze away before she began to hyperventilate from her racing heart. Without speaking, he pulled the other chair from the table and dropped into it, lacing his fingers across his flat abs and glaring at the buildings across the street.

“I take it you heard,” he said finally, when an unbearable silence had stretched out.

“I didn’t mean to. My walls are thin.” She hated the way her voice trembled. “What happened to retiring?”

“It’s a title shot. I told you from the start I hadn’t decided what I was going to do yet.”