Raw Deal (Larson Brothers #1)(73)
He would rather go twenty rounds with Meyers tap-dancing on his face than sit through this.
“You did the right thing,” Brad said at his side, and Mike wondered if he was trying to convince himself as well as his client. “I think you need this.”
He grunted some form of response and cracked his knuckles, twitchy as f*ck in slacks and a black long-sleeved shirt. If he had to do this, he preferred to be comfortable and himself in jeans and a T-shirt, but Brad was all about appearances and respect for the audience. This was about as dressed up as he was willing to manage.
Though he’d been happy enough to do it for Savannah when they’d gone out to dinner.
Jon turned to look at him from the passenger seat. “How ya feelin’? You don’t seem like yourself.”
Neither of the guys knew he’d left his heart in Louisiana, that particular organ that was going to be so crucial to getting him through the next few weeks. He hadn’t spoken to Savannah since he packed his bag and left her apartment five days ago for the long drive back to Houston. It had rained almost the entire way.
“Play it cool,” Brad was saying. “Frank’s gonna take every opportunity to get under your skin, and something tells me it isn’t going to be very hard for him today. But we don’t need to let him see it.”
“I got this,” Mike said, finally looking away from the clusterf*ck of traffic. Frank Meyers had been under his skin for years, and he knew it, and nothing was going to change about that.
Jon and Brad exchanged a look. Mike tried to pretend he didn’t see it.
It was the usual sideshow when they arrived, tables set up on the stage with his name on a card, sponsorship plastered everywhere on the backdrop along with a huge image of his face beside his opponent’s. MEYERS VS. LARSON ON PPV. Always a trip to see that. Cheers went up from the crowd when he entered from the side of the stage, and he stopped to wave and bask a moment in the adulation as flashbulbs went off. It was basically his first public appearance since the aftermath of the shit hitting the fan, and the reception amazed him. He’d expected to be a pariah of sorts, and the acceptance and welcome from the press hit him hard for a moment. He patted his chest and pointed out at the crowd, their whooping and applause swelling louder.
He wished Savannah could be here. But she would probably feel insulted on her brother’s behalf that he was getting any love at all from the AF fans and press after what happened. He glanced over at Brad and Jon, who grinned encouragingly. Jon flashed him a thumbs up, then he took his seat at his table as Meyers came in.
Well, that dude hadn’t changed a bit. Big and dog-ass ugly. Mike didn’t look forward to the f*cking face-off, that was for sure. He’d rather get hit by Meyers than see him that close up.
He was sure eager to show that f*cking belt off, hoisting it above his head to way more catcalls and jeers than Mike had received. Yeah, he took some pleasure in that.
Reid Downing took his place at the podium between the tables and gave an opening statement, going on about how grateful they were for Mike stepping in so this fight could go forward, how it was going to be a great matchup and he was looking forward to seeing it. Then he opened it up for questions, and it was showtime.
“Mike,” the first reporter asked, a stocky fellow with glasses, and Mike figured he could have asked the question right along with him; it was what everyone would want to know. It was also the worst f*cking thing they could ask him. “When the match gets here, it will have been around three months since the death of Tommy Dugas shortly after your fight. Has that had an effect on you, and if so, do you think you’ve taken enough time away to deal with that mentally?”
What the f*ck do you think? Mike blew out the breath he was holding before he picked up the mic lying on his table. “Of course it had an effect on me, it was the worst thing I’ve been through in a long time, and I wasn’t planning on coming back anytime soon. But this opportunity presented itself, and after talking it over with my team, getting their input and thinking it over, we’re here and we’re ready.” And he put the mic down. Brad and Aaron, his publicist, had coached him to take the Forrest Gump “And that’s all I have to say about that” approach with that question. He was worried about coming off too callous, but they didn’t want to expose any weakness that Meyers could exploit.
The same guy had a question for his opponent. “Frank, what are your thoughts about the switch and does the sudden change of opponent have any bearing on the way you train or your strategy for the fight?”
Frank put his mic to his lips for what was sure to be a tirade of bullshit. “Everyone in this room knows that Anderson didn’t have a chance, so whether I was beating his ass or beating Mike Larson’s ass, it makes no matter to me, just another day. I’ve beat him twice already so there’s no reason to change up strategy, I already know what works. It’s the same as it’s always been because he’s predictable. I gotta say, though,” he added loudly over the sudden eruption of voices, “it’s a little sweeter this way, I think Dugas deserves some vengeance after what happened to him and I’m gonna get it for him.”
Oh, give me a f*cking break. Mike snatched up his microphone, though he saw Brad and Aaron shaking their heads frantically from side stage. He didn’t care. “Tommy Dugas wouldn’t ask for shit from you, man.”
“Yeah, well, he can’t, cuz you killed him. You killed him. You killed him.” He kept chanting the hateful words into his microphone as an uproar went up from the press and Mike stood up from his chair, every one of his muscles tensed for attack. Meyers lumbered out of his own seat. Reid took up his peacemaker stance and security began inching in from the sidelines. Mike barely saw any of it, hyper-focused as he was on the vile words spilling from Meyers’s mouth. God, if Savannah hears this . . .