Raw Deal (Larson Brothers #1)(80)
Yeah, she might’ve had to restrain herself from hurling her remote at his face on her screen. But she’d said her piece, so there would be no further statements no matter how the reporters who called tried to entice her into trash-talking.
The fight crept ever closer, and the closer it came, the antsier she grew. She even found herself looking up flights to Mexico City. Most of them connected in Houston. The very name of the city on her screen set off a barrage of sweet memories in her head. At the front of them was the dizzying whirl of the elevator plunging down while he kissed her against the glass, making her drunker than the champagne ever had.
Memories were bad. Memories were prone to trigger a deluge of tears out of nowhere. She couldn’t handle it. She was sick of tears; she’d cried enough.
When he gets back, she told herself. When it’s all said and done, maybe we can pick up where we left off. But that wasn’t fair to him. She couldn’t be there through the good times and disappear through the struggles. It wasn’t who she was. It wasn’t. If she let this go by, let him go in that ring without her there, they were done. She felt it like an ominous looming deadline.
She visited the cemetery more and more, though there was little to do but sit and stare at Tommy’s name on the plaque. He wasn’t here; he was gone. She didn’t feel any closer to him here than she did anywhere else, but she came anyway. Rowan came with her sometimes too, and held her while they both cried. Tommy might not be in that tomb, but he was there inside Rowan, and that was the most comfort she could find. While her sister-in-law seemed to be getting better, though, after almost three months, Savannah feared it was only just now starting to hit her . . . really hit her, and it felt like a punch to the gut. All the anxiety over Mike’s approaching fight didn’t help, and she woke so many nights feeling sick, shaking, bathed in a cold sweat with his name on her lips.
It was only getting worse.
“What do I do, big brother?” she asked at the tomb two days before AF Mayhem would take place and seal her fate. It was a bright, beautiful day, not unlike the day they’d interred him, only much hotter. Humidity had her shirt sticking to her and a bead of sweat rolling between her breasts. She sat on one of the two steps leading up to the structure, twirling a blade of grass between her fingers.
Of course, she didn’t expect an answer.
But she got one all the same.
A shrill, staccato cry above her brought her head up to inspect the sky, and there among the blue was a soaring bald eagle.
Gasping, she stood and stared. Ridiculous to think it was the same one that had been a comfort to her that horrible day, but . . .
Oh, Michael. The day of Tommy’s funeral, she’d searched the sky for a moment after finding her eagle gone, only to drop her gaze and see his face. And he’d looked so broken for her, so desperate to try to set things right as best he could. He had, hadn’t he? For the brief time they’d had together . . . he’d loved her. He’d scraped all the pieces of her together and tried, painstakingly, to reform her. The person he’d created, though, wasn’t the same one she’d been before she shattered. She could be better for him. She had to be.
A peace stole through her as she watched her new eagle, such as she hadn’t known in weeks. Life was precious, she thought. And much too short to waste a moment of it.
“Thanks, Tommy,” she whispered, and bolted for her car, her phone already in her hand.
Chapter Twenty-Three
“Cool, Mike. Play it cool,” Jon said at his ear.
Mike fiddled with the good-luck charm in the pocket of his sweats, twenty-four hours away from his destiny. The air itself was electric in the arena, where the fighters had congregated for the Mayhem official weigh-in. He accepted well-wishes from fellow competitors, more than a few requesting that he mop the floor with Meyers’s ass. They needn’t have asked; no one had more reason than he did to want the same damn thing.
Weigh-ins were more tolerable than press conferences. Way more. He liked the spectacle, the light show, the huge screens showing recaps and trash-talking—it meant all the work was done except for the fighting, which was the only reason he was here. Plus, afterward he got to drink a ton of f*cking water after dehydrating himself for twenty-four long-ass hours. He was a good twenty pounds lighter since beginning the weight-cutting process earlier in the week, but he felt like absolute shit for it.
Then they were announcing him as the challenger for the AF Heavyweight Championship—“Michaaaaaael ‘Laaarcennyy’ Laaaarrrrsssonnnn”—and he jogged up the steps and out on the stage to loud appreciation and flashing cameras, a crowd of people, and smiling scantily clad ring girls.
He unzipped his jacket and whipped off his cap and shirt, tossing everything to Jon. Toed off his shoes and stripped down to his shorts, grinning at the feminine appreciation that rang out from the audience. And once he stepped on the scale and his weight was announced, he gave the crowd their show, flexing for the cameras, then made his way to the side of the stage to wait on the champ. Such as he was.
He’d felt better lately, except for depriving himself of water. The effects of the altitude had eased up until he almost felt normal again, and he’d heard some of the other fighters bitching about it since they’d arrived a few days ago. Good luck with that, fellas, he’d thought. Most of them would probably be puking their guts out after their matches, like he had been after a couple of his first workouts.