Wicked Restless (Harper Boys #2)(84)

My mind is lost in the past, and that’s why I don’t see him coming. But his words yank me right out of the puzzle I’m trying to solve, and they drop me into hostile territory.

“Nick Meyers said you were a fighter,” he says. My head jerks up at the mention of his name, my hands forming fists instantly, my breathing picking up its pace, like an engine revving. Graham, Emma’s just some guy, stands on the floor in front of me, two feet lower than the ring. He’s wearing cut-off sweatpants and a tank top that squeezes his large frame.

“Nice to see you again, Graham,” I practically choke on his name. “I didn’t know they were letting *s in here now.”

He laughs at my response, but he doesn’t think I’m funny. He doesn’t think I’m funny at all. His eyes fall to his feet as he kicks at an old, dried piece of gum stuck to the floor.

“Harley, you’re really letting this place fall to shit. You need to get an intern or something, someone to come through here and clean every once and a while,” he shouts, then glances up at me, his eyes slits as they take me in. “Maybe this guy can be your intern.”

Harley walks over slowly, and I study him, watching every nuance as I try to decide if he and Graham are friends. He never smiles, and when he stops in front of us both—equal distance between us—he folds his arms and frowns. I’m not sure what Graham is to Harley or how he knows him, but he isn’t a friend. More than that—what does Graham have to do with Nick Meyers?

“I said I’d talk to him, Graham. Let the kid cool off. I’ll catch up with you later, okay?” Harley grumbles.

Graham’s smile slides wider as he nods.

“A’right,” he says. I cough down a laugh when he speaks and Harley shoots me a look to keep my mouth shut. I can’t help it—this dude sounds like a poser trying to talk all tough and shit. I’ll give him this; he’s bigger than me, and he looks like he knows how to throw a punch. But he also wore pink pants the last time I saw him.

“Hey, I’ll say hi to Emma for you,” he winks before walking away. My entire body flexes. Harley notices, and he holds his hand up to stop me.

Once Graham rounds the door, I turn my focus to Harley, who’s staring back at me with equal intensity.

“You wanna tell me how you know Graham Wheaton?” he asks, chewing at the inside of his mouth. Harley looks like a Marine—what he lacks in height he makes up for in bulk. He’s always been into fitness and boxing, and when you combine his build with his smarts, he’s perfect for this business.

“I just met the guy. We don’t…gel,” I say.

“I can see that,” he says, lifting the ropes for me to slide through. I climb out and turn a chair around, straddling it and resting my arms on the back.

“How do you know Graham Wheaton?” I ask, not liking the fact that this * has now ruined two things that make me happy—my gym, and Emma.

“He’s my biggest investor. Well, his father is, at least. His dad’s into real estate. We have a deal. He comes here to work out. He’s got some skills,” Harley says, downplaying that last part. I can tell he’s not giving Graham the fighting credit he probably deserves, and I think it’s because on a personal level, Harley likes me better.

“I see,” I say, my insides still trying to process the name that Graham threw out to get at me. Could he really know Nick Meyers? Fuck me if that ghost from my past is an investor here, too.

“He wants to fight you,” Harley says, and I spit out a spray of water as soon as his voice hits my ears.

“Shut the f*ck up,” I say.

“He’s offering five grand. All you have to do is go down in four. That’s five grand…just for you, Drew. This wouldn’t be like Pitch. Graham’s good, but he’s not big like that—it would be fair, and you’d come out all right—and five grand richer. I won’t be able to line something like that up for you again in months. He’s looking at a small event in a week or two.”

I stare at him while he speaks, trying to sort through the crazy shit coming out of his mouth.

“I don’t know, Har,” I say, looking down and kicking my foot. “That guy…I don’t trust him.”

“You don’t have to,” he says, holding up a check for me to see. “He gave me the deposit. I hold the money.”

I breathe in slowly. Any other name on that check with that number and I’d be sold. But something about this feels not right. Even so, I would love to have an excuse to slam my fist through his face. I take the check in my hand, rub it between my fingers and look at it for several long seconds before I begin nodding.

“So, you’re in?” Harley asks.

“Yeah, I’m in,” I say, not liking the taste in my mouth.

Harley takes the check back with a nod. He never smiles. I don’t think he has a good taste either. But he likes money, and I know that the five thousand that goes to my pocket isn’t what he’s in this for.

I leave the gym at three, knowing I have hours until Trent is home, and my feet carry me to Majerle’s. I text him to join me, but I’m gone hours before he says he can make it. Chuck quit serving me after my fifth Jack, so I stumbled into the liquor store at the end of the block, leaving my car safe along the roadside outside the tavern.