Fighting to Forgive (Fighting Series) (43 page)

We don’t want to live in fear of what’s waiting around the corner. Or grow old and grow up with a list of regrets weighing us down. So we made our choice.

It’s time to see if he’ll take us back.

My hand trembles against the door handle as I push into the hospital room. Machines beep in sequence and seem to match the pace of my steps. Stewart’s head lolls toward me at the sound of my entrance.

“Hey.” I’m tentative, nervous about how he’ll react seeing me.

A lot was said the night he was brought here. There’s so much we need to talk about. I can only hope he’ll give me a chance to say what I need to say, and pray he doesn’t kick me out.

“What are you doing here?” His words are garbled through what looks like a few dozen stitches and a broken nose.

I make no move to get closer. “I was hoping we could talk.”

“Said everything I had to say.” He turns his face away.

I swallow my nerves and move deeper into the room. “Then, do you mind if I talk?”

He doesn’t answer.

“I’m sorry about happened to you. I tried to get Blake to leave, but…” Sadness cuts through my words. Determination moves my feet toward his bed. “He’s in a lot of trouble. Steroids, his career is over, and he’ll be in jail for a while.”

Stewart’s head jerks back around. “As he should be.” His words are spit through swollen lips.

“Yes.” It’s all I can say with my heart in my throat.

“So you’re not in love with him?”

I’m pinned to the floor by the power of his glare.

“He seemed to think you two had something special.”

I shake my head. “I want to go home.” My stomach revolts, twisting in disappointment. “Back to Seattle with you and Elle.”

Wide eyes push against his bruised lids. “This is a surprise. You’d said back at the apartment—”

“Forget what I said. The fact is, you took care of me when I had no one. I was alone and pregnant and… you took us in.”

“I thought I loved you back then.” He shrugs. “You were the hottest thing on two legs.”

That’s not love. Anger boils in my veins, but I douse the fire and concentrate on my end goal. “I think, if you give me another chance, I could learn to love you.” I grip my hands behind my back to keep them from trembling. “I owe you my life.”

“You’d come back?” he whispers.

“If you’ll have us.”

His hand reaches out for me, and I hold my breath before taking it. He tugs me to sit at his side. “You’ll never be rid of me, Lay. I’ve worked too hard to make you mine.”

“So you were just testing me? When you let us leave Seattle, you had every intention of bringing us back?” There’s too much anger in my voice.

He turns away from me again. Shutting me out. But I need him to tell me the truth.

“Stewart.” I calm the pounding rage in my head. “I want things to work out between us. But you need to be honest with me. I’ll tell you the truth about anything you want to know, just please, let me in.” I stroke his arm until he gives me his eyes. “Please.”

“I saw you were looking for jobs. Made a phone call. That’s it.”

My heart skips at his honesty. I wondered how I got hired so quickly when I had no work experience. “You’re the one responsible for getting me a job with the UFL.”

He shrugs one shoulder.

I give him what I hope is a flirty smile and pull his hand into my lap. “Is that all I owe to you?”

He grins and then hisses in pain.

“Ouch, be careful.” I run my fingertip lightly across his lips, and my stomach rolls.

Even surrounded with deep purple bruises, there’s a flicker of desire in his eyes. “You’re really mine?”

I bob my head a couple times in answer, not trusting my voice.

“Come here.” His demand is heavy with want.

Mustering my strength, I think about all I’m sacrificing and shove it away. I lean forward. His hands stab into my hair and he brings his lips to my ear. “We need to get out of town.”

“Mmm, yeah. That’s what I want.”

“There could be fallout, and I need to be home to make sure your little detour doesn’t lose me my license.”

My stomach pitches, and a chill races up my spine. “What do you mean?” My question sounds relaxed, even though my heart feels like it’ll pound out of my chest.

He releases me enough to see his eyes, but keeps me close. “Gibbs and I made a deal. He hired you, and I sent him a little publicity package wrapped in a tainted doctor and some very specific drugs.”

“What does that have to do with us?”

“Nothing you need to worry about. Let’s just say Gibbs got the publicity he wanted.” He pulls me in for a kiss, but to avoid using his destroyed lips, he uses his tongue and teeth, releasing me with a bite.

I swallow a gag, then lick the metallic flavor of his blood from my mouth and pretend that his act of possession turns me on. Running my hands down his torso, his hips flex in response.

“I want to fuck you so badly right now.” He groans and pulls my hand to his erection.

Lightheaded with disgust, I struggle to get more information. “How’d you find a doctor who’d agree to sacrifice his reputation?” I grip him tightly and stroke, with a non-verbal promise of reward if he answers my question.

“Yeah, you missed that, didn’t you, Laylay?”

I let go, threatening to stop. He presses my hand down and rolls his hips.
Talk, Stew.

“The MD had charges filed against him for selling OxyContin. Turns out he also had a nasty habit of videotaping himself with patients
after
he’d put them to sleep.”

I recoil, finding it impossible to keep my expression indifferent. To think I was alone in the same room with that sick fuck.

“I approached him, explained that I needed an MD who had nothing to lose. If he agreed, I’d give him a fake passport and enough money to leave the country. He jumped all over it.”

“I don’t get it. You did all that just to get me a job?”

He has the decency to look embarrassed. “Not exactly.”

“Stewart, I’m your wife.” I’m surprised the words flow as naturally as they do. Years of practicing have made me an expert liar. “You can trust me.” Those four words, the same one’s I used to get to Blake to share his secrets with me, sour and wash me in shame.

“He doped up that fighter to get him busted for steroids. Got a couple bogus signatures from you that show you approved the fighter’s meds. I knew when all this shit blew up, you’d need me to bail you out. I’d fix it, and get you back and home where you belong.” A creepy laugh gurgles in his chest. “The best part of it all was an accident. Turns out, the guy he was doping was the same guy who was fucking my wife.” A satisfied smile curls his lips. “I call that a win-win.”

Cocksucking asshole.
I grab his dick and twist it with all my strength. He howls in pain, and blood seeps from his stitched lip.

“Not this time, Stew.” I push back from the bed, barely escaping his hand as he grabs for my hair. “This time, I win.”

The door opens behind me, and I don’t have to turn around to know that five armed police officers are at my back.

Stew’s face goes slack, eyes darting.

“You guys get everything you need?” I call over my shoulder.

Lieutenant Hodgeson steps to my side. “Loud and clear. Great job.” He spears Stewart with a glare. “I’ve got a list of charges against you, Mr. Moorehead, including rape. I suppose you need a lawyer.”

“You fucking bitch.” Stewart thrashes on the bed, pulling at cords. “I’m going to kill you.”

Three police officers move quickly and handcuff him to the bed. “Sir, you just added another charge by threatening a woman. I suggest you keep your mouth shut until your lawyer arrives.”

I rip the hidden mic, wires, and box device from beneath my clothes. “Am I free to go?”

“Absolutely.” Lt. Hodgeson aims a smile my way. “Oh, and you might want to know, Mr. Daniels was released on bail last night.”

“Oh, um…”
He’s out.
“That’s good news.”

He nods toward me then turns to his officers and a still struggling Stew.

Knees wobbling, I push my legs to carry me out of the room. How does Blake feel about me now? It’s because of me that he has a police record. It’s my fault that he’s lost his career, and his reputation is destroyed. He’ll never forgive me.

As much as I want to run to his place, fall to his feet and sob until he takes pity on me, I’m probably the last person he wants to see.

And with such victory comes crashing defeat. After all, what joy is there in being free if I can’t share it with the people I love? I remind myself that Axelle is my life, my priority. She’ll always be enough for me.

Even if my heart is screaming otherwise.

Thirty-two

Blake

I’ve been at it for nine hours. Sitting in front of my computer, exhausting every search engine ever created, and nothing. No record of a Doctor Michael Xavier. Anywhere.

I took a break from my online manhunt to research the drugs that were found in my system. Both can be ingested and injected. Easily given without a patient’s knowledge.

That bastard totally fucked me. And now he’s gone.

Slamming my laptop shut, I toss it on the bed next to me. My stomach growls, reminding me that I’ll have to leave the safety the spare bedroom eventually or starve to death. As appealing as the latter option is, I can’t die yet. Not before I find that motherfucker who ruined my life and make him pay.

My fists dig into my eye sockets. “This pity shit isn’t going to get me anywhere. Concentrate.”

I grab my cell phone. Missed calls. Two from my brother, one from Lieutenant Hodgeson.
No Layla.

Calling her isn’t an option. What if she tells me to fuck off? I scroll through my directory to her number, my thumb making passes over the word
call
lit up in green. I try to ignore the voice in my head that taunts me. I’ve done this at least a dozen times since I woke up. “Fuck it.” I hit the button.

It’s ringing, and I hold my breath waiting for her voice. Shit, what am I doing? She’ll call me if she wants to talk. An automated voice comes through the earpiece, asking me to leave a message. I grumble at being cheated of hearing her voice on an outgoing message. Even that would have been something.

The high-pitched beep sounds, and I freeze. Do I leave a message? What would I say? My throat is dry. I open my mouth to speak, but can’t do it. I pull the phone away from my ear and hit “End”.

I run my hand over my head. A million different things whirl through my mind, and I can’t get the shit to slow down. Layla’s got a lot to deal with right now. She’ll call me when she’s ready. Or not.
Dammit.

This head-fuck is sidetracking me. I’ve got things to do, and I need to get to them. I redirect my energy to proving my innocence, and call Lt. Hodgeson.

“Mr. Daniels.”

“Hey, Dave. Did you call to tell me I left my toothbrush in jail? If so, you can keep it.”

He laughs. “No, nothing like that. Do you have time today to come down to the station? There’re a few things I need to talk to you about.”

Dropping my head back to my pillow, I groan. “I don’t know, man. Last time you and I
talked
at the station, I ended up behind bars.”

“Good point. Meet me for a beer?”

“Now you’re talking.”

“Great. Armadillo’s at five.”

“See ya then.”

~*~

At five o’clock on the nose, I’m walking through the front door of Armadillo’s. It’s a dive bar for locals and boasts the coldest beer in town. One of those places you walk in and it takes ten minutes for your eyes to adjust from the bright sun to the dark room. I welcome the sound of pool balls smacking together and crappy country music. It’s a great distraction from the chaos whirling in my head.

As I move through the room towards the bar, eyes follow my every step. The pool balls fall silent, and the chatter turns to whispers. I drop my face and rub my forehead in a pathetic attempt to hide. Should’ve known being out in public would be uncomfortable. After all, these people think I’m a cheater who’s dirtied Las Vegas’s most profitable sport. Maybe meeting at the station would’ve been a better idea.

Dave’s sitting at the end of the bar, beer in hand. He waves me over.

Squeezing past a couple of bikers who don’t make it easy it on me, I’m grateful to make it to my barstool. “You’re early.” I motion to Dave’s half-empty pint glass.

“It’s been a crazy day.” He motions to the bartender for another. “What’re you drinking?”

I order a Sierra Nevada and notice activity in the room has gone back to normal. “What’s up?” No use avoiding the issue. He’s obviously got something he needs to say, and I don’t want to spend any more time here than I have to.

“We made some headway in your case.” The bartender puts our beers down, and Dave nods his thank you.

“That’s great news. You find the prick doctor who dosed me?” I grip my beer bottle so tight my fingers go numb.

“No.”

“Fuck.” My bicep jumps, and I want to hurl my beer across the room, but without the drugs in my system, I control the wild urge with ease.

“There’s been a development. Something that was brought to our attention by an eyewitness—”

“Dave man, cut the shit. I’ve lost everything. My career, my woman, and her kid. If you’ve got some good news, just fuckin’ tell me.”

“Fair enough.” He turns his stool toward me. “Stewart Moorehead set up his wife. He’s the one responsible for what happened to you. But he didn’t act alone. He had a partner to pull it off.” He leans in. “Taylor Gibbs.”

I shove back from the bar, my pulse drumming in my ears. My muscles contract with the urge to break something. “You’re fucking with me.”

He shakes his head and then goes onto explain how Stewart got Layla the job with the UFL, promising Gibbs the publicity he was looking for.

Unable to sit back down, I take a moment to register this new information. It doesn’t surprise me the lengths that Stew went to in order to ruin Layla. She even mentioned that he’d let her go too easily.

But Gibbs. I knew he was a media whore of the worst kind, but to discredit the sport for a headline is some fucked up shit. And throwing out one of his fighters is unfathomable. He’s not only killed my career, but he’s tainted the UFL name, and taken a shit on mixed martial arts while flippin’ it a big fat “fuck you”.