The Fall of Legend Read online

  “I haven’t worked out enough these last couple months. I’m not in the best shape right now.”

  “I’ll take what I can get,” Bo says.

  “I can’t offer more than once a week, at best—and I live in Jersey.”

  Bo winces, and I almost laugh at him. A lot of die-hard Manhattanites don’t like going over the bridge. I’m not one of them, because I know there’s a great big world outside the city.

  “Fair enough. You got a phone?” he asks.

  I head to my bag next to Roux and drop my gloves inside, then fish out my phone. Before Bo rattles off his number, he squats down beside my dog and pauses.

  “May I?” he asks with his hand out, like he wants to pet her.

  I’m glad he asked first, or I’d tell him to go fuck off about the sparring. No one should touch another man’s dog without permission. Unless it’s a kid, because they just don’t fucking know better and can’t resist not stroking the fur.

  “She probably won’t eat your hand. Knock yourself out.”

  Bo lets Roux sniff his palm and then scratches her under the chin. The man knows how to approach a dog. That’s a point in his favor.

  Roux licks his hand and uses her snout to lift it up to pet the top of her head. Bossy bitch.

  “Beautiful dog.”

  “Her name’s Roux. If she didn’t like you, I wouldn’t be trading numbers,” I tell him.

  “Fair enough,” he says. “I have two of my own, and they’re too big of assholes to behave this well in public. Probably spoiled them too much.”

  We trade numbers, and Bo sends me a text to confirm.

  “I can’t promise I’ll have time,” I remind him. “I’m not fighting these days.”

  “I heard. You opened a club?”

  Of course he’s heard. Everyone has.

  “Yeah.” I stay deliberately vague because I don’t want to get into the details that I know are coming next. Doesn’t matter, though.

  “You had some trouble there too, right?”

  I nod again, keeping my mouth shut.

  Bo isn’t stupid and gets my drift. With one last scratch of Roux’s ears, he rises, and I do the same.

  “If we can connect, that’d be cool. Either way, it was good to meet you.” He glances at the heavy bag. “Have a good workout, man. Looks like you needed some time with the bag. I’ll let you get back to it.”

  He’s not wrong. It’s a release I need, even if I haven’t been making time for it.

  “I’ll let you know,” I say, shaking my bag to settle the gear. “See you around, Bo.”

  “Likewise, Legend. Looking forward to it.”

  I unwrap my hands and shove everything inside the bag before zipping it up and grabbing the end of Roux’s leash. We’re just about to the doors of the gym when I hear a familiar voice call my name. I turn around to see the big black-haired son of a bitch next to a fighter.

  “Yo, Legend. Dude, it’s been for-fucking-ever. How the hell are you, brother?” Rolo, my old fight promoter, says.

  I walk over to him, and he holds out both arms to bring me in for a back-slapping hug. If it had been anyone else, I would have looked at him like his head was stuck up his ass. But Rolo is different. Rolo was family. At least, until I told him I was stepping out of the cage for good and broke his heart.

  I slap his back with one arm and step out of the hug. Roux wags her tail happily at the sight of her old friend. Rolo used to bring cold pizza to the gym for her when I was training.

  “How you been, man?” I ask.

  “Been good. Damn good. Still miss watching your ass unleash pain in the cage, though. You walked away in your prime, and I know you still got rubber on those tires.”

  The fighter beside him stares at me with stars in his eyes, and I have to wonder if Rolo’s grooming him to be the next me.

  “You look like you’re doing good,” I reply with a nod at the guy. “What brings you to this part of town?”

  “You know me, always scouting new talent, keeping my ear to the ground. Trying to put together the best fights I can to get people in the door and money in our pockets.”

  I force a smile that I don’t feel, given my current situation. “I remember those days.”

  Rolo rocks back on his heels and scans me from head to toe. “Everything cool after the trouble you had with the club? Been meaning to get over there to check it out, but you know how things go . . .”

  As his words hang in the air, I feel the sharp stab of my failure even more acutely, and this time, it’s mixed with guilt. I purposely didn’t invite Rolo to the grand opening party because I know how he gets when he’s shit-faced. I also know that he’d expect me to cover his bar tab while he drank the most expensive liquor and flirted with every woman in sight while bragging about his glory days and me.

  It’s embarrassing as fuck, and I didn’t want that in my club.

  “Everything’s fine. Just hit some bumps in the road. It’ll sort itself out.”

  “If you need some quick cash, I know a guy who could get you a comeback brawl.”

  I shake my head. “I’m good, Rolo. Appreciate the offer, though.”

  Rolo shrugs, and the guy beside him continues ping-ponging his eyeballs back and forth between me and my old promoter. “It’s always on the table. Everyone still asks me about you, especially when you’re going to fight Bodhi Black again.” Greed shimmers in Rolo’s eyes. “That would be a fucking sweet payday no matter the outcome.”

  My molars grind together. “I’m good, man. Staying legit. Just like I planned.”

  The greed fades, but something that looks like it could be concern replaces it. “I know that’s important to you, man, but if you ever get sick of it, you know I got you. Talk to you soon, Gabe. Don’t be a stranger.”

  I leave the gym with Roux trotting along my side, heading back to the club to get my Bronco and get the hell out of Manhattan. As I reach the corner, a group of four girls, all dressed for the bar, cross the street and head in the same direction as opposed to walking past me.

  Just like I assumed Scarlett would do.

  It grates. More than it should. Especially as one of them clutches her purse tight to her side, like I’m going to fucking mug her.

  I wish I could say it was the first time. Or the second. But it’s not. When you walk the streets, hood hanging over your face, no woman wants to pass you on a dark street. I should congratulate them for being able to spot a danger accurately. Except it stings, because I’d never fucking hurt a woman.

  Just let one think you’re going to hurt her so you can get her to save your ass? A sweet Southern voice from my past rises, and I try to reason with her.

  I didn’t have a choice. It’s not like I threatened her in so many words. She assumed. I played it to my advantage.

  The angel on my shoulder isn’t convinced. You’re better than that, Gabe, and you know it. Stop lying to yourself.

  She’s right, but it doesn’t change a damn thing.

  After a quick check of the club and the disappointed look on Zoe’s face again telling me everything I need to know about attendance, there’s no reason for me to stay. Q and I normally alternate nights, but with so few bodies on the floor, we’ve let Zoe, the youngest of Q’s three older sisters, work on her own more. She’s proven to be just as capable as either of us, and if Scarlett Priest can really do what she says she can, Zoe will be proving her worth even more soon.

  I’m almost afraid to hope. Hope only sets me up for more disappointment, and fuck knows I don’t need any more of that. The big plans and dreams I’ve been trying to make happen have already been stained with blood. My revenge is still out there, waiting for me to take it. And I will, when I’m ready.

  Roux hangs her head out the window of my truck as we leave the city behind, and I’m fucking ready to fall face-first in my bed and pretend today never happened. But even after I park the Bronco inside the bay of the old service station that Bump and I both have small apartments above,
courtesy of Q’s family, I can’t shake the image of Scarlett hanging in my head.

  I glance up at the darkened windows above me, which means no distraction in the form of Bump to get her off my mind. Since the lights are shining from the big white house on the other side of the scrapyard, I assume he’s hanging around Q’s dad and his crew, watching them insult each other while playing poker.

  Which means . . . I’m all alone except for Roux.

  Normally, that would suit me just fine, but I don’t trust myself right now. The urge to take out my phone and search for more pictures of her face disturbs the shit out of me.

  I don’t give a fuck about her, I remind myself. But . . . some recon isn’t a bad idea.

  Roux and I climb the stairs, and despite the fact that the shop hasn’t serviced a car in years, the scents of brake fluid, grease, and exhaust still hang in the air. After living here for fifteen years, I think it smells exactly like home, or the closest thing I’ve ever known to one.

  Roux whines at the door as I unlock it, ready for her treats and bed. I take care of her first before mixing a protein shake for me and dropping onto the sofa in the living room. My phone sits heavy in my pocket until I can’t stand it anymore.

  “Fuck it,” I say to the empty room as I give in.

  It doesn’t take me more than thirty seconds to be staring at her photo. Shit, dozens of them. Probably hundreds. Or hell, thousands. An entire gallery of the woman who has the power to make or break me.

  And I can’t fucking look away. I scroll down, staring at image after image of her laughing, smiling, running, hiking, buying shit at a flea market . . . it’s like I’m watching her life, frame by frame.

  Her perfect fucking life that Bump jacked up by kidnapping her.

  I toss the phone atop the pile of old Hot Rod magazines on the coffee table and grab the remote to turn on the TV. Mind-numbing entertainment. That’s what I need. Because I know there’s no way in hell I’ll be able to sleep after looking at those photos.

  Halfway through a rerun of Family Guy, I snatch up the phone again and stare at a picture of her laughing as she dodges a water balloon on the Fourth of July, sparkler in hand.

  Then I make a vow.

  “After my club is in the black, I will never see your face again.”

  Nine

  Scarlett

  I wake up with drool on my cheek, which is pressed against a hard surface, rather than my pillow. I’d like to pretend this is the first time I’ve ever woken up with the impression of the corner of my laptop on my face, but that would make me a liar.

  Peeling my skin off the MacBook, I swipe the tiny pool of drool away with the edge of my sheet.

  Note to self: change the bedding today. It’s a mental note that I probably won’t remember until I’m climbing under the covers tonight and too tired to do anything about it, but at least I’m trying.

  With a yawn, I roll out of bed, my laptop clutched to my chest the way some women carry their babies.

  Someday.

  But not today. Today, I need to mainline coffee until I can pretend I got enough sleep to make up for the deficit I’ve been racking up since college. I glance at the clock and smile when I see that I only have fourteen minutes until Amy will be knocking on my door with the rundown of my schedule for the day.

  Fourteen minutes is enough for two cups of coffee.

  After washing my face, then applying my morning routine of skincare products, I make my way into the kitchen and smile at my ridiculous collection of mugs. From the kitchen setup downstairs in Curated, people might think that I only drink the nectar of the gods from dainty antique teacups, but they’d be wrong. I prefer to sprinkle as much absurdity into my morning as possible. Life is too short to take everything seriously. It’s not like we’re getting out alive.

  As soon as the coffee is ready, I pour it into my this might be whiskey mug, wrap my fingers around it, and inhale.

  Gah. Yes.

  I grab my gratitude journal off the kitchen counter and take it with me to the small table next to my open window. The sounds of the city are omnipresent, and after living here my whole life, I barely notice them anymore as I pick a pencil from my jar. Today’s says be fucking fabulous.

  Duly noted.

  I take my first sip and let the warmth fill my body as I consider what to write today. This is one of my most important morning rituals. I know that I was born under a pretty damn lucky star. I have a life that most people would kill for—even with a freaking kidnapping yesterday. I never want to take a single bit of it for granted . . . for however long it lasts.

  I tap the eraser on the notebook until it hits me.

  * * *

  I am grateful for the reminder that this life is finite and every second is precious. I am grateful that I woke up this morning and have a purpose for today.

  * * *

  I could write more, but I don’t feel moved. Some days, I write paragraphs. Others, one sentence. I don’t know if I’m doing it right, but I figure as long as I write something down every single day, it keeps the spirit of gratitude flowing through me. I almost add a postscript after I take another sip, but I just think it instead.

  I am grateful for coffee. Thank you to every single person whose labor and efforts brought this to my lips.

  Today’s brew doesn’t last long as I practically inhale it. I’m just starting on my second cup when the distinctive double knock comes at the door.

  Amy. Right on time.

  I pop out of my seat and swerve around my antique furniture, the pieces Chadwick called tacky and mismatched, before I answer it.

  Some people might expect the boss of a place like Curated to open the door looking perfectly coifed, but those people don’t know me at all.

  My employees have all seen me with a rat’s nest of hair, no makeup, and in my pajamas. Because that’s me too, and I’m not hiding my general hot-mess status every morning. It would take too much effort, and I just don’t care enough to make it happen.

  “Good morning, Amy,” I say with a smile as I swing the door open to greet my twenty-eight-year-old executive assistant and general manager. I tried having two separate people, but things got complicated, and I decided it’s easier to give all my orders to Amy, and then Amy has an executive assistant and staff to delegate everything to that needs to get done while she manages the store.

  Unconventional, but it works for us.

  “Hey, Scar. Happy hump day! You ready for me?”

  “I’m always ready for you.”

  She laughs, because that’s total bullshit. “At least you’re not using the coffee makes me poop mug today. That one still weirds me out.”

  Her comment reminds me of Chadwick and my lack of bodily functions in his brain.

  “I poop. You poop. No reason to get weird about it.”

  “Moving on from poop. You have a call in fifteen minutes with Ryan and Christine. She specifically told me to clear your calendar from four to six Friday, and I wanted to run it by you before I go ahead and do it. Because even though I’m more scared of her than I am of you, I wanted you to know.”

  My financial manager is a terrifyingly capable woman who makes all my employees quake in fear. Probably because they didn’t see her pee her pants climbing a tree when she was eight like I did. Still, she even frightens me with her intensity now and then, and I have to remind myself that she was a little fraidycat at one point too.

  “Did she say why?”

  “No, and I’m afraid to ask.”

  “Fair enough. Go ahead and do it. Chris wouldn’t make the request if it wasn’t important.”

  It might seem strange that I follow her instructions with blind faith, but Chris is likely the only person on this planet, other than her brother Ryan, my business adviser, who cares more about my money than I do. Chris would take it as a personal insult if I thought she was wasting my time, because that’s another thing she’d never do.

  “Okay. I’ll do that ASAP. Kelsey will b
e here at ten to do your hair and makeup. I emailed you a half dozen contracts that are ready for your signature. You can check them out while she works, if you have time. Then you have appointments on the third floor from eleven thirty until three. From three to five thirty, you have time blocked to hit the two vintage shops you like. The new inventory will be there waiting for you to check out before they shelve it.”

  I do a little shimmy in excitement about the vintage shops. Scoping out new products is something I don’t get to do as often as I like anymore, but it’s the most fun part of my job.

  I used to find and purchase every piece that came in the door at Curated, but our growth rate has made it so that there’s no way I could keep up with supply alone. I now have an elaborate network of scouts all over the world who love to collect my finder’s fee for scooping up the best and most unique goods in their area.

  “And that’s it? Early night?” I’m about to throw my hands up in the air and hip check her, but Amy’s face falls.

  “Sorry, Scar. You’ve got dinner at eight with Chadwick and your father.”

  Whoops. Chadwick just reminded me last night, and I already forgot. I shore up my happy smile.

  “No, no. That’s okay. It’ll be good. Dad and Chadwick get along like two preppy dude-bros at a golf course. It’ll be fun. After all, when else do I really get to see Dad?”

  Having already lost one parent much too soon, I’m painfully aware that every minute I get to spend with my dad matters because he won’t always be around. Whether he and I connect isn’t the point. It’s the fact that he’s my father, and I’m not going to avoid him because he’s still not sure what to make of me, since I don’t fit into his corporate-ladder-climbing ideal.

  I am, however, a CEO, which you’d think would make him happy, but not so much. But tonight . . . tonight I’m going to make him smile. Maybe he’ll even say he’s proud of me. That would make it all worthwhile.

  With an awkward grin, Amy continues. “Do you want Kelsey to come back and touch you up beforehand? I can check with her and see if it works with her schedule.”