It was the sound of the rain that woke me.

Fucking rain.

Rain that would turn to snow soon enough because Detroit was colder than a witch’s tit.

A vicious jabbing behind my eye and the sour copper taste in my mouth told a familiar story even if I couldn't remember details.

I was at the fighter bar hang-out, Lou and Tony's, last night — drowning my mutha-fucking misery in triple shots of Jameson — after a seriously fucked-up conversation with my used-to-be manager, Manny Riggs.

Seems I was yesterday's news. He got a new pony for the ring — someone young, dumb and full of cum — just the way Manny liked 'em.

Didn't matter that I was once the shining star of The Underground.

I was garbage now.

You were only as good as your last fight and I'd lost against Johnny "The Jackhammer" Robberts.

Worse than that, I'd gotten injured.

Fucking right shoulder tore in two.

Surgery wasn't an option.

But neither was fighting no more.

I was cut loose.

Just like that.

Gone.

See ya.

Don't let the mutha-fucking door hit your ass on the way out.

I gave my life to The Underground.

Been training and fighting since I can remember.

It's all I've ever known.

Louie Davonte was like a mentor of sorts.

I thought I was something special.

I was gonna be the one to put Detroit back on the map.

Going to the big time.

But fuck, joke was on me, apparently.

I wasn't nothing but a stupid dreamer, easily replaced by another numbskull with faster hands and a younger body.

I guess I should’ve known I was nearing the end of my career when I was one of the oldest fuckers still kicking it around at the gym.

Nine years in the ring was about all most could stand anyway. That’s why it was a young man’s sport — they bounced back quicker.

Unlike me, who seemed to find a new ache or pain each time I breathed.

Goddamn, where did the fucking time go?

Thirty-five years old and broken as a junkyard Buick.

So, drowning myself in Jameson was a legit option to end an epic failure of a career, right?

I have no fucking clue how much I drank — but if my empty wallet was any indication — it was a lot.

The pain behind my eyeballs rivaled the ache in my hands. I opened my eyes long enough to stare blearily at the damage. I grimaced at the raw, skinned knuckles, scabbed with dried blood, frozen in the clenched position.

I worked my jaw, wincing at the bruising.

Holy fuck, who the hell did I tangle with last night?

I groaned and started to fling the covers away so I could stumble, crawl or limp to the toilet but that's when I realized I wasn't alone.

Shit.

Buried deep beneath the bedding, a woman was lying in my bed.

A woman with red hair slept fitfully, her small hands curling reflexively against her dreams.

Her face was delicate…like one of those dolls you see on television that cost more than a small car.

A collectable piece with fiery red hair.

I lifted the sheet and sucked in a tight breath.

She slept in panties and one of my t-shirts that I didn't remember offering.

I dropped the blanket. She stirred, her eyes fluttering open.

Golden eyes locked on mine.

I might’ve still been drunk but I knew a beauty when I saw one. No beer goggles needed for this one. Staring at her was like looking into the sun. I ain’t no poet but damn, this woman was stunning.

And something about her scratched at my brain as I tried to recall details from the night before.

I was too tired to spend the effort to piece together the mystery so I got straight to the point.

"What are you doing in my bed?" I asked bluntly, the pounding in my head and the inopportune morning wood of my cock obliterating any chance of being nice for appearances sake.

"I was cold. I couldn't find any other blankets so I crawled into your bed last night after you passed out."

"How'd we get here?"

"Cab."

That made sense but nothing else did.

I narrowed my gaze. "Who the fuck are you?"

"I'm Charlie."

"Charlie who?" I waved away her answer. I had bigger questions. "What the fuck happened last night?"

"You broke Louie's nose." A small satisfied smile followed her answer. "And you took down everyone else in Louie's crew. It was epic."

I stared, my stomach clenching on nothing but bile. Her praise only heightened my anxiety. "Why the fuck would I do that?" Punching Louie Davonte in the face? That was suicide on many different levels.

"I don't know but I'm glad you did. You don't know what Louie was going to do to me."

"Fuck," I groaned, scrubbing my face, trying to rid myself of the certainty that I'd just pulled the mother of all self-destructive stunts with my sudden hero act. I squinted against the milky light coming in from the bedroom window. "You're Louie's new girl?" I guessed.

"I'm no one's girl, least of all his," she hissed, her golden eyes flashing with real heat. "It's a pity you didn't crush his skull with those meat hooks of yours. Would've done the world a favor. He’s a fucking menace. I certainly wouldn’t shed a tear if he got run over by a metro bus."

“Shut up for a minute,” I growled, trying to get my head on straight. “What you’re saying ain’t makin’ sense. Why would I punch Louie and tank my career for you? I don’t know you, lady, and I’m not in a habit of doing random acts of kindness.”

“I told you I don’t know why you did it,” Charlie shot back, gathering the blankets closer to her chest as she glared. “You just did.”

"No, no, no," I muttered as I started to pace. "What the fuck did I do?"

I searched my whiskey-soaked memory. I'd been pissed at Manny for tossing me aside, for shitting on my future. I'd been mad at the world and the Jameson had understood.

Jameson always understood — maybe a bit too well.

But then, I saw her.

A tiny slip of a thing being dragged into the back room in spite of her kicking and thrashing.

Even in the dim bar light I could see the black eye marring the soft skin, the cruel hand twisted in that mass of red hair.

Something about her had caused a growl to rumble from deep inside my chest.

Suddenly, I’d wanted to break things, people. Anything that got in my way of her.

Things got hazy after that.

No, that couldn't be right. I wasn't the hero type.

I didn't get off by rushing in and rescuing the girl.

I minded my own damn business.

So, why the fuck had I just put a death sentence on my head for this girl?

Fuck me.

If what she said was true, there was no going back. Davonte wasn’t known for his forgiving nature.

Hell, I was probably a dead man walking already.

Twenty-four hours ago, the death spiral of my career had been my sole focus.

Now…fuck, what was I supposed to do?

Davonte owned more than just The Underground — he ran Michigan. He had fingers in everybody’s business.

And I’d just broken his mother-fucking nose?

The whiskey remaining in my system rebelled, kicking like an angry mule. A bubble of bile scorched my throat as I fought the reflexive spasm to spew.

“Are you okay?” she asked, peering at me with wary concern.

That was rich. She’d gotten me into this mess and now she was worried about my welfare?

Fuck. Women.

“I’m fine,” I managed to croak before staggering to the toilet. I kicked the door shut and puked my guts out.