With our last rehearsal out of the way, I decided to tie up a few loose ends before I got too busy packing and doing other shit in preparation for the tour.

The meeting was already underway when I slipped inside Classroom A at the Austin Recovery Center. Taking a seat in the back, I looked around for my sister.

Since completing her second stint in rehab a year ago, Laurel had faithfully worked her program. Meetings. A steady job. Family counseling. By all accounts, my sister was well on her way to controlling her addiction. Which eased a lot of my guilt. Not all of it. I couldn’t buy back the years she’d spent in foster care. Or forget that it was my fault she ended up there in the first place.

When I didn’t spot Laurel in the crowd, I made eye contact with her counselor, an aging hippy who looked to be about seventy, but in reality, was a good ten years younger. Breaking away from the skinny dude he was talking to at the refreshment table, Vaughn headed my way.

Noting the serious expression etching his weathered features, I pushed to my feet, a pit forming in my stomach. “Hey, Vaughn,” I said in a shaky voice. “Is Laurel around?”

From my brief scan of the room, I knew she wasn’t here, but still I waited for an answer. Any explanation that didn’t include the word “relapse.”

Vaughn cocked his head to the side, extending his hand. “Nice to see you, Logan.”

Patience was never my strong suit, so ripping the answer from his throat crossed my mind. Instead, I slid my palm against his and held my tongue.

With the formalities out of the way, Vaughn rocked back on his heels. “Laurel isn’t attending meetings here anymore. She didn’t tell you?”

My natural inclination was to clam up. Handle this on my own. Laurel was my sister. My responsibility. But I’d failed miserably at this before.

When I found her in Nashville a year and a half ago, strung out and working the pole at a sleazy strip club, I sent her straight to the best rehab in the hill country. Luxury rooms. Private counseling. Massages and gourmet meals.

Mistakenly, I thought that would fix her. That if I showed enough support and gave her enough love, she’d walk the straight and narrow.

And then she’d relapsed.

Even though a second stint in rehab proved successful—and she was now eleven months clean—I lived with the knowledge that the peace my sister found might be temporary.

Shifting my feet, I looked down. “No, she didn’t.”

Vaughn squeezed my shoulder. “Let’s step outside.”

It was then I noticed a couple of people talking behind their hands and pointing.

“Yeah, okay.”

We only made it as far as the front office.

“I don’t think you should jump to conclusions, Logan,” Vaughn said. “I’ve spoken to Laurel, and she told me she just needed to find a meeting place that was closer to home.”

Which would make sense if I couldn’t see the top of the building where she worked right outside the window.

“Do you know if she’s found a place?”

Vaughn shrugged. “Meetings are anonymous. You know that.”

Anonymous and completely at Laurel’s discretion. He left that part out, but the subtext was there—I couldn’t make her go.

Or so he thought.

I paid a good portion of my sister’s bills. She lived in a nice loft, way out of the price range for a clerical worker. Her car, a late model Mercedes, was in my name. And I arranged to pay half of her grocery bill.

Yeah, Laurel needed to stand on her own two feet. But we grew up poor, without a mother, in a fucking trailer. And that’s before she ended up in foster care. As long as my sister was doing her best, she’d never want for anything.

But what if she wasn’t doing her best anymore?

“Thanks, Vaughn. I won’t jump off the deep end.”

He nodded, skeptical, but said nothing.

Affixing my sunglasses, I gave him a little smile and then strode out to my car. As soon as I was behind the wheel, I took out my phone and called my sister. And when she didn’t answer, I pulled out of the parking space and headed straight for her loft.

“Answer the fucking door,” I growled after ringing Laurel’s doorbell for the second time. “I know you’re in there.”

My gut told me it was true. And if I had to knock the wood from its hinges to find out, I wouldn’t hesitate.

My shoulders sank when the lock disengaged. Eyes wide with surprise, my sister peered out through a small gap in the door. “What are you doing here, Lo?”

Resisting the urge to push my way in, I locked our gazes. “Let me in. I’m not messing around.”

As she contemplated, I searched her face. Aside from the tension lines bracketing her mouth and the pinched brow, she seemed fine. Except that she was hiding something. And that shit wouldn’t fly.

When I moved to grab the door handle, Laurel jumped back. Stumbling over the threshold, I scanned the room. It took my brain a moment to register what I saw. Because it couldn’t be true. But it was.

Jake Cage.

My father.

Even from the back, I recognized him. Pale blond hair, a shade lighter than mine. Broad shoulders. Imposing frame. Sitting in front of the big screen TV I’d purchased.

I didn’t realize I was moving until Laurel stepped in front of me, small hand pressed against my chest. “Logan, you don’t understand.” Tearing my gaze from the back of Jake’s head, I looked down into my sister’s pleading eyes. “He’s … sick.”

Truer words were never spoken. Jake Cage was the most twisted motherfucker I’d ever known. Sick didn’t begin to describe the man. But then the haze lifted, and following my sister’s line of sight, the air punched from my lungs when I spotted the wheelchair.

“What do you mean ‘sick’?” I forced out, disgusted when my voice cracked.

Jake had no hold over me. I made sure he knew that the night I beat him to the ground in front of the trailer where we lived. Until then, I’d never fought back. Not in all the seventeen years of my life. But that day, when he’d signed over his parental rights and banished my sister to foster care, I won my freedom using my fists. And since violence was the only language my father spoke fluently, he’d let me go.

“He has early onset dementia,” Laurel explained, gazing at the monster with soft eyes. “Most likely brought on by a traumatic brain injury from …”

“All the people he tried to beat the shit out of who fought back?”

Any hope I harbored that I’d kept that last thought imprisoned behind clenched teeth faded when my sister flinched. “Yeah.”

Ignoring her wistful tone, I shifted my focus back to our father. “How did he find you?”

That hint of a smile touched Laurel’s lips once again. “He didn’t. I found him. At the homeless shelter when I was dropping off canned goods from the food drive we had at work.”

Of all the cards fate had ever dealt my sister, this was the cruelest. How many stars had to line up for Laurel to be in that exact place at that exact time? If I were Christian, I could probably form an equation to explain the odds. But I wasn’t Christian. And my dad wasn’t a mathematician. He was a bare knuckles brawler who made his living by driving men to the canvas with his fists. And once, I’d been his favorite punching bag.

Gut twisting from the memories, and drawn by some unseen force, I took a step. And then another. When I was parallel with Jake’s chair, I fought the lump in my throat and replaced my spine with a steel rod.

“Hey, old man.”

Until that moment, I wasn’t sure if he was real. But then his gaze found mine. And something sparked in the pale blue orbs. I hated myself for leaning in just a fraction to hear what he was about to say.

“Jeremy.”

My uncle’s name fell from Jake’s lips, hesitant. And it was like he’d punched me.

Laurel rushed forward. “No, Daddy.” She gripped my arm, fingers digging in. “It’s Logan.”

Confusion clouded his features as he shifted his attention to my sister. “Beth?”

A tsunami of emotions battered me from the inside. Chaos and fury and a hatred so pure, I could barely speak. But I did.

“Don’t you ever say my mother’s name again,” I spat, shaking off Laurel’s hold. “Do you hear me?”

Jake blinked slowly. And for a second, I could swear he saw me. That he knew me. But then the light seeped from his watery gaze, and he turned back to the television. “I’m hungry.”

My fury quickly gathered force, and I retreated a step, unsure if I could stop myself from wrapping my hands around his neck if I stayed that close.

Shooting me a cold stare, Laurel rushed to adjust the blanket on Jake’s lap. “God, Logan.”

But God had nothing to do with it. Because what kind of God would spare my father the torment of his memories? Of my mother’s death? And my hatred? Finding no good answer for that, I stormed out, ignoring Laurel’s pleas.

Propelled by a rage I hadn’t felt in years, my fists clenched and unclenched as I rode the elevator to the ground floor. And as much as I despised the part of me that was exactly like my father, when I got into my car, I knew exactly where I’d end up.

Pulling the Rangers baseball cap low on my head, I kept my eyes downcast as I descended the stone stairs into the dank basement.

Straight into hell.

Smoke, sweat, and blood hung thick in the air, and I wrinkled my nose.

Spotting Dex’s shock of black hair, I shouldered my way through the raucous crowd to where he stood at the side of the ring. Transfixed by the two men wailing on each other inside the ropes, he didn’t notice me.

Dex had run the underground fight scene in Austin for as long as I could remember. Back to the days when my dad was a regular on the circuit. But Dex kept a low profile, and most people didn’t know he was responsible for covering all the action.

I didn’t care about the money, though. Not anymore. When Caged was still a struggling band, I’d pick up a fight now and then to make the rent. Or cover the cost of studio time. Or buy food.

Besides music, fighting was the only thing I was good at.

Dex finally turned his head, and looking up at me, his eyes widened. “Logan?”

It wasn’t a question. He knew who I was.

I held out my fist for a bump, which he returned automatically. “Hey, man. Long time.”

Brows drawn together, his gaze darted around the room. “Um … yeah. What are you doin’ here?”

Leaning a hip against the ring, I shrugged. “Thought you might be able to hook me up.”

“With what?”

Were we really playing this game? Apparently so.

“A fight, dude. What else?”

Since I didn’t look like some of the meatheads who frequented the circuit, I’d made Dex a lot of money from my fights. I was tall. But not overly muscled. Which drove down the odds. But I was also fast. And I liked the pain.

Dex contemplated for less than a minute before a laugh broke free. “Yeah, right,” he scoffed and then took a drink of his beer. “What are you really doing here?”

Pulling some tape from my pocket to wrap my knuckles, I twirled the spool around my finger. “Send someone over with a shot. Bourbon, I don’t care what kind. I’ll be good to go whenever you are.”

When I turned to find a dark corner to get ready, Dex’s meaty paw curled around my bicep. “That ain’t about to happen, Logan.” I glanced down at his hand, and he pulled away, like he’d just touched a live wire. “Listen,” he continued in a whisper. “I don’t want no trouble. And I don’t want any publicity. Whatever your game is, I can’t help you. If I put you in that ring, it’ll take about two minutes for someone to snap a picture or a video. And then where would I be?”

Following his gaze, I noticed a couple of people staring. Fuck. My days of being anonymous were long gone. Even in this shit hole.

Patting me on the back, Dex shook his head. “Just like your old man. Always looking for the rush.”

His comment snapped me back to reality. Because even though it was true, I didn’t want to hear it.

One of the guys in the ring hit the canvas with a heavy thud.

“Stay!” Dex shouted over the cheers that erupted. “Let me get you that drink.”

Rooted to my spot, I watched blood drip from the loser’s nose. Two of Dex’s men hopped into the ring and pulled the dude to his feet.

This wasn’t me. Not anymore.

“Some other time,” I mumbled, pocketing the roll of tape. “See you around, Dex.”

Without waiting for a response, I headed for the stairs. Busting out the door and into the dark parking lot, I took in a lungful of humid air to vanquish the acrid smell of blood.

Halfway to my car, I heard footsteps behind me. More than one set.

“Are you looking for a fight?”

Raising a hand, I waved them off without turning around. “No, I’m good.”

And then I was on the ground with a knee in my back. “Well, I guess that’s too bad,” the stranger hissed in my ear. “Because I’m gonna whoop your ass, rock star.”

Laughter. And three voices, maybe four, egging the dude on. But I’d learned long ago, the size of the audience didn’t matter. Instinct took over and I grunted, flipping the clueless fuck onto his back.

Wide eyes blinked up at me, then shifted to my fist, cocked and ready to fly.

I eased up so he could wiggle free. Just enough to make it a fair fight.

And then I smiled. “Tell me, son. How bad do you want me to hurt you?”