FIGHT NIGHT:
DEACON “THE HITMAN” LOVE
VS.
MICHAEL “THE TANK” HOLLOWAY
The sweat is pouring off of me. The ticking sound of the speed bag competing with The White Stripes blasting from every speaker in the hot-as-fuck gym that Carter rented out for us. We’ve been here two days, in this sauna, since our L.A. branch is under reconstruction. Slamming my fist into the leather one more time, I turn and head for the ring, motioning for one of the guys that Sonny got to spar with me to suit up. I slip in between the ropes and grab my gloves from the corner. I’m in the process of pulling them on when my dad and Sonny walk in from the offices.
“Deacon, what the fuck are you doing, bro?” Sonny yells at me from across the gym.
Ignoring him, I tilt my head from side to side, popping my neck, bouncing on my toes, trying to ease some of the tension that has held me prisoner since I walked out of Indie’s place two days ago.
After her birthday party when we didn’t speak, I was a fucking wreck—drunk all the time if I wasn’t fighting and fucking whatever came my way. Now though, I can feel the swell of rage pulling me under. I was hurt the last time, disappointed, and I allowed myself to drown in a bottle. Now, I’m all that and more. I know what it means to really be with her, to have Frankie, mind, body, and soul. I don’t have the luxury of self-soothing with a bottle of vodka and some stranger this time. My pop won’t let me go to that place no matter how badly I want to.
If I’m not training, I’m thinking about Frankie and how she quit us without even trying. Yeah, I fucked up, but that was before I made a commitment to Frankie. I let myself down by not following through with the promise that I had made to myself to be a better man for her. I never set out to hurt the Princess, and once I claimed her, there is nothing and no one that could ever tempt me into being disloyal to Frankie in any way. In her heart, I know that she knows that. She’s running scared right now, and I’m pissed at us both for letting it happen. So fuck her, and fuck me, for this drowning feeling that I can’t shake, which only pisses me off more.
Sonny shouting angrily breaks into my thoughts.
“Yo, Deacon! Get the fuck out of the ring. We have the fight in less than four hours. We need to get back to the hotel and rest up.”
Still ignoring my brother, I give the poor fucker I’m about to tear apart the signal to go ahead and come at me. Unfortunately for him, he does. I let him charge me and swing wildly, ducking his punches easily. I come up at him from his left side and counter with a combo that has him staggering back, but not far enough out of my reach as I hit him with an uppercut under the chin that knocks him out cold. Standing over him, I’m not prepared when Sonny steps in between us and pushes me back forcefully. Stumbling a bit, I don’t think about what I’m doing when I swing on him, connecting with his jaw with a right hook before I sweep his legs, causing him to hit the canvas hard enough to knock the wind out of him. Eyes narrowed, I’m seeing red and seething with anger. I’m just about to hit him again when I’m tackled from behind and pinned down with a forearm to the back of my neck. Mav’s face comes into focus at the same time as my pop’s gym shoe-clad feet come to a halt in front of me.
“Let him up, Maverick. He’s done now.”
“Pop, he just knocked out his sparring partner and then took Sonny down. He’s out of fucking control!” my brother says in exasperation, his minty breath warming my already overheated skin.
Cheek pressed against the mat, I let them discuss me like I’m not here, as if I can’t break his weak ass hold whenever the fuck I want to. Clearly, my dad is thinking the same thing.
“Mav, if Deacon wanted to continue on this stupid fucking rampage of his, he would. You’re not containing him, son—he is containing himself. Now let him up before he decides to take you out next. Your little brother is obviously in the business of throwing temper tantrums today,” Pop says in a very unamused voice.
Getting in a cheap shot by using the forearm across my neck as leverage, Mav finally gets off of me, allowing me to get to my feet to face the firing squad. I don’t look at any of them, the adrenaline coursing through me, making me feel even more out of control than I did when I hit my brother. Was I sorry that I hit Sonny? Yeah. Did I care? Not even a little right now. Feeling all of their eyes on me, I sigh deeply, as if they’re boring me. I focus on my hands, yanking my fingerless gloves off.
“We done here, Pop?”
Tossing them behind me, I watch them over my shoulder as they land in the corner before I turn back to my dad and meet his steely gaze.
“Yeah, we’re done, Deacon. Head on back to the hotel with Trent. We’ll come that way as soon as I look at your brother’s jaw.” The last was said to make me feel bad. It doesn’t work.
I know why he’s letting me go without giving me shit over hitting Sonny. He’s trying to let me get myself straight, rein in the mad taking over. That isn’t going to work either. On bare feet, I turn and hop out of the ring, stalking over to my duffel, stopping only long enough to put my shoes on. I pull my Blackhawks hat low enough that hopefully nobody recognizes me as I slide into the back of the car Trent already has waiting at the curb. He tosses me my phone.
“Carter called, said to tell you to give him hell tonight.”
It’s the same thing he always tells me before a fight. I grunt in acknowledgment, palming the phone and typing out a text without even thinking about it. “Are you going to be there tonight?” Before I can hit send, I shake my head at myself, disgusted, and shove it in my pocket. I’m not ready for her answer. I don’t want to give her the opportunity to say no. To anything. I’m giving her space because I have no choice right now. These next couple of fights will make or break my career and I am already at a disadvantage with my fucked up hand. My pop was right—I have worked too hard, they have worked too hard, to get me where I am to throw it all away because of a broken heart. I just have to keep it together for a little while longer. Stick and move. Stick and motherfucking move.
Back at the hotel, I spend the time waiting for them to come knock on the door doing sit-ups, pushups, shadowboxing, and showering over and over, in that order. I can’t shake the feelings that have taken me over completely since I left the gym. I run hot and cold from moment to moment and have to talk myself out of hopping on the next plane out of here, straight to my girl. The only thing keeping me from doing just that is the very small possibility that she’s here in Cali for the fight. Before all of this—her, me, us, the breakup—she would’ve been here. Nothing would have been able to keep her from being in my corner. That thought alone is enough to set off my already volatile temper. Reaching for the towel on the bar, I step out of my fourth shower of the night. Rubbing the soft cotton over my too tight skin, I look at my reflection in the mirror, my eyes locking on Frankie’s name on my chest.
Soft fingers flutter over the elegant letters, “When did you do this Deacon?” Blue eyes framed by thick lashes meet mine before searching my face, then come back and hold me there, nowhere to run. “Why?” she asks softly.
Shrugging nonchalantly, “It’s not the first ink I’ve gotten for you, Princess, and I’m sure it won’t be the last either.” Chuckling, I pull her into my side trying to put an end to this conversation.
“Yeah, but this is different and you know it,” she says, looking down at the feminine curves of black inside the angry red heart. “Please tell me, baby. I won’t be upset or judge. I know that you were probably angry with me.” Leaning forward, she places a kiss over the tattoo, her lips lingering, and then they’re gone and she has me pinned with those blues again, the ones that see everything, see me.
I groan and look up at the ceiling.
“Frankie, it’s not a pretty story. I don’t want to bring any of the stupid shit I did to this place,” I say, raising my arm to encompass the bed that we’ve just fucked each other stupid in.
Meeting her gaze again, I see that she is not going to budge on this, the stubborn ass.
Huffing, “Fine. So I was listening to some music, drinking—heavily and about to do something that we won’t talk about,” I say looking away from her, the muscle in my jaw bulging from the strain of me clenching my teeth so hard at having to tell her the next part.
“The song ‘Un-thinkable’ came on and I stopped what I was doing to listen to the words, pulled ou—”I shake my head at my slip—she doesn’t need the specifics. “Anyways, Drake said some shit about living for destiny and having more of a thing and ink over his heart for his girl, and in that drunken moment, it just seemed like I wanted to—no, I needed to do it. I don’t know if I thought somehow it would make me feel closer to you or what, but I was doing it no matter what.” While I’m talking I’ve been drawing figure eights over and over along her back and still when I feel her lips on her name again. When those same lips find their way up the side of my neck to my mouth, I breathe in relief.
In between soft kisses, she whispers, “I love it, Deacon, thank you.” Kiss. “Play me the song.” Kiss. “I don’t want anyone else to share that with you.” Kiss. “Only me.” Kiss. “Ever.” Kiss. “Then I want you to play me a different song.” Kiss. “Our song.”
Determined to torture myself, I stride back to the bedroom in my suite, grab my phone off the dock and glance through the texts and calls that I’ve missed from Carter, Trent, and whoever else doesn’t matter because they aren’t Frankie and pull up my Spotify, setting it to play “Un-thinkable,” then add our song to the queue. I lie down on the bed to listen. Allowing the sadness to overtake the anger for a time, letting it bring a binding around my heart to add to the uncomfortable pull of tension weighing me down, I listen until the last chords of “You Got What I Need” play out. The words hanging in the air like a reminder. I feel them wash over me and then I tune them out and shut down. Effectively slamming the door on all the love that memory brought to the forefront and immediately surrounding myself with all the ugly shit I’ve been feeling instead. The anger I can handle, work it to my favor. Love and sadness and the bullshit that comes with them make me weak, and I have no fucking time for that shit.