Unraveled (Undisputed Book 2) Page 21

  Tripp shoves the papers back into his briefcase, and we both stand. I turn on my heel and follow him to the door. I have my hand on the frame when I hear Brown call out to us.

  “How’s Rebecca doing, Ryker? She still as hot a piece as she was when she was working under me?”

  I instantly see red and grip the frame tightly. Then I stalk back to the desk and lean across it. Tripp rushes in behind me.

  Pulling on my arm, he begs, “Let it go.”

  I shake his hands off and grab Brown’s tie. I pull him out of his seat, and when our noses meet, I growl, “You ever even think about my woman again, I’ll cut your fuckin’ nuts off and feed them to our dog. You fucking understand me?”

  Grinning, the mother fucker laughs and says, “Oh, I’ll be thinking about her again. Probably tonight in the shower. Tell me—I’ve always wanted to know: are her tits real?”

  A rage like I’ve never experienced in my life washes over me, and my head comes dangerously close to exploding.

  I can hear Tripp speaking, but as if I’m underwater, it’s muffled, and I can’t make out what he’s saying. Rearing my free hand back, I take a swing. But, before my fist can make satisfying contact with Brown’s nose, Tripp catches it, stopping me from sealing my fate.

  All at once, Rebecca’s voice pops into my head, telling me not to let Brown bait me, and Tripp’s pleas to let Brown go penetrate the haze of fury. I release Brown’s tie and step back, panting from the exertion. Brown straightens his spine and then runs a hand over his slimy, bald head.

  “Best of luck to you, Ryker Hawke,” he says before turning away and gathering the papers in front of him.

  Tripp grabs my arm and drags me all the way to his car before releasing his hold on me.

  Clearing his throat, he says, “Well, that went well.”

  I shake my head and climb into his car. “Take me to Rebecca’s.”

  ***

  After popping the cap off my beer, I take a long pull. Then I grab another bottle from the fridge and then stalk into the living room. I flop down on the couch and waste no time downing the drink in my hand.

  “Uh, you might wanna slow down there,” Rebecca says, eyeing me carefully.

  “Nope,” I gripe and then twist the cap off the second beer.

  “So, what the fuck happened?” she asks, her head swinging between Tripp and me.

  “Let’s wait another minute until Breccan gets here,” Tripp tells his sister from across the room. He’s standing in front of the window, and every so often, he pulls the curtains to look out.

  “Is something wrong?” she asks before sticking a thumbnail into her mouth. “Why do you keep looking out the window?” Her eyes widen, “Jesus, you didn’t kill anyone, did you?”

  I let out a bitter laugh. “I fucking wish.”

  Rebecca walks into the kitchen, and I can hear her pulling a glass from the cabinet. A moment later, she emerges, her hands full with a glass, several beers, and her entire bottle of wine.

  She dumps it all onto the coffee table. After twisting the cap on a beer, she takes my empty bottle and replaces it with a fresh one. She gives me a halfhearted smile and then fills her glass before sitting down beside me and resting her legs in my lap.

  “Tripp, you need a beer?” she asks.

  He nods.

  She points to the table. “There ya go.”

  We sit in silence for a few more minutes, Tripp nursing his beer while I continue to slam them back. I’m on drink number four when Breccan walks in.

  He pauses just inside the door and looks around. “Fuck. Someone die?”

  “Only my career, man. Only my career,” I groan. Holding my beer high in the air, I say sarcastically, “Cheers.”

  “Now that Brec’s here, will you please tell me what happened?” Rebecca whines.

  The only thing I can think about are the vile words Brown said about Rebecca, which causes my blood to boil all over again. I shake my head, trying to rid my mind of the image of his smug smile.

  Tripp begins speaking. “Brown had no intentions of ever letting Ryker fight again. I think he took the meeting today just to fuck with us.”

  “Sounds about right.” Breccan growls.

  Rebecca slides her legs from my lap and sits up straight. “So, what are you saying?”

  “I’m done!” I bark. “I’m not fucking fighting anymore. It’s over.”

  My stomach rolls as I say the words, the finality of it all hitting me like a ton of bricks. When I was suspended, I didn’t think I would go back to fighting. But it was always an option, even I wasn’t going to take it.

  But then Rebecca pushed me to fight again, I started training, and I remembered how good it felt to get in the cage and have such a singular focus that the rest of the world disappeared around me. I remembered the rush I felt from knocking someone out. The sense of accomplishment I got when I’d force someone to tap. The pride I had in myself when I’d hear the cheers, even if it was just Rebecca shouting from her desk.

  Brown made it clear that I would never get to compete again, and that was a blow even worse than the bogus suspension.

  “No, you’re not.”

  Breccan’s sharp words snap me out of the pity party I am in the process of throwing for myself.

  I stand, and the sudden change in altitude combined with the beers I’ve already had causes me to wobble.

  “Look,” I say, a slight slur to my words. “I appreciate everything you’ve done.” I glance over at Tripp and then down to the couch where Rebecca is still sitting, a worried look on her face. “All of you. But let’s call it like it is. I’m done. Brown says I’m out. So, I’m out. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a hangover to acquire.”

  I saunter into the kitchen and jerk the refrigerator door open, growling in frustration when I see that the beer is gone. When I slam it shut, something on the top rattles. I look up and, after spotting a bottle of whiskey, grin.

  “Now we’re talking.”

  I snatch the bottle and, without even bothering with a glass, unscrew the cap before taking a swig. The brown liquid burns the back of my throat, but I welcome it.

  It’s better than soul-crushing disappointment.

  After a few minutes, Ryker finally emerges from the kitchen, a bottle of liquor in his hand. He stumbles down the hall, and I get up and follow him to my bedroom.

  “What are you doing?” I hiss as he kicks his shoes off and then belly-flops onto my bed.

  “Whas it loo like I doin?” he mumbles into a pillow.

  “Jesus, Ryker. Pull yourself together.” I pad into the room and then, using my toe, nudge his leg.

  He lifts his head and cranes his neck to look at me. “I love you, doll. But, please, just leave me alone and let me get drunk.”

  His face is a mask of pain, and my heart hurts for him. I still haven’t gotten the whole story, and I can tell that Tripp’s keeping something from me.

  After all of the time and effort he’s put into getting back in shape for a fight, I can’t imagine the devastation he’s experiencing right now.

  I give him a quick kiss on the cheek and whisper, “Okay, baby.” And then I quietly close the door behind me on the way out.

  While walking down the hall, I can hear Breccan and Tripp talking, their voices low. But, once I get to the living room, the conversation stops abruptly.

  Narrowing my eyes at Tripp, I demand, “Tell me what happened. Everything.”

  He glances over at Breccan.

  I raise my voice, “Don’t look at him! Tell me!”

  Tripp sighs, rubs the back of his neck, and then gestures to the couch. “Sit down at least. Fill your glass up.”

  Following his suggestion, I curl into the corner of the couch and grab my wine glass. Impatiently, I wait for him to tell me why my usually laid-back boyfriend is back in my bedroom, hell-bent on giving himself alcohol poisoning.

  “Basically, Brown said that Ryker wasn’t welcome back in the league. He didn’t even l
ook at the letter from Prescott. Didn’t give a shit about the sponsors. Even went so far as to say that Dax Prescott was nothing more than a puppet on a string. There was no reasoning with him,” Tripp explains. Then he averts his eyes and says, “He, uh, he said some inappropriate stuff about you, too.”

  “What kind of inappropriate stuff?” I ask.

  Breccan cuts in. “You don’t need to know the specifics, Reb. Just that it was disgusting. He’s a fucking douche.”

  “Tell. Me,” I say through clenched teeth.

  If Breccan and Tripp don’t want to tell me what Brown said, it has to be bad. Which may explain Ryker’s comment earlier about wishing he had killed someone.

  “He just made a lewd comment about you still being a piece of ass. Something about you working under him.”

  “Oh, God,” I murmur. My stomach churns at the thought of being anywhere near Brown, much less under him.

  He’s always had a reputation of being inappropriate with the girls, but I somehow managed to avoid any of his unwanted advances.

  “Ryker got in his face. Then the asshole asked––” He stops mid-sentence and looks at me.

  “Just tell me, Tripp.”

  “Ryker had him by the neck, told him that, if he ever thought about you again, he’d cut his nuts off. The slimy bastard fucking smiled and asked if your boobs were real.” Tripp looks like he’s going to vomit when he finishes the story.

  My jaw’s hanging open, and Breccan has a murderous glare on his face.

  Even though bile is creeping up the back of my throat, the thought of these two being so worked up over it causes warmth to spread through my chest.

  “What did Ryker do when he said that?” I whisper.

  Tripp shakes his head. “Let’s just say it’s a damn good thing I was there.”

  Breccan flexes his fists and growls, “I wish that motherfucker had said that shit to me.”

  I appreciate the sentiment, but Brown’s words mean nothing to me. I couldn’t care less what he insinuated. “Well, he’s a pig, obviously. But enough about me. What’s our next step?”

  “I don’t think there is a next step, Reb,” Tripp tells me.

  “Bullshit,” I spit. “There’s always another option.”

  I refuse to believe that all of Ryker’s hard work has been for nothing. He didn’t deserve the punishment he received in the first place, and he sure as shit doesn’t deserve this.

  “I might have an idea,” Breccan says quietly.

  Tripp and I both turn to look at him.

  He begins to pace back and forth. “So, there’s a board. Usually, the president of any organization has to have the approval of the board on all decisions.”

  Tripp’s eyes light up. “Yeah, you’re right. And isn’t McGregor on the board?”

  Breccan’s gaze meets mine, and he smiles. “Yep. And McGregor owes me a favor.”

  Hope blooms in my belly for the first time today, and I nod excitedly. “Call him. Set up a meeting. How soon do you think we can see them?”

  Breccan shakes his head. “I don’t know about ‘we.’ But I’ll call and see what he has to say.”

  I jump to my feet, wagging my finger in the air. “Oh, hell no. You’re not keeping me out of this meeting.”

  His hands up in surrender, Breccan concedes. “All right, all right. Sweet Jesus, you’re a pain in my fucking ass. I gotta get home. I’ll let you know about the meeting tomorrow.”

  Despite his annoyance with me, Breccan hugs me before clasping hands with Tripp and then making for the door. He pulls it open, pauses, and, in a low voice, tells me, “Take care of him, Reb. Blow like this one? He’s gonna need you.”

  He doesn’t wait for a response, and I’m not surprised. Breccan has never been one to get too deep with his emotions, even after having met Sid. But what I am surprised about is the fact that he cares enough about Ryker, a man who, for all intents and purposes, is the only fighter to ever beat him, to go to bat for him against the high-ranking officials in the fighting league. The love I’ve always had for Breccan grows even more with his quiet advice.

  “All right, sis. I’m gonna get out of here, too. Date with Aly.” He wags his eyebrows at me.

  I drop my head back and groan. “Whyyyyy?”

  The silly grin he was just sporting vanishes, morphing into an unfamiliar frown. “Love her, Mouse. Don’t know why most of the time, but I do.”

  Guilt washes over me for all the times I gave him shit about her. I can’t stand her, and I probably never will, but I never stopped to consider how my jabs and smartass comments might be affecting him.

  I wrap my arms around his shoulders and pull him in close. “I’m sorry I always give you such a hard time about her. I’ve been really selfish, always complaining about how much she sucks.” I lean away from him and give him a half smile. “I’ll try to keep it to myself in the future.”

  His smile reappears, and he says, “Thanks. You know, she’s a lot like you.”

  “The hell she is,” I snap, unable to stop myself before the words burst out. “That bitch is nothing like me.”

  He squeezes my shoulder. “Well, keeping your feelings to yourself lasted all of three seconds. Good try.” Laughing, he tells me, “Call ya tomorrow.”

  After he leaves, I gather up supplies to treat Ryker’s impending hangover. Once I’ve gotten everything together, I lock the house up and then go check on him.

  I find him passed out diagonally in the bed, still fully clothed. Careful not to wake him, I get his shoes off and then crawl into the bed next to him.

  ***

  A crash jolts me into consciousness, and I sit straight up in the bed. “What the hell?” I mutter to myself. Orienting myself, I realize I’m alone. “Ryker?” I call out.

  A second later, he responds. “In here.”

  Throwing the covers off me, I slide out of bed and grab my robe, wrapping it around myself before padding out of my room. I’m halfway down the hall when I sniff the air.

  “Do I smell cinnamon?” I round the corner and see Ryker in the kitchen, a frying pan in one hand.

  “Hey, watch this!” he says right before flicking his wrist and causing whatever was in the pan to fly out and land on the counter with a splat. “Dammit,” he grumbles. “Hey, doll. Want some coffee?” he asks, right before shoving a steaming mug into my hands.

  “Thanks. Whatcha makin’?” I ask, peering around him at the mess that used to be my kitchen.

  “Pancakes.”

  “They smell fantastic. But you’re making a huge mess. You do remember that I’m trying to sell this place, right? I think I’ve got a showing tonight.”

  “I’ll get it cleaned up,” he promises. “The pancakes are Gram’s recipe. There’s a secret trick I’m not supposed to share, but if you come give me a kiss, I might be talked into it.” He winks at me and then puckers his lips.

  I set my cup on the counter, take the two steps to him, and wrap my arms around his waist. After obliging him, he shifts me to his side so that he can use a hand to stir the batter.

  “It’s buttermilk,” he whispers loudly.

  “Mmmm. Good to know. I can’t cook for shit, but I’ll try to remember that,” I tell him.

  After he kisses the top of my head, he nudges me away from him and tells me, “Grab your coffee, and go sit down. I’ll finish with this batch and then we can eat.”

  Once I’ve done as instructed, I eye him suspiciously. I’m shocked that he’s even awake right now, much less cooking breakfast. The empty bottle of whiskey I threw away last night was almost full before Ryker had confiscated it from atop my fridge.

  And Ryker’s behavior is nothing like I was expecting. After climbing into bed beside him, I went over a hundred different scenarios of how this morning would go. I planned out the pep talk I would give him and the cliché words of encouragement that wouldn’t mean shit. I braced myself for him to spend the day—hell, the rest of the week—moping around. He’d be within his rights to throw th
e world’s biggest pity party, and I already decided I wasn’t going to push him to get back to work. Tripp and Breccan would just have to find someone to cover for him for a few days.

  But, of all the possible ways I thought this morning would go, this was definitely not one of them.

  I take a swallow of my coffee, smiling at how well he knows me by now, right down to the way I like my morning cup of brew. Then I clear my throat and, against my better judgment, ask, “How ya doing this morning, honey?”

  He doesn’t even look in my direction when he answers me. “I’m great. Head hurt a little when I got up, but I drank some water and I’m fine now.”

  I nod even though he can’t see it and say, “Well, that’s good. But I was asking more about how you’re feeling about that meeting yesterday.”

  “I’m gonna get this one. You watchin’?” he asks right before flipping his wrist. This time, the pancake lands back in the pan with a sizzle, and Ryker victoriously pumps his free hand in the air. “Hell yeah!” he shouts.

  “You didn’t answer me,” I say, instead of acknowledging his culinary skills.

  He drops the pan back onto the stove, and then, bracing both hands on the edge of the counter, he leans forward and drops his head.

  Panic and relief simultaneously fill my belly. I’m not sure I’m ready to hear what he has to say, because nothing will make it any better. But I’m glad he’s finally going to tell me the truth of what’s going on in his head, as opposed to his insistence on ignoring it by making me breakfast and dirtying every dish in my kitchen.

  He turns his head and pins me with his stare. “I’m fine,” he says simply.

  No longer feeling relieved, I glare at him. “You’re such a terrible fucking liar.”

  He blows out a breath and says, “Fine. You wanna know how I’m feeling?”

  I vigorously nod.

  “I’m fucking crushed. I don’t know what to do or where to go from here.”

  My stomach sinks, and I almost wish I hadn’t insisted on making him tell me.