Fighting to Forgive

Thirty

Blake

It’s cramped in the back of the police car. My wrists burn where the cuffs cut into my skin. But I’m exactly where I deserve to be.

I lost it.

I promised her that she’d always be safe with me.

I broke my promise.

What if Jonah hadn’t been there to pull me off? How long would I have held her tiny neck before it snapped? The same neck I’ve trailed my tongue against. Buried my nose in to inhale her scent. The gentle flesh where I’d whisper words of encouragement, coaxing her to relax and let go.

Groaning, I drop my head. Yeah, I deserve to be locked up. Not for what I did to her ex… er, husband. Whatever. Hell, after the shit he said, I’d do it all over again and smile the entire time. But no punishment is extreme enough for what I did to her. The memory of her eyes, dark, wild, and terrified, floods my mind. It’s my fault she sees me as someone to fear. No different from how she views Stew. My stomach twists, and I swallow back bile. I could’ve killed her.

What if I killed him?

When the cops took me out, the guy wasn’t moving. Fuck.

I’ll cooperate with the police and make sure I get the time I deserve. Me in a prison cell is the only thing that’ll keep me away from Layla and Axelle. I grip my stomach as it twists with revulsion. I’m just like Stew. Hooked on a woman I don’t deserve. Bad for her in every way. Violent. Controlling. They deserve better. A chance to live life with a man they’re not afraid of.

The back door to the police car opens, and a cop leans in. “Mr. Daniels, I’ve just spoken to your girlfriend.”

My girlfriend. Warmth tumbles in my gut and shoots to my throat, making it hard to swallow. I don’t correct the officer. I love the way it sounds.

“She told me her version of what happened.”

I drop eyes to my lap. Her version of what happened had to be terrifying. Fucking feral gorilla tearing the shit out of a man in her living room, then turning on her. She’ll never forgive me.

The CB radio clipped to his shirt blares a monotone voice. He turns it down. “Good thing you fellas dropped by tonight. Saved these girls from a pretty abusive guy, from what I hear.”

This gets him my eyes. Is he fucking with me? He looks dead serious, even a little proud. She didn’t tell him. After everything I did, she’s still shielding me. I don’t know if that makes her a sicko or a saint.

He sucks air through his teeth. “Thing is, law says we need to take you in. Mr. Moorehead’s on his way to the hospital with some pretty nasty wounds and one hell of a concussion. That’s felony assault.”

I go back to studying my knees, throwing up a prayer of thanks that the motherfucker’s still alive.

“I wanted to ask you a few questions, but you have the right to remain silent and—”

“I’ve been mirandized. I’ll answer whatever questions you have. I’ve got nothing to hide.”

“Are you under any medical treatment that we should be aware of?”

“Medical treatment?” I shake my head. “No.”

“Any at all? Meds prescribed by a doctor? Nothing like that?”

I shake my head, and then remember my supplements. “Just some herbal supplements for my training.” I shrug. “Oh, and uh, cortisone shots in my lower back.”

I don’t know what the fuck this has to do with anything. A crowd of people from the apartment complex begins to gather around, pulling out cell phones and snapping pictures.

“Do you think we could finish this up down at the station? I don’t want the paparazzi showing up. Layla and Axelle deserve their privacy.”

The cop looks around and seems to contemplate my request. “Sure thing. We’ll talk on the drive.”

I keep my head down until we’re well out of the apartment complex. As soon as I lift it, I see the eyes of the cop driving looking back from the rearview mirror.

“By the way, I’m Lieutenant Hodgeson. You can call me Dave.”

I nod toward him. “Blake.”

“Yeah, I know. I’m a big fan.”

That’s good. Nice to know I don’t need to worry about Lt. Dave going all Rodney King on my ass.

Dave drums his fingers on the steering wheel. “I wrestled in high school. Won Nationals and got a scholarship to Oklahoma State. Decided after graduation I wanted to become a cop.”

“Cool.” What does he want me to say? I’m standing at the gateway to some life changing shit, and he’s giving me his life story.

“’Lotta temptation when you’re wrestling at the college level. Saw some great athletes go down for giving in.” His eyes fix on me from the rearview and through the metal bars that divide us.

I glare at the mirror. Is he trying to ask me something?

“Can only imagine the temptation at the professional level.” His eyes are back on the road. “Especially with a fight coming up.”

“You getting at anything in particular, or you just talking to hear your own voice?” Pissing this guy off is not in my best interest, but if he’s implying what I think he’s implying? Then fuck him.

“According to eye witnesses, you snapped tonight. One minute you were fine, the next—boom.” The clicking from his turn signal fills the silence in the car, and its cadence matches my racing pulse. “My experience? Drugs are usually the cause of that kind of reaction. You being a professional fighter, training hard, doubt you’re smoking PCP or snorting coke.”

My glare spears him through the mirror, daring him to say it.

“Have you ever seen anybody roid-rage, Blake?”

I fucking knew it. I drop my head back and laugh.

Seen roid rage? Of course I have. I’ve been surrounded by some of the toughest men in the world since I was a kid. Military and professional fighting. “I don’t take steroids. That shit’s for the weak.”

“Yeah, that’s what your buddy Jonah said. But I know how pressure can make a man do things he may otherwise abstain from.”

“You don’t believe me? Test me. Take blood, piss, whatever you want. I don’t juice. Never have. Never will.” I sit forward, putting my face right up to the dividing bars. “I’m the best middleweight fighter in the UFL. That shit I earned. I fight for the most well respected league in the world. That shit we earned. I’d never throw that away for one fucking fight.”

Dave grins and nods his head. “I respect that.” He makes a right turn into a parking lot. The words “Las Vegas Metropolitan Police Department” are lit up on a sign out front. “But I’m gonna go ahead and have you tested anyway.”

“Fine. Like I said, I’ve got nothing to hide.” How do I tell him that my problem isn’t drugs, it’s genetics? My dad’s blood drumming through my veins combined with Stew’s taunts were a lethal combination. ’Nuff said.

Booking takes hours. Not that I’ve got anywhere to go. Mug shots, fingerprints, and a urine sample later, I’m sitting in a small holding cell, my head in my hands, waiting for instructions.

I look up when I hear the buzz from the slide lock. Dave’s on the other side.

“Your lawyer’s on his way.” He walks in and leans against the wall. “I called the Nevada Gaming Commission. They’ve agreed to come down and test you.”

They’re going to test me for steroids? The heat of anger burns quickly and then dies. What do I care if the Gaming Commission tests me? Either way, my fighting career is over. At least until I serve my sentence. Then it’ll take years to earn back the respect and trust of my fans.

“Bring on the NGC. They’re not going to find anything.”

“Make yourself comfortable, Blake. It’s going to be a long night.” He turns and leaves me with my thoughts.

Layla. Is she sleeping with the lights on, with visions of me bloody fisted? Have I replaced Stewart in her nightmares? And Axelle. She just found out the man who raised her isn’t her father, but her mother’s gang rapist. Is she curled up in her mom’s arms crying? My chest cramps.

God, I’d give anything to be there for them now.

My elbows on my knees, I lace my fingers behind my neck. I breathe deep past the nausea the rolls in my stomach. Emotion clogs my throat. My eyes burn.

I was trying to protect them. How did things get so fucked up? The heavy weight of foreboding settles on my shoulders.

Something tells me this is just the beginning.

I don’t know how long I’ve been here. I’d count the days by how many meals I’ve eaten. But I can’t stomach food. Or maybe by how many nights I’ve slept. But as tired as I am, sleep never comes.

Staring at the gray walls of my cell, time doesn’t move. Voices murmur and echo from nearby cells, reminding me that I’m not alone. But I am. Left with nothing but my anger and remorse.

And confusion. I’ve been charged for felony assault for what I did to Stew. But no mention of the choking. I rub my eyes until they hurt. Why didn’t she tell them what I did to her?

I gave the investigators my story in triplicate, at least, all that I could remember. I didn’t complain when I had to repeat myself over and over to every new face that asked. I gave blood, pissed in a cup, and waited. Waited for answers.

Then they came.

Positive.

Deca-Durabolin and Winstrol V. Illegal anabolic steroids.

That fucking doctor drugged me. That’s the only explanation I can come up with. Everyone looks at me like I’m crazy. Some stupid jock trying to blame someone else for my fuck up. Even my lawyer can’t hide his pity.

I know the truth. I’d never willingly take steroids. I have too much respect for the sport. I’ve worked way too damn hard to get where I am to fuck it up by juicing. But I have no proof. And unless Doc Z rolls in flappin’ his gums, a simple denial on his part will be the loaded chamber in this game of Russian roulette with my career.

“Daniels, you’ve got a visitor.” The guard from outside my cell hollers just before the buzz of my cell door unlocks.

I drag my heavy body from the cot and move to the opening, waiting for him to escort me to the visitor’s room.

Nervous energy flutters as hope filters through my depression. Could it be Layla? No, she probably wants nothing to do with me. If she’s smart, she’ll be halfway across the country to get the hell away.

The guard stops at a door, and we wait until we’re buzzed in. He walks me down a series of cubby-like desks with phones attached to the dividers, with glass separating the prisoner from the visitor.

“You’re in number seven.” He motions down the row and leaves me to it.

My heart pounds in my chest as I move down. Five, six. I stop and suck in a deep breath. If it’s her… oh, God, I hope it’s her.

One final step and I’m face to face with…no fucking way. “General?”

His expression is stony, lips pressed in a tight line, as he takes me in. I drop into the seat and grab the phone, pressing it to my ear and avoiding his eyes. He makes me wait before he picks up the phone on his side.

“Son. Somehow, I knew we’d be here one day. Orange is your color. Much more appropriate than the dress blues of a Marine.”

Of course he’d come to rub it in. Remind me of what a disappointment I am. But I’ve lost too much, and his words have no sting. I lift my eyes to his. “What do you want, Dad?”

He barks out laughter with no humor. “What do I want? I want my son to stop acting like a fucking child. I want you to honor your family—”

“Honor my family? What the fuck do you know about family?”

He flinches so slightly it’s barely noticeable. “I suppose this is where you blame me for your screw ups. Getting kicked out of the Marines, ending up in jail.” He shakes his head, disgust coloring his expression. “You need to take responsibility for what you’ve—”

“You first.” I grind my teeth, biting back the words that fight to be spoken.

“Me? What the hell did I ever do to you, other than try to get you to be a productive member of society?”

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Fury bubbles behind my sternum. “You took away everything. My mom, my music—”

“No, I protected you from the things that made you weak. Your mother coddled you, and that music…” He shook his head. “No man worth his salt plays the piano.”

I can’t believe it. After twelve years, he hasn’t changed. “That’s it, isn’t it? You’ll never see me for the man I’ve become, or the things I’ve achieved. I’ll always represent your biggest failure. You couldn’t turn me into a clone that would follow you around like a puppy, mimicking your every move, eventually becoming the weak, controlling asshole that you are.”

“I’m weak? You’re taking steroids, and you have the nerve to call me weak? I knew you were irresponsible and immature, but a cheater?” His eyes travel from my bright orange shirt to my hair. “I can hardly stand to look at you.”

I shrug. He’s not the only one. I can hardly stand to look at myself. It’s no use telling him that I’d never do steroids. I’d be wasting my time explaining that I think the UFL doctor poisoned me. Shit, it sounds stupid in my head. Saying it will only give him more ammo in his character assault.

“I’m done. Good luck with your life, Blake. I give up.” He slams the phone into its cradle, and the looming presence from the other side of the glass moves away.

“You gave up on me a long time ago,” I whisper.

Hanging up, I push from my seat.

“One more visitor.” My escort hollers down from his position at the door. “Take a seat.”

Another visitor? I don’t want to see anyone else, but I drop back down and wait. Movement on the other side of the glass brings my eyes to a pair that matches my own.

Holy shit. I rip the phone from the cradle and press it to my ear. My brother, Braeden, sits and raises the phone to his ear.

“Brae, man. Hey.”

His hair is darker than mine and cropped in a military high-and-tight. And he’s huge. Twice the size he was when I saw him last. Looks like he’s been hitting the gym hard. I guess he found a way to channel the caged feeling that accompanies being the son of Duke Daniels.

“Hey, bro,” he says, his smile genuine, but concern in his eyes. “They treating you okay in here?”

“Yeah. How are you?” For the first time in I don’t know how long, the tingle of a smile touches my lips.

“I’d be better if we were sitting at a bar having a beer and not separated by glass.”

Smile erased, I nod. “Sorry you have to see me like this. I fucked up.”

“That’s not the story I heard.”

“No? Well, you need better information.”

“Talked to Jonah and Raven. They told me everything.”

That’s about as accurate as he could get. “Oh, okay.”

“I just have one question.” He leans in on one elbow, putting his face close to glass. “Please tell me you didn’t fuck a stripper on Valentine’s Day when your girl was being held by her ex.” His green eyes dance with humor, and a grin pulls at his lips.

“That’s the shit you want to ask me? Really?” Damn, I miss my little bro. “No. I didn’t. It took me about eight seconds of being in a dark room alone with her to realize I was fucking everything up.”

“I knew it. Jonah owes me a hundred bucks.”

It’s nice to know someone still believes in me.

We chat for a while, small talk that revolves around him and doesn’t touch my jacked-up situation. The guard calls down that our time’s up.

“I better go.” I tilt my head toward the guard. “Captain Powertrip gets pissed if I don’t jump every time he calls.”

“Sounds good.”

“You leaving town soon or…” I don’t know what to say. It’s not like he’s going to stay for a week just so he can visit his big brother in jail.

“Yeah, I’ll be here for a few days.”

“Oh, really? So I’ll—”

“See you tonight.”

“What?”

“Oh, did I forget to tell you?” He scratches his head and takes an exaggerated look around. “I guess I did.” His lips curl into a full smile. “Jonah posted bail.”

My jaw goes slack. Bail was set at fifty thousand dollars.

He taps the glass between us. “Hang in there, bro. I’ll see ya later.”