I
t was bad. Correction. It was a motherfucking disaster of epic proportions.
Bianca was about ten seconds from diving for her gun and probably double-tapping him in the back of the head execution style. Meanwhile his ex, Tamara, was acting like queen bee of the western world and looking at him as if he should be kneeling at her feet.
There was no way they were still married. No. Fucking. Way.
“We aren’t married.” He turned to face Bianca, who had murder in her dark brown eyes. “This is my ex-wife and I haven’t seen her for two years.”
Bianca didn’t say a single word. He didn’t realize there could be something that could liquefy his lungs faster than when he’d been an eight-year-old boy facing down his drunk, screaming father before having a swift backhand—or worse—snap his head back, but there was and he was staring right at it.
She’d gone cold. Anger stole her natural sexy heat that ignited the room and instilled everyone around her with the same brazen, balls-to-the-wall attitude she had. He’d faced down hardened criminals, desperate fighters and even his own father’s haymakers, but he’d never been as worried as he was at this moment.
His gut shriveled up and his chest suddenly weighed a thousand pounds. He’d had it with Bianca—had that moment of triumph, of hope, of winning—and now he may have lost it.
For the past six months he’d avoided her questions about his past. She knew how breaking into the Devil’s Dip Gym with his brothers had changed his life.
Gym owner and trainer Freddie Atlas had caught them, but instead of calling the cops on the group of fourteen-year-olds going on thirty to life, he’d started training them as boxers. Taz had made it all the way to a light heavyweight title bout before everything spiraled out of control. His inability to control himself when he saw a guy almost backhand a woman had led to a brawl and almost cost him his chance at the title. While chewing Taz’s ass raw—and rightfully so—after that, Freddie had a massive heart attack. The old man’s death was a black stain on Taz’s soul that would never wash clean.
Bianca knew all that. She knew the important stuff. Every other question that she’d posed, he’d answered by changing the subject—usually with his lips or hands.
The time for that had past.
He wasn’t a talker—never would be—and now when he needed the words, he had none.
Tamara didn’t have the same problem.
She turned on her thousand-watt smile that had won her a room full of beauty queen trophies. “Oh, Honey Bear, it seems I forgot to file those nasty divorce papers. I just knew you’d come to your senses and straighten your head out eventually.” She held up her left hand and wiggled her fingers, almost blinding him with the glare off the two-carat diamond ring he’d given to her five years ago. “So it seems I am still Mrs. Tamara Hazard, you lucky man.”
Married.
It hit him harder than Fabian Hofstettler’s right hook in the tenth round of the title fight. Talk about shock and awe. Tamara had just dropped the mother of all bombs in his living room.
“I signed the papers,” he said, trying to wrap his brain around the sharp left his life had just taken.
“Can you believe what sticklers the courts are for actually filing the paperwork? I swear it’s all just a scam for money.” Tamara shrugged and peeled off her coat, then draped it across the back of the black leather couch in the living area. She glared across the open space and gave Bianca a slow up and down that pierced the haze of his shock. Then, she turned back to him, her smile back in place, if not in the least bit genuine. “I’m willing to overlook the little bit of fluff standing next to you this time, but I won’t ignore your whores anymore. She needs to get out of my home. Now.”
“What did you just call me?” Bianca snarled.
Oh fuck.
For the first time since he’d gutted and renovated the loft, he regretted not adding any interior walls. He pivoted and put as much of himself as possible between Tamara and Bianca. The towel around his waist gave minimal coverage, let alone protection, but he wasn’t about to let this escalate from total disaster to apocalyptic.
Oblivious and indifferent to the danger she courted, Tamara scrunched up her nose and tilted her head in a mockery of sympathy. “I’m sorry, do you prefer home-wrecking slut instead?”
Bianca shoved at him, trying to push him out of the way.
That was not going to happen.
She wasn’t the type to go full-on hellcat with a stranger, but he still wasn’t about to go anywhere. He wouldn’t leave her side. Not now. Not ever. He just had to convince her of that.
“Who in the hell do you think you are?” Bianca asked the other woman even as she continued to shove at him.
“Slow, isn’t she?” Tamara asked before letting out a dramatic sigh. “Let me break it down for you in small words. I’m Mrs. Tamara Hazard, and I don’t give a shit who you are as long as I never have to see you again. If I do, I’ll take you apart faster than it takes a gel manicure to dry.”
Bianca froze behind him.
He shoved a clammy hand through his now-dry hair. Tamara had never gone all possessive over him. Ever. His supposed-to-be ex-wife was up to something. He knew it like he knew one of the worst sounds in the world was the ref’s hand slapping the canvas when his cheek was pressed against it.