Shadowboxer (Tapped Out 1)

“He’s so cute.” She rubbed her nose against Vey and one or both of them moaned with what sounded like pure delight. “Aren’t you, pretty boy? You don’t need a groomer. Not a beautiful boy like you.”

“Tell me that when I take him out for a walk and he manages to find the only puddle of mud in all of Brooklyn.”

“Pretty boys need to play, don’t they?” After she pressed a kiss to the spot between Vey’s eyes, he rolled over again, paws up, belly quivering.

I understood the feeling regarding Mia under normal circumstances. When she was making kissy-face with my dog? Hold me back.

“Get in here already,” I said gruffly, my knuckles going white where they gripped the door. “You’re letting in the cold air.”

It was a comment straight out of my mother’s mouth, and considering it was an interior hallway, there really wasn’t a ton of cold air to worry about. But I needed to get control of this situation somehow, and if I didn’t do it from the jump, she’d launch her offensive first.

Either we were fighting or fucking. Forget a happy medium. I supposed we could always try having a conversation like semi-reasonable people, but from her steely-eyed expression as she rose, that conversation would not be occurring tonight.

“Come on, boy,” I said to Vey, checking my impatience when he chose to lean against Mia’s leg and stare up at her as if she’d turned into a human-sized Milky-Bone. “Inside.”

Both Mia and the dog ignored me until I pivoted away and stalked into the living room. My destination? The fucking bar, for a much needed fucking drink.

And this time, I went for my father’s choice of alcoholic lubrication. I just needed the burn in my gut. I didn’t care how I got it.

I splashed scotch into a short glass and tossed it back in two swallows, narrowing my eyes on the seascape print on the wall above the mantel. My mother had painted it for a nursery she’d only had for a short time, for my father’s unborn and cherished daughter. When I’d moved here, she’d fobbed it off on me though I’d always been a mountain hiking kind of guy. Beaches were for guys who worked on their tans and ate granola out of plastic baggies. Guys like Slater. Me, I wanted the smell of pine and hard-packed dirt under my feet as I climbed the steepest grades. Sweat burning my eyes, my muscles cramping from use.

Screw coconut oil and a hammock.

And now I was thinking about the Adirondacks and stupid watercolor beach prints rather than acknowledging the soft snick of the door and the stare I could feel radiating through my shoulder blades.

Turning, I gestured with my glass. That I’d given in and drunk my father’s preferred poison only made my smile that much sharper. “Can I offer you a beverage? I have milk, beer, and a pricey selection of spirits. Perhaps you’d prefer a Perrier?” I didn’t have Perrier but I enjoyed her sneer.

“No need. This isn’t a friendly visit.”

“Of course it’s not.” I jerked my arm, and my heavy watch rolled around my wrist. “I get it. You’d rather have my blood. That’s all you want from me, isn’t it?”

A hint of apprehension slid into her gaze. My black mood gloried in it.

“Is this a bad time, Fox?”

“Fucking Fox. That’s not my goddamn name.” I didn’t know why I was so furious. My parents’ visit hadn’t helped, but it was more than that. So much more. As my gaze zeroed in on her, I realized what part of the problem was.

She wasn’t wearing my jacket.

Why did I care? She’d been using it to keep warm, plain and simple. If she wanted to freeze to death in that thin piece of nothing instead, that was her choice. I couldn’t convince her to take care of herself.

“You must be cold.” And then I knew why she was there, with crystal-clear certainty. “This is about the gloves, isn’t it? She told you I bought them for you and then I sneaked in your room and—” I couldn’t finish. Which made me sound like a creeper and a dick, because there was no damn reason for my voice to be so thick.

When she didn’t reply, I returned to the scotch. Amazingly enough, after it scalded through your throat lining it didn’t taste like warm piss anymore. Three sips in and I didn’t even care about the hangover I’d have dur

ing training tomorrow. Fight week meant I’d be ramping it up for the next four days, with Friday off. Woo-frigging-hoo.

Training. That was my life. I was a fighter. An emotionless shell bred to break bones and create wounds. No more, no less.

What had made me think sports medicine would be a good fit for me? I wanted to help people, had always wanted to, but I was no good at it. I hadn’t helped my mother get away from my father’s fists, and I couldn’t even help Mia find a little comfort.

She had one use for me. If I couldn’t hurt her, she wasn’t interested.

I tightened my fist, and the glass I held shattered. Just fucking exploded in my hand.

Blood spurted around the shards digging into my palm, opening up fissures that spider-walked over my skin. Instead of grabbing something to mop up the blood, I clenched my fingers and watched it squeeze out over my knuckles.

Mia’s gasp brought me out of my fog. She hurried forward and yanked down the sleeve of her hoodie, pressing it to my hand with surprising gentleness. I still didn’t open my fist, but just her touch steadied me.