Killer

“If you say so, Jack.” After manipulating his shoulder, pushing and palpitating the joint, I dig my finger into the space between his clavicle and his humerus. Jack hisses and gives me a scathing look. “The

re’s no swelling, but if this is tender…” I dig into the spot again and he groans.

“Can you please not do that? It hurts.”

“Sorry, Jack.” I pat his shoulder and grab the big tub of ointment. As I rub it over the joint, I tell him my thoughts. “You’ll need to ice it a few times a day and take some ibuprofen with meals. If it doesn’t feel better by Wednesday, we’ll have to schedule an appointment with Dr. Watkins to get you a cortisone shot.”

“Okay, Britt. Thanks.” Jack pulls his shirt on and hops down, but doesn’t leave. He stands next to the table, his thumb and forefinger rubbing together.

“Jack?”

The fighter’s face is hesitant. Whatever Jack has to say isn’t going to be something I want to hear.

“I just… Britt… you know I like you. I mean, I have a lot of respect for you.”

“Okay.”

“I guess… I want to know… damn. Shit, this sounds so bad.” He blows out a breath. “What I’m saying is, just be careful around Killer, Britt. He’s… not normal.”

I stiffen defensively. “Don’t, Jack.”

“No, no. I’m not telling you what to do. But come on, you have to see that the man is fucked up. Like seriously.”

My jaw tightens. The last thing I want to do is discuss Keller with Jackson Wolfe. “I’ll keep that in mind, Jack.” I guess Keller and I haven’t been keeping our relationship as professional at work as we thought if Jack knows.

“Sorry, Britt. Don’t be mad at me.” Jack gives me big puppy-dog eyes.

Oh for crying out loud!

“Ugh, Jack! Leave my personal business out of our conversations and I won’t be mad.”

His mouth turns down, as if he wants to say more. Thankfully, he nods and leaves without pushing any further. If he did, I’d probably get angry and yell, and what good would that do? Keller would still be avoiding me, the anniversary of “the incident” would still be coming up, and on top of everything else, it would then be awkward to be around Jack. It’s easier to let his misplaced concern slide. Jack said what he needed to say, now it’s done.

Unfortunately, my anxiety hasn’t diminished one bit. With Jack mentioning Keller, and the fact that he doesn’t want me near him, I’m even more high strung than before. I’m so damn tired of worrying about everything. Of constantly being afraid of nameless, faceless images from a day I don’t even remember.

If Keller were here, he’d make it all go away.

Damn him.

Killer

My arms ache, my shoulders are on fire, and my hands are completely numb, but I keep pounding on the heavy bag, over and over, letting the rhythmic smacking sounds lull me into a trance.

Fuck you, Dad. The bastard tracks me down, shows up at the gym out of nowhere, and throws my entire world off its axis, spinning it back into the shit storm I left behind when I ditched this country.

Ten years. It’s been almost ten fucking years since I’ve seen him. A little less than ten years since I got out of jail after serving six months for assault. Nearly a decade since I picked up and left for Thailand, living off my enormous trust fund. And on Friday, the first contact I have with my dad after a decade of silence is for him to give me that goddamn invitation.

Gordon Keller Keating, CEO and founder of Hybrid Technologies, found a minute of free time in his busy schedule to see his only son, the only living member of his family, and it’s to give me an envelope inviting me to the tenth anniversary of the day my life ended. The day Keller Keating ceased to exist and became Killer.

I wanted to pound his face in for dropping this shit in my lap. Everything had been going so good with Britt. I actually started feeling things—emotions and crap I haven’t felt in a decade. I almost felt… human. Dad managed to destroy all of that in less than five fucking minutes.

“Keller, you look… different.”

I shove back my hood and study my father—custom suit, rigid posture, expensive watch. Except for some faint crow’s feet and some gray at his temples, he hasn’t changed one bit.

“Yeah, well, ten years will do that to a person,” I say condescendingly.

Dad nods, clearing his throat and fiddling with one of his shiny cuff links. “I saw you on the television. Your fight. It said you were back in Atlanta, training here.” He points at the gym.