Wicked Restless

Once Graham rounds the door, I turn my focus to Harley, who’s staring back at me with equal intensity.

“You wanna tell me how you know Graham Wheaton?” he asks, chewing at the inside of his mouth. Harley looks like a Marine—what he lacks in height he makes up for in bulk. He’s always been into fitness and boxing, and when you combine his build with his smarts, he’s perfect for this business.

“I just met the guy. We don’t…gel,” I say.

“I can see that,” he says, lifting the ropes for me to slide through. I climb out and turn a chair around, straddling it and resting my arms on the back.

“How do you know Graham Wheaton?” I ask, not liking the fact that this asshole has now ruined two things that make me happy—my gym, and Emma.

“He’s my biggest investor. Well, his father is, at least. His dad’s into real estate. We have a deal. He comes here to work out. He’s got some skills,” Harley says, downplaying that last part. I can tell he’s not giving Graham the fighting credit he probably deserves, and I think it’s because on a personal level, Harley likes me better.

“I see,” I say, my insides still trying to process the name that Graham threw out to get at me. Could he really know Nick Meyers? Fuck me if that ghost from my past is an investor here, too.

“He wants to fight you,” Harley says, and I spit out a spray of water as soon as his voice hits my ears.

“Shut the fuck up,” I say.

“He’s offering five grand. All you have to do is go down in four. That’s five grand…just for you, Drew. This wouldn’t be like Pitch. Graham’s good, but he’s not big like that—it would be fair, and you’d come out all right—and five grand richer. I won’t be able to line something like that up for you again in months. He’s looking at a small event in a week or two.”

I stare at him while he speaks, trying to sort through the crazy shit coming out of his mouth.

“I don’t know, Har,” I say, looking down and kicking my foot. “That guy…I don’t trust him.”

“You don’t have to,” he says, holding up a check for me to see. “He gave me the deposit. I hold the money.”

I breathe in slowly. Any other name on that check with that number and I’d be sold. But something about this feels not right. Even so, I would love to have an excuse to slam my fist through his face. I take the check in my hand, rub it between my fingers and look at it for several long seconds before I begin nodding.

“So, you’re in?” Harley asks.

“Yeah, I’m in,” I say, not liking the taste in my mouth.

Harley takes the check back with a nod. He never smiles. I don’t think he has a good taste either. But he likes money, and I know that the five thousand that goes to my pocket isn’t what he’s in this for.

I leave the gym at three, knowing I have hours until Trent is home, and my feet carry me to Majerle’s. I text him to join me, but I’m gone hours before he says he can make it. Chuck quit serving me after my fifth Jack, so I stumbled into the liquor store at the end of the block, leaving my car safe along the roadside outside the tavern.

And then I called Lindsey and told her I wanted to come over tonight so we could talk. I’m going to end the lies, and I’m going to punch Graham cracker in the face. And I’m also going to go home and drink. I’m going to drink a lot. In the middle of the day. Just like the fuck-up loser I am.

* * *

Emma

“We haven’t had a girl’s night in forever,” Lindsey says, pouting a little. She just got off the phone with Andrew. He told her he was coming over, and she got excited. They haven’t spent much time together over the last couple days. I know why, and it’s killing me to know so much.

It’s also killing me that he’s coming here, to be with her. He’s only doing that to hurt me. I can’t let it hurt me. I’ll leave early, meet Graham at the restaurant—whatever it takes to avoid him.

“I know. I miss my Emma-Lindsey time,” I say, sinking down next to her on the sofa. I’m half dressed, a long, silky black shirt hanging over my underwear.

“You better finish getting dressed. Unless you’re trying to get something going with this Graham guy,” Lindsey teases. I stand and sigh, looking down at my bare legs and feet.

“You think I can go in jeans?” I joke.

“Uhm…to Polo’s? No,” she laughs. “I am pretty sure when the restaurant quits putting prices on the menu that they require their guests come in something a grade fancier than flip-flops and leggings.”