Fighting to Forgive (Fighting Series) (41 page)

“Mom, are you sure? There’s an ambulance downstairs. They could check you—”

“Shh, no!” I shake my head, realizing what will happen if the cops find out about what Blake did to me. “We can’t tell the cops.”

“Layla—”

“Please, Raven. I don’t know what’s going on, but something’s not right.” I point to the living room. “That wasn’t the Blake I know. I saw his eyes. He wasn’t there.”

She glares at me, her lips pursed.

“You’ve known Blake now for how long? Has he ever shown that kind of violent behavior before? Especially toward women?”

She chews on her lip, and shakes her head. “No. That wasn’t like him at all.”

I nod. “Give me a few days to think. Something’s wrong, I just… he’s been paranoid lately and… I need time to think. We can’t rat him out to the cops until we know exactly what’s going on.”

“I agree with Mom. Blake’ll be in enough trouble for what he did to my da—Stewart.”

“Okay, Layla. It’s your call,” Raven says.

“Quiet, for now. Until I get more information. Then—”

“Mrs. Moorehead?” A young cop with a friendly smile strolls up to me from the living room.

“Layla. Call me Layla.” My voice sounds rough and garbled.

“Layla, I’m Lieutenant Hodgeson. Mind if I ask you a few questions?”

He asks for my version of events. I tell him exactly what happened but leave out the detail about Blake coming after me. He writes on his pad of paper, flips a page, and writes more.

“Did he say anything to you? From the first punch to the last, was he coherent and communicative?”

I want them. They’re mine.

A fierce wave of protectiveness surges within me. “No, not really. He’d mumbled something after the first punch, but after that he didn’t speak.”

Lieutenant Hodgeson makes some notes then puts his pad and pen into his shirt pocket. “Your boyfriend’s going to be taken to the station and be put under arrest for felony assault.”

Shit.
“But he was protecting us. Stewart’s the one who should be arrested. He barged into my home and made threats. Blake was trying to protect us. Everything he did was to keep us safe.” My voice is getting higher and higher, and worry for Blake’s future spikes my adrenaline.

I can’t let him go down for this. Heat flares at my neck. I try to soothe it with my hand.

The lieutenant’s eyes are warm with compassion. “Let me ask you something. Have you seen Mr. Daniels take anything recently? Drugs of any kind?”

“Drugs? No, he’s an athlete. He’d never put anything like that in his body. He works hard and…” My own words remind me of our conversation concerning his supplements. “Wait, he was taking a bunch of prescriptions.”

Lt. Hodgeson scribbles something in his notes. “Do you know what meds he was taking?”

“Um, no, but neither did he. They’re some kind of herbal concoction meant to help his training.”

He looks to the other cop standing next to him. The man nods.

“Mrs.—I mean, Layla, we suspect that Mr. Daniels was under the influence of a drug that might elevate his temper. Have you noticed any change in his temper or his ability to control himself lately?”

“Yes—”

“Yeah.” Jonah steps up and into the conversation.

He noticed it, too?

“He pulled something similar in the octagon about two weeks ago. And before that… fuck.” He runs his hands through his hair. “He told me something was off. Said he felt like he was going to bust out of his skin, but he didn’t know why.”

My stomach flips and surges. Goose bumps pepper my skin. He’s been dealing with this for weeks? All those times he’d lock down, storm out of a room, or race around locking doors. How did I miss it?

He takes more notes, this time shaking his head. “Do you have the name of the doctor who was treating Mr. Daniels?”

Jonah pinches the bridge of his nose.

I turn to the cop and face him head on. “Yeah, I do. Xavier. Dr. Michael Xavier.”

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.