Fighting to Forgive (Fighting, #2)

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.”

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