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.
The guard stops at a door, and we wait until we’re buzzed in. He walks me down a series of cubby-like desks with phones attached to the dividers, with glass separating the prisoner from the visitor.
“You’re in number seven.” He motions down the row and leaves me to it.
My heart pounds in my chest as I move down. Five, six. I stop and suck in a deep breath. If it’s her… oh, God, I hope it’s her.
One final step and I’m face to face with…no fucking way. “General?”
His expression is stony, lips pressed in a tight line, as he takes me in. I drop into the seat and grab the phone, pressing it to my ear and avoiding his eyes. He makes me wait before he picks up the phone on his side.
“Son. Somehow, I knew we’d be here one day. Orange is your color. Much more appropriate than the dress blues of a Marine.”
Of course he’d come to rub it in. Remind me of what a disappointment I am. But I’ve lost too much, and his words have no sting. I lift my eyes to his. “What do you want, Dad?”
He barks out laughter with no humor. “What do I want? I want my son to stop acting like a fucking child. I want you to honor your family—”