“No!” I swing my gaze from my dad over to my mom. “I will not be made to feel guilty for not wanting to revisit the worst day of my life! I repeatedly tell you I need to move on with my life, and yet you ignore my wishes again and again!”
“Now wait a minute, young lady,” Mom lectures. “I gave up my career to help you recover, to keep you up to date with your peers by homeschooling you so you wouldn’t fall behind or have to feel unsafe at school. I thought you’d come around—”
“And I appreciate what you did for me, Mom. I do. But I didn’t ask you to give anything up. Just like I didn’t ask for a bullet to be put through my skull.” My breath hitches as I try to hold in a sob. “It’s infuriating that you refuse to acknowledge my need to put all of this crap behind me. I don’t remember any of it and I won’t let it define my life.”
“I’m only trying to—”
I cut her off again. “I don’t want excuses, Mom. You don’t get to decide for me. Whether you mean well or not, I’m not doing those speeches or attending any events. Ever.”
Spinning on my heel, I march toward the front door. As I leave the room, I hear my dad trying to calm my mother down. “Let her be, Rose.”
Thankful for his intervention, I slam the front door and hurry outside, the oppressive humidity of Atlanta in June smacking into me like a wet blanket to the face. Tears burn at the backs of my eyes and I have to calm down before driving home. Before I can sort myself out, the door opens behind me. I tense up, waiting for the angry scolding to continue.
“Britt, do you need me to take you home, sweetheart?”
“Daddy?” I peek over my shoulder, finding my father holding his keys. He stares at me with an odd expression on his handsome but tired face. Not pity, it’s more than that. Respect?
“No, I’m okay. Thank you, Daddy.”
My dad steps forward and engulfs me in a hug, wrapping his strong arms around my small frame. It’s been so long since I experienced loving human contact of any kind. My parents aren’t the touchy-feely types and my last, my only boyfriend, was back when I was an undergrad, and because he knew about “the incident” he treated me like an untouchable porcelain doll.
My dad kisses the top of my head. “Anytime, sweetheart. Anytime.”
Killer
Jackson Wolfe might just be the biggest prick I ever met. And I’ve met a lot of fucking pricks.
“Come on, Killer,” he taunts from across the cage. “Who cares what Gabriel says? Let loose so we can find out what you’re made of.”
A small crowd of trainers and fighters has gathered outside the octagon. We’re supposed to be practicing speed and agility, light hits only. This idiot apparently feels the need to prove his alpha status amongst the other men by egging me on in front of everyone.
It infuriates him when I don’t answer. In fact, I refuse to speak a single word to the jackass. I reviewed his FLA fights. He’s sloppy and too cocky for his own good. He wins because his reach is long and luck is on his side… so far.
I continue training as instructed, swinging at half-strength, dodging his blows when they manage to get anywhere close to me, which isn’t often.
“What’s wrong with you, man? You’re creepy as fuck.” Wolfe grins, his face looking more like a caricature of the Joker than anything remotely attractive. His mouth is too big, his eyes too small, and his attitude might even be worse than mine. Silent and brooding beats cocky motherfucker any day.
I survived six months in prison by ignoring the barbs and taunts thrown my way. In my first week I learned what happens if you let emotions take over when another inmate gets under your skin. Nine days in the infirmary taught me a lesson and shut me up damn quick.
Maybe Wolfe needs that experience.
He comes at me again with every intention of landing a hard jab to my ribs. Using only a fraction of the power I normally put behind my punches, I easily deflect his fist, pivot on my back foot, fake a right jab, and hit him with a perfect left cross to the jaw, following up with a flying knee strike to the chest. The moron goes down like a house of cards.
“Fuck! You motherfucker!” Wolfe lets loose a string of curse words as he rolls around on the ground, gasping and whining like a baby. “Fucking asshole! We’re only sparring.”
I duck my head to hide my smirk, struggling to keep my face neutral and uninterested as he loudly blames me for giving him exactly what he asked for. The cage door opens and a trainer rushes in to help the poor diva patch up his boo-boos. I use the distraction to slip out unseen. With a backdrop of Wolfe’s cursing and complaining, I pull off my gloves and slip on my hoodie.
No way did I hit the asshole hard enough for him to put on such a display. Once my hood is up over my head, I allow myself a smile at my victory, which slides right off my face when I realize Wolfe’s endgame. Britt hurries across the gym in a tiny blonde streak and hops into the cage, kneeling at Wolfe’s side.