Page 78 of Back in Black

His fighters weren’t dumb; they realized the same thing. But Drew knew they were trying to reassure Gillian, and he appreciated their efforts.

For himself, he wasn’t worried. He, and everyone else, knew his value. He was synonymous with the sport, and that made him nearly irreplaceable.

But Gillian . . . this would damage her good name, defame her in the PR world, and affect the jobs she got in the future.

Unless he could figure out a way to fix it.

As everyone packed through his front door to wait out the vultures, Drew’s thoughts scrambled. The only solution he could think of was one he didn’t want to contemplate.

He looked at Gillian’s stricken face, her shattered attempts at dignity, and he knew, for her, he would do it.

He’d quit the SBC.

TOUCHED by some strange emotion, Brett smoothed a hand down Audrey’s arm. She dozed against him, her head in the notch of his shoulder, her small hand resting on his abdomen. He wanted her again, of course. It was insane how she stirred him, kept him on the edge, and made him resent his dedication.

She looked so sweet and sexy, curled beside him, and last night . . . well, she’d taken him by surprise with her lack of inhibition. It wasn’t a wealth of experience that had made her bold; it was the same churning, irresistible attraction that he’d felt for her the second he laid eyes on her.

Feeling her breath on his skin, the way her long hair trailed over his arm, how trustingly she relaxed against him, filled him with an overwhelming need to claim her the best way known to man.

But he’d kept her up late and didn’t want to wake her so early.

Weak rays of sunshine cut through cold gray skies. It’d be a good morning for jogging. Quiet. Peaceful. Unlike some fighters, he didn’t mind conditioning. He didn’t have to force himself to do it. For him, it was as accepted, as much a part of his routine, as brushing his teeth and showering.

But today . . . today it took a little more effort to leave his bed, only because Audrey was in it.

She stirred but didn’t awaken. The room had cooled considerably, so Brett pulled the quilt up and over her shoulder. Curled at the foot of the bed, Spice lifted her head to look at him, blinked her bright eyes, and went back to sleep against Audrey’s feet.

Seeing his pet so accepting of Audrey put a funny little twinge in his chest. Other than Spice, he hadn’t openly cared for anyone or anything in a very long time. He hoped he was a nice guy, considerate and mannered. But those traits had always come with a purposeful distance.

With Audrey . . . he couldn’t quite drum up that same indifference. Already his feelings for her were noticeable beyond enjoying sex or mere companionship.

Whether he was ready or not, she’d crawled under his skin and was making her way into his heart.

As silently as possible, Brett gathered up the clothes he’d need and, with one final stroke along Spice’s back, slipped from the room. After he dressed, he wrote Audrey a note and put it on top of her purse, still on the sofa. He chugged down a protein drink and then put on a pot of coffee and set out everything Audrey might need.

Wondering if she’d awaken while he was gone, he slipped out of the apartment.

This early, the neighborhood was quiet. In the impoverished area, most stayed up late and slept in till early afternoon. That suited Brett just fine; he liked that his alternate schedule gave him added privacy.

A blanket of dew clung to everything, even the pavement. Up ahead, fog drifted in and around street lamps still glowing. His sneakers made a satisfying splat, splat, splat with each long stride he took.

He loved jogging.

He’d been jogging since he was fifteen, using it as a way to ease tension, to gather his thoughts, to marshal his anger . . . at his parents, at injustice.

At a lack of viable choices.

But mixed martial arts had given him choices. Plenty of them. As he’d told Audrey, he was a fighter at heart—but he was so much more than that, too. He was first and foremost a survivor. No one could ever take that from him.

He’d gotten through his father’s drunken rampages.

He’d muddled through the humiliation of his mother’s drug-inspired prostitution.

He’d survived life on the streets, the cold, and the hunger.

Drew called him a wonder boy, but Brett knew that wasn’t right; everyone was born with an instinct to endure. What else could he have done? Give up?

Trying to escape his own private demons, and the guilt that sometimes niggled at him, he ran a little harder. The guilt pissed him off. So he hadn’t seen his mother in a long time?

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