Holding Strong
Page 55
Disoriented, Leese looked around and realized he was on the steps to his apartment building. He had drool on his chin. A very bruised chin, judging by how it hurt to move his jaw.
“Can he talk?” the redhead asked.
“I’m okay, Mayla.”
Even as she nodded to her friend, Mayla didn’t move away. “Why’d you sleep outside?”
How could he tell a ten-year-old girl that he’d gotten stinking drunk and apparently... No, wait. That wasn’t right. Memories tried to nudge in, but that sent his stomach roiling.
“He’s gonna puke!” the redhead yelled with horrified excitement.
“No.” At least, if she’d stop screeching he might not. “Shh...” Remembering something he’d heard Mayla’s mother say, he told her, “Inside voice.”
“But we’re outside.”
Yeah, there was that. Grabbing the iron railing at the side of the stairs, he dragged himself—slowly—up to his feet. “You know what time it is?”
She shrugged. “Play time.”
He dug in his pocket for his phone, saw it was nearly nine, and swallowed back a curse. Another search of his pocket produced his keys, but no wallet. Son of a bitch.
He’d gotten played, big-time. How many people had seen him passed out? His neck burned thinking about it. “Does your mom know I was here?” Hard to imagine or she’d never have let the girls out to play.
“No. Want me to go tell her?”
He couldn’t ask a kid to lie to her mother. Mayla’s mom was the good sort, babysitting other kids, taking in laundry—including his own—and playing manager of the beat-up apartment building in order to stay at home with her daughter. She made ends meet, but Leese knew it wasn’t always easy.
Ignoring the question since he didn’t have an answer, he glanced around the neighborhood. In this neck of the woods, drunks sleeping on doorsteps weren’t a totally uncommon thing.
That he’d fallen into that category shamed him.
The little redhead, who up ’til now had warily kept her distance, drew closer. She scrunched up her blue eyes and her nose, making her freckles more pronounced. “You’re bleedin’.”
He touched where she pointed and found dried blood near his ear. “I must’ve fallen.” Glad for an excuse to escape their innocent curiosity—and doubly thrilled to still have his keys—he turned for the door. “I’ll go get cleaned up right now.” He half stumbled, realized his legs were shaky, and gripped the entry-door handle. Fuck him for living on the third floor.
At the last second, he turned back to the kids. “You stay right in front here, where your mama can see you.”
All wide-eyed and watchful, Mayla nodded. “Mama says there could be bad people around.”
“That’s right.” And last night he’d become one of them.
* * *
DENVER WALKED INTO Rowdy’s bar, hoping to meet with the guys before he headed over to see Cherry. He figured if they put their collective brains together, they could come up with a way to draw out Carver and his brothers without upsetting Cherry in the bargain. She’d been as clear as she could be that she wanted to handle things on her own.
It was going to bother her enough that he wouldn’t let her. If he cut her out completely, as he wanted to, she’d be majorly pissed. He didn’t want that.
He wanted to get her under him again.
And he wanted to claim her in some way. Longer term than just here and now. The thought of any other man getting near her heated his blood with possessive rage. Again he popped his neck, but the tension had crawled in with a vengeance and sunk its claws deep, and short of a good fuck or a real fight, he didn’t know how to shake it off.
He was making his way through the bar when he drew up short.
There, sitting at the bar and chatting up Vanity Baker, was none other than Leese Phelps. Was he here for Cherry? Working with Carver? The impulse to drag the bastard outside and get some answers the old-fashioned way got his feet moving forward.
Rowdy intercepted him. “Is there a reason you’re looking bent on murder?”
As the owner of the bar and a certified hardass, Rowdy never missed a thing—especially not trouble.Because Cannon used to work with him, and many of the fighters considered the bar a favorite neighborhood hangout, they all knew him well.
And vice versa.
If he thought it necessary, Rowdy would go toe to toe with a heavyweight champion. Thing was, everyone respected him too much for that to ever be necessary.
With a nod of his head, Denver indicated Phelps. “What’s he doing here?”
“Can he talk?” the redhead asked.
“I’m okay, Mayla.”
Even as she nodded to her friend, Mayla didn’t move away. “Why’d you sleep outside?”
How could he tell a ten-year-old girl that he’d gotten stinking drunk and apparently... No, wait. That wasn’t right. Memories tried to nudge in, but that sent his stomach roiling.
“He’s gonna puke!” the redhead yelled with horrified excitement.
“No.” At least, if she’d stop screeching he might not. “Shh...” Remembering something he’d heard Mayla’s mother say, he told her, “Inside voice.”
“But we’re outside.”
Yeah, there was that. Grabbing the iron railing at the side of the stairs, he dragged himself—slowly—up to his feet. “You know what time it is?”
She shrugged. “Play time.”
He dug in his pocket for his phone, saw it was nearly nine, and swallowed back a curse. Another search of his pocket produced his keys, but no wallet. Son of a bitch.
He’d gotten played, big-time. How many people had seen him passed out? His neck burned thinking about it. “Does your mom know I was here?” Hard to imagine or she’d never have let the girls out to play.
“No. Want me to go tell her?”
He couldn’t ask a kid to lie to her mother. Mayla’s mom was the good sort, babysitting other kids, taking in laundry—including his own—and playing manager of the beat-up apartment building in order to stay at home with her daughter. She made ends meet, but Leese knew it wasn’t always easy.
Ignoring the question since he didn’t have an answer, he glanced around the neighborhood. In this neck of the woods, drunks sleeping on doorsteps weren’t a totally uncommon thing.
That he’d fallen into that category shamed him.
The little redhead, who up ’til now had warily kept her distance, drew closer. She scrunched up her blue eyes and her nose, making her freckles more pronounced. “You’re bleedin’.”
He touched where she pointed and found dried blood near his ear. “I must’ve fallen.” Glad for an excuse to escape their innocent curiosity—and doubly thrilled to still have his keys—he turned for the door. “I’ll go get cleaned up right now.” He half stumbled, realized his legs were shaky, and gripped the entry-door handle. Fuck him for living on the third floor.
At the last second, he turned back to the kids. “You stay right in front here, where your mama can see you.”
All wide-eyed and watchful, Mayla nodded. “Mama says there could be bad people around.”
“That’s right.” And last night he’d become one of them.
* * *
DENVER WALKED INTO Rowdy’s bar, hoping to meet with the guys before he headed over to see Cherry. He figured if they put their collective brains together, they could come up with a way to draw out Carver and his brothers without upsetting Cherry in the bargain. She’d been as clear as she could be that she wanted to handle things on her own.
It was going to bother her enough that he wouldn’t let her. If he cut her out completely, as he wanted to, she’d be majorly pissed. He didn’t want that.
He wanted to get her under him again.
And he wanted to claim her in some way. Longer term than just here and now. The thought of any other man getting near her heated his blood with possessive rage. Again he popped his neck, but the tension had crawled in with a vengeance and sunk its claws deep, and short of a good fuck or a real fight, he didn’t know how to shake it off.
He was making his way through the bar when he drew up short.
There, sitting at the bar and chatting up Vanity Baker, was none other than Leese Phelps. Was he here for Cherry? Working with Carver? The impulse to drag the bastard outside and get some answers the old-fashioned way got his feet moving forward.
Rowdy intercepted him. “Is there a reason you’re looking bent on murder?”
As the owner of the bar and a certified hardass, Rowdy never missed a thing—especially not trouble.Because Cannon used to work with him, and many of the fighters considered the bar a favorite neighborhood hangout, they all knew him well.
And vice versa.
If he thought it necessary, Rowdy would go toe to toe with a heavyweight champion. Thing was, everyone respected him too much for that to ever be necessary.
With a nod of his head, Denver indicated Phelps. “What’s he doing here?”
