Fight to the Finish (First to Fight #3) (4 page)

She bit her pink bottom lip, looking worried. “I don't
know. It's a violent sport, and—” She turned as he did when a heavy door at the opposite end of the gym screeched open and shut, finding the source of the shouting as it grew louder.

Coach Ace, a burly black man who had muscle and heft and moved like a ghost, walked in, pointing directly at Graham. “You.”

He stood slowly. “Yes, Coach?”

“What have you seen since you got here?”

Graham blinked, then looked down at Kara, who remained sitting on her mat. “Uh, nothing. Just talking with Kara, sir.”

“You,” he pointed at Kara, still speed-walking their way. “What have you seen?”

Graham bristled at the tone. She wasn't one of the Marines, or a teammate, to be barked at. But Kara unfolded her legs gracefully and started to stand. He held a hand down for her, and she accepted it on autopilot, barely giving him any of her weight to bear. “I've seen nothing, sir. I was in the training room, and then I came out here to stretch. Gra—I mean, Sweeney has been the only Marine to come through so far.”

Coach Ace grunted, as if in disbelief. Graham wanted to ask, but he also didn't want to get in the middle of anything. But still . . . “Sir, is there a problem?”

“You could say that.” Rubbing a hand over his dark face, the coach rocked back on his heels and looked heavenward. “Someone's vandalized the wall of fame.”

Graham looked at Kara, found her looking at him, then they both took off at a jog. Coach Ace didn't join them. He skidded to a halt at the other end of the gym, at the doors that led to the mostly unused hallway containing photos of past boxing teams and champions. “Hold on. Let me check it out first.”

“He said they
had
vandalized it. Not that they currently
were
vandalizing it. Pretty sure he wouldn't be asking you what you'd seen if he caught someone red-handed,” Kara pointed out, clearly not listening to him. “Don't play the
‘protect the womenfolk' crap with me. I'm a big girl. Now go.” She shoved at his shoulder, and he opened the heavy door.

Right away, he saw it. The photos of each boxing team from the past several decades lined the walls, framed in simple black or gold frames, with white mats and a small plaque to indicate the year. On the glass covering the photos, someone had used a marker or paint or something to draw obscene images, write nasty messages and create lewd or downright stupid pictures. A few were more simple, just giving each guy a dumb mustache or top hat. Others were more graphic, with body parts and sexual suggestions scribbled.

“This is . . .” Kara's voice trailed off, and she cleared her throat. “Juvenile. I know it's horrible, and so very disrespectful. But it's almost juvenile compared to the other acts. Right?”

He couldn't help but agree. Their vandal was losing steam, or maybe losing ways to fuck with the team. Trashing the bus, the training room, puncturing tires, creating a huge publicity mess with paint . . . that had taken time, energy and support away from the team. This was just disrespectful, but not all that clever. It was the sort of thing you expected from middle school kids who hated their principal and snuck in after hours to doodle on his photo in front of the office.

“Maybe the handwriting will help the MPs figure out who it is. Since they have to be connected to this building or the team somehow . . .” She didn't say what they were both thinking.

The vandal was most likely a member of the team. Or had been. Or had wanted to be. It might be someone they currently trusted. Someone they called a friend.

4

K
ara sank down on the couch beside Zach just in time for the phone in the kitchen to ring. With a sigh, she hefted herself back up. “Pause the movie, would ya?”

“Moooooom.” His young voice whined at the command. “Hurry back. We can only watch it tonight before it's gotta be back to the red box thingie drop off tomorrow morning.”

“A five minute phone call will not ruin our plans. The Avengers can wait a minute. Captain America waited, like, six decades.”

He groaned at her joke, burying his face in a throw pillow.

She chuckled and answered the phone. “Hello?”

“Kara, hi.” The voice of her attorney, Tasha Williams, cut through any good feelings she'd had about the evening. Her stomach sank, dread swirling to mix greasily with the handful of buttery popcorn she'd already consumed.

Her attorney never called unless there were problems. Big ones. Otherwise, she had her assistant send a simple email. “Do you have a minute to chat?”

“Sure. Hold on just a minute.” With a sigh, she leaned out of the kitchen door. “Zach, go ahead and start the movie. I'll be on the phone for a bit.”

He brightened and grabbed for the remote. His world, as he knew it, was right and perfect.

Kara's was about to get another ding. “Okay, what's up?”

“Henry is making another run at lowering child support.”

She sank into the kitchen chair. “Of course he is.”

“Something this time about how your job . . . I'm sorry,
jobs
”—her voice dripped with disdain on the word—“were too low paying. And that your choice to remain a freelancer rather than hold a regular nine-to-five job was irresponsible, and he shouldn't have to compensate financially to pick up the slack. Since you want to keep him full time, you should have more skin in the game.”

Kara heard the unspoken “or else.” “Let me guess, he made not-so-veiled comments about gaining custody again.”

“Bingo. Never came out and said it, but as usual, it's his favorite go-to threat.”

Super. Henry was, at the best of times, a negligent human. He didn't care much about anyone or anything beside himself, and mostly Kara thought that wasn't based on any malice toward others. Just a general lack of consideration and awareness. But when something inconvenienced him, he turned from negligent to nuisance to asshole in a hot minute.

He didn't want custody. Never had. His entire life would come crumbling down if he suddenly became responsible for another human being. The man couldn't be trusted with a goldfish. But custody had become that one thing he held up as a selling point toward being awarded less and less financial responsibility.

The idea of him taking Zach for a weekend chilled her to the bone. Zach as a ten-year-old was pretty self-sufficient. But with his allergies, and an uncaring, self-absorbed adult in charge for two days . . . it could be a disaster.

“Kara?”

She blinked. “Yes, I'm sorry.”

“You'll need to come in tomorrow, if possible.” There was a hesitation, and Kara saw dollar signs in it. “And you'll need to speak with the front office about the retainer.”

“Mm-hmm. Sure.” She hung up after agreeing on a time to meet, mentally calculating exactly where that money was going to come from.

This was Henry's plan. Not only did he know she'd fight to keep Zach from going to visit his dad routinely, but that she couldn't afford to play the lawyer game. It was a decision of whether to accept less money monthly, or spend greatly in chunks via attorney retainers.

She sat at the table for five minutes, giving her body a chance to calm down via deep breathing and visualization. When she felt calmer, she went back into the living room and sat beside her son. He grumbled, as there were plenty of other places to sit that wouldn't put them shoulder to shoulder, but didn't argue when she wrapped her arm around him and pulled him tight against her.

“Love you,” she murmured into his hair.

He grunted in a very male sort of way.

She smiled, and watched the Avengers kick ass.

*   *   *

“OKAY,
don't yell at me,” Marianne said as she held up her hands. “But I have to tell you something.”

Kara set her smoothie down and glanced at Reagan, who looked equally concerned. “What? What is it?”

“This smoothie sucks,” Marianne said simply. “Whose idea was it to come here for drinks? When I think post-work cocktails, I don't think of one that includes a shot of seaweed.”

“It's not that bad,” Reagan said, sipping her own concoction. She managed to hold the face for a full five seconds
before scrunching up her nose and waving her hand in front of her mouth. “Oh, there's an aftertaste. Oh, bad. Bad.”

Kara sighed and sipped her own. “Acquired taste. And I didn't want to go to Back Gate, because if I went there, I might end up drowning my sorrows in five beers and having one of your manly men tossing me over their shoulder to haul me back up to my apartment like a drunken lush.”

“Very classy,” Marianne said.

“Ladylike,” was Reagan's thought.

“Uh-huh. Speaking of classy, any updates on the vandalism?”

Reagan blew out a breath that shifted the fine hairs escaping her twist. “None. Since it looks like this time, the person popped the lock on the back door there in that never-used hallway, so it's impossible to tell when it was done. Nobody knows when the last time someone wandered back there was. Could have been ten minutes before Coach Ace found it, could have been days. The gym is almost solely used for practice right now, and that hallway's mostly ignored.”

“It sucks. So disrespectful,” Marianne said with an angry clench to her jaw.

“You know,” Kara said softly, “Nikki was there early that day. And she acted surprised she got caught in the room early.” When Marianne leaned forward more, Kara went on, “She was under the ice machine when I walked in, as if she were looking for something. But when I said hi, she acted like she'd been caught red-handed.”

“No black marker in her hand?” Marianne asked hopefully. “It would be the perfect excuse to dismiss her.”

“No black marker,” Kara said. Much as it pained her to admit the next, she went on. “She's a crazy one, but I struggle to think she would do something like that. It's not her style. Ripping apart the apartment of an ex-boyfriend, maybe.”

“In her mind, they might all be potential ex-boyfriends.” When Kara and Marianne looked at Reagan in surprise, she blushed and looked down. “Sorry, that was stupid.”

“No, go on.”

“Well . . .” One finger drawing through the condensation from her glass, she continued. “She wants them. I don't think she cares who. She's a tag-chaser. But nobody is taking the bait.”

“Levi has.” With a sigh, Marianne pushed her smoothie glass farther from her. “Poor guy. He's smitten, and she either has no clue, or doesn't give a crap.”

“Combination, fifty-fifty,” was Kara's summation. “Continue.”

“So what if she sees all of them as pseudo-exes? They've all turned her down, they've all scorned her. None of them want to be caught alone with her. They've rejected her, and she's annoyed with it. She's more than annoyed,” Reagan corrected, scooting in her chair a bit as someone passed behind her in the crowded cafe. “She's hurt. And a hurt woman, especially an immature one, can do a lot of damage.”

It was something to think about. “Speaking of being hurt . . .” Kara squeezed her eyes shut, then went for it. “I have to go back to mediation again with Henry. Zach's dad,” she reminded Reagan, who looked confused. Storm clouds gathered in Marianne's eyes.

Her friend had never cared for the guy, even when they'd been teens. She'd wanted to tear the guy apart back when Kara had gotten pregnant, but that was just as much Kara's fault as Henry's. And they'd all been young and stupid.

As an adult, her friend had zero tolerance for the bullshit her ex heaped upon her regularly.

“What's that fuckhead's problem this time?”

“There are kids around,” Kara admonished. “He wants to lower support—again. Or else he'll have to start taking Zach for more than what he usually does.”

“Which is how often? I feel like he's always with you,” Reagan said. “Which is great, because he's a good kid, but that has to be exhausting.”

“It is, but the alternative is horrifying.” Kara reached into her purse and dug out a receipt and jotted down a note to write a blog about being a single parent dealing with allergies. The lack of break was wearing. It was a good one for her readers. She stuffed the reminder back in her bag. “Anyway, I've got to figure this out, because Zach would definitely suffer if he were with his dad often. The guy isn't a winner in anyone's book. I'm sure he'd come back swearing like a sailor or telling me how horrible I am.”

“When was the last time your ex saw Zach?”

“Zach was about three. His dad picked him up for lunch, then brought him back an hour later disgusted that he couldn't eat anything and demanded to know why I'd done ‘nothing' about his allergies yet. Like there's some sort of pill I could give him to take all the allergies and intolerances away, and I was just too lazy to bother.”

“Fuckhead,” Reagan breathed. “I'm sorry, but she's right. He's a fuckhead.”

That made Kara snort out a laugh, then laugh harder because the sound was so awful. Loud enough that a table by the window shot her the evil eye for disturbing their afternoon guava-infused beverages. “So now that I will be paying for my attorney—again—to beat my ex into a pretzel—again—this will be my last time out for a while.” She toasted them with her protein smoothie and took another sip. “Such is life.”

“Okay, don't yell at me,” Marianne said.

“I am having déjà vu,” Reagan murmured. “We know, you hate the smoothie.”

“Not that.” Wadding up her napkin, she tossed it at Reagan, who batted it away.

“If I weren't wearing my cute shoes, I'd kick you.”

“All your shoes are cute.” Kara looked under the table to catch a glimpse of today's footwear. Black and white polka dotted heels with a little bow on the back. “Yup. Cute.”

“Back to me,” Marianne said, clearing her throat. “You should ask Graham.”

“For shoes? I doubt we're the same size.”

“Why am I friends with her?” Marianne asked Reagan. Reagan shrugged. “Ask Graham for help with the custody issue. He's cheaper than a real lawyer.”

“He
is
a real lawyer.”

“Not what I meant.” Marianne waved that away. “He might not be able to do a lot, but he can give you a ton of free advice, so you aren't wasting hours with your own attorney. You can get in, tell them what you want, and get out. Less billable hours that way.”

Kara chewed on the straw a bit. A disgusting habit, but she couldn't quite stop herself. It was better than chewing her bottom lip raw. “I couldn't do that.”

“Because he's so ugly and smelly and spending a lot of time with him might make you vomit.”

“Marianne,” Reagan scolded.

“No, obviously that's not it. The exact opposite, asshole. But I don't want to impose on him. He's got so much going on right now with boxing and matches coming up, and then the All Military games. It would be wrong of me to dump this on him, too.”

“It's rather simple. You invite the guy over for dinner, you spend ten minutes laying out the issue, you spend ten minutes listening to him talk, and then you eat. Done.”

Reagan patted Marianne's forearm. “It's not that simple, and you know it. There are feelings involved.”

Smugly, Kara smiled at her friend. “Yeah, it's not that . . . wait. Feelings for who?”

Reagan looked disgusted. “Don't act like that. We aren't stupid.”

“I'm not friends with stupid people, so of course you aren't. But I never said I was feeling anything.”

“We've got eyes,” she pointed out.

“I don't want to lead him on. Nothing will happen there, so . . .” She raised her hands and lowered them again. “I just can't.”

Reagan looked like she wanted to argue, but ducked her head and went back to the bad aftertaste smoothie. Marianne simply shook her head and kept quiet.

When these two chatterboxes went quiet, Kara knew she had a problem.

*   *   *

REAGAN
sat in front of the Marines, her top foot swinging over the other as she waited for Coach Ace to stop talking. Graham let himself zone out a bit, watching the high heel swing back and forth like a metronome. It was soothing, really, and he could almost feel himself float away to a place where his solar plexus didn't sting like a sonofabitch and his jaw didn't hurt.

God, boxing was fun.

“Dude.” Greg elbowed him in the ribs as he hissed, “Are you staring at my girlfriend's legs?”

He blinked, shook his head to land back on this planet, and turned his head. “No?”

“Is that a question or an answer?” Greg, the easygoing, affable team member who could make anyone laugh, looked pissed. “Please tell me you're not actually checking out my woman.”

“Chill, man. I zoned out. Her foot was in the way. Calm down.”

Greg rolled his shoulders back, looking uneasy with the whole thing, then mumbled, “Sorry,” from the corner of his mouth.

Graham started to say it was no big deal, when his head snapped forward. From the corner of his eye, he saw Greg's had done the same. They'd both received a head slap.

“Quit your gossipin' and listen,” Coach Cartwright said from behind them in a low tone. “Don't make me separate you two like a bunch of damn kindergarteners.”

Greg looked over and grinned at him in a way that said,
Business as usual.