“What?” she said defensively.

After a beat, Lacey shook her head. “Nothing. I just feel sorry for him sometimes. He’s trying so hard.”

The uncomfortable feeling transformed into a knot of guilt. It was true—her stepfather really did make an effort to reach out to her. No matter how many times she blew him off, he still kept calling, texting, and emailing every few weeks. Like clockwork.

But his attempts to connect with her only seemed to make Skyler withdraw even more. It didn’t matter how many years had passed, or how hard she tried to move past it—she still viewed Clay Rivers as the man who’d broken up her parents’ marriage, and being around him was just a bleak reminder of her mom’s betrayal and her dad’s heartache.

“I’m a real hypocrite, huh?” Skyler let out a heavy breath. “Here I am, studying to become a therapist, and yet I totally refuse to deal with my own issues. In my head I know Clay’s not fully to blame for everything that happened, but every time I see him, I can’t help but feel it.”

“I know, babe. Your whole life was turned upside down because of him. But…” Lacey sighed too. “Eventually you’ll have to make a decision. Whether to deal with this Clay stuff head-on, or just cut him off completely.”

“Eventually,” she echoed, keeping her tone light. She took a last sip of coffee before pushing her chair back. “All right. I’ve gotta hit the library. I still need to finish up my conclusion for that abuse victims paper.”

“Any big plans for tonight?” Lacey grinned as they picked up their trays and headed for the row of trash cans across the cafeteria.

“Probably not. I haven’t heard from Gage.”

“Well, I hope you do. You need to make the most of the sexy times while they’re still deliciously new.” Lacey put on a strict face. “But remember—don’t fall in love with him.”

Skyler rolled her eyes. “I’ll try not to.”

…

The warehouse was filled to the rafters. Gage swallowed a tired sigh as he maneuvered through the throng of people, wishing he were anywhere but here. The crowd was more boisterous than usual, releasing cheers, jeers, and deafening screams as the two fighters in the cage beat the crap out of each other. And the air was sweltering hot, thanks to the hundreds of bodies crammed in the large space. He was already sweating, and he hadn’t even gotten in the cage yet.

He ignored the wave of hellos and back slaps he encountered on his way to the roped-off area on one side of the room, where three rows of “elite” seats offered an unobstructed view of the cage. Several shady characters occupied the VIP seats, although on paper, everything about the arena was legal. Permits, liquor licenses, vendors—all aboveboard. And yet there was nothing aboveboard about the man who ran the fights.

Mitch O’Donnell rose at Gage’s approach, looking pleased as punch to see him. He was a big man, six five to Gage’s six two, but lanky rather than built. He had pale skin and red hair tied back in a ponytail, and an unlit cigar dangling from the corner of his mouth. “Glad you made it, Holt.”

He said it as if Gage actually had a choice in the matter.

“Any instructions for tonight?” he asked after he’d nodded in greeting.

Mitch raised one reddish eyebrow, waiting for clarification.

“Do you want me to win or lose?” Gage said in a curt voice.

The other man looked annoyed. “Why the hell do you gotta ask me that every time? Have I ever ordered you to throw a fight?”

Gage shrugged.

“You know what I want, brother. Beat the shit outta your opponent and make us some goddamn money.”

“Gotcha.” He had to admit, he thoroughly enjoyed seeing the aggravation clouding the other man’s eyes. Gage always made a point to inquire whether he should throw the fight, just because he knew that the implication that Mitch fixed matches pissed the guy off. He also knew it was the truth—more often than not, Mitch did arrange the outcome of the fights.

But Gage had never lost or thrown a match. Not once during his professional days, and not once in the seven fights he’d already given Mitch.

“How’s my man Denny doing these days?” Mitch asked.

His shoulders stiffened. “He’s good. Clean as a whistle.”

“Good. Good for him.” The man clucked his tongue. “It was such a bloody shame, seeing him fall off the wagon again.”

“I bet it was,” Gage murmured, not believing a word of it.

Mitch had relished having Denny under his thumb. Dealing drugs for him, doing his dirty work in Southie. The bastard had probably come in his pants after Denny’s royal screw up, because now he had Denny’s big brother under his thumb, too.

“Tell him to stop by and see me one of these days,” Mitch said. “I know he’s out of the drug business, but we’re still buds, no?”

“Sure, I’ll tell him.” Yeah, f**king right.

A bone-jarring crunch had them both cocking their heads at the cage in time to see one of the fighters stumble backward, fist pressed to his nose as blood poured down his chin.

“Damn right!” Mitch shouted, clapping his hands in delight. “That’s it, Colin! Show that mofo who’s boss!”

“I’ll find you after the match,” Gage muttered, edging away from O’Donnell.

He stalked toward the locker rooms, desperate for some peace and quiet. It didn’t take him long to get ready. He was already wearing his boxing shorts, so all he had to do was strip off his hoodie and wifebeater, kick off his sneakers, and he was almost ready to go.