“When was the last time you talked to Molly?”
“Before the thing went down with my folks.”
“How did she seem then?”
Fucking questions. “What do you mean, how did she seem?”
“Was she upset? Mad? Still crying?”
“Why was she crying?” His gut clenched. In that moment he knew he’d fucked up yet again.
Tag loomed over him. “From what I saw, you left her alone almost the whole goddamn night at the club, and then you didn’t bother to tell her what was going on between you and your parents. Then Clive got his hooks into her, so why the fuck do you think she was crying, douche bag?”
“What did Clive say to her?”
“He said by you talking to her about a possible board vote, you violated your confidentiality agreement and he’d see you thrown off the board.”
“I’d fucking welcome that,” he snarled.
“But Molly doesn’t know that, does she? She thinks she screwed that up for you.”
Fear began to form thorns in his stomach.
“You wanna hear what she said to me when I saw her waiting for a cab? ‘Now I know where I stand with him, Tag. Behind him, not beside him.’”
Deacon inhaled and unclenched his fists. “I am one man. Yesterday and last night I was pulled in three different directions.”
“And none of them pulled you toward her? Then you’re an even bigger idiot than I imagined.”
Rage and shame filled him. In his frustration, he turned to punch the wall.
But Tag stepped forward and then crumpled inward when his belly absorbed the impact of Deacon’s fist.
“Why did you do that?” Deacon demanded, taken aback.
“The wall is cement, dipshit,” he wheezed. “You would’ve broken your fucking hand.”
“So you took one for the team?”
“I’ve got an iron gut.” Tag winced when he stood up straight. “You aren’t thinking clearly. You haven’t been since you stepped boots in Texas.”
“You have the fucking balls to say that to me? You’re the goddamn one pushing me to be here to support you on this ‘sell JFW’ bullshit.” And now that Deacon knew his dad had Warren as an heir? No fucking way would he take Warren’s future from him. “Officially, I’m no longer backing you, Tag. Selling isn’t the answer, and you know it.”
Tag scrubbed his hands over his face. “I know. Hearing Uncle Bing speak yesterday . . . I figured it’d be an uphill battle. Now I’m sorry I pushed you. I didn’t mean to set you at odds with your dad, D. The truth is, nothing is gonna change with JFW in the immediate future, so go deal with what you can change. Don’t fuck up your fight career because you fucked up with her. Just go fix it.”
Deacon turned and ran toward the door. He didn’t stop even when Tag yelled, “You’re welcome.”
* * *
FIFTEEN minutes later Deacon sat on the bed in their hotel room, Molly’s note in his hand.
Deacon,
You didn’t come back to the hotel last night. While I understand you had family matters on your mind, I at least deserved the courtesy of a phone call.
Fuck.
I don’t know what’s going on with your parents, with your board position and future at JFW, or what your plans are for after the Watson fight. I won’t berate you for keeping me on the sidelines of your decisions, but I can’t take this anymore either. I’ve gone back to Denver, where I belong. You have too many things on your mind and too much going on in your life right now to make our relationship a priority. That’s not a judgment call from me, but the truth.
What the ever-lovin’ fuck? Was she breaking up with him? He read on.
You have an incredible chance to prove yourself in the ring and to get to the next level in your career. So go to the camp in Laredo and train with Vasquez. Win against Watson.
You’ll be angry when you read this—but please let it go. Please don’t call me and leave pissed-off voice mails. Please don’t hop on a plane and return to Denver to confront me in person, because we both know you’d eventually blame me if you’re not prepared for the fight.
So take care of yourself. I’m sorry it came to this. We both know it’d be best if we don’t see each other for a while.
M~
“Wrong. You’ll be seeing me a lot goddamn sooner than you think, babe.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
BOOKING a last-minute flight meant Molly had two stops and a four-hour layover. It’d take her eight hours to reach Denver.
The lack of sleep the previous night caught up with her, and she managed to sneak in a nap at the airport. But the screaming baby two rows behind her on the last leg of the trip home kept her wide-awake, giving her time to think. She didn’t want to think. She wanted to block the past forty-eight hours from her memory banks entirely.