Chapter 25

CHAPTER

TWENTY-FIVE

RUST

The precision of the lines makes the whole; that's all when it comes to the shading effect on the fake skin. I'm trying to tat a tree, make it as photorealistic as possible. It requires a steady hand, calm nerves, and complete focus.

My hand trembles, dammit. I was thinking about whether Bailey is a good name for a boy. I'm unsure if it's a person's name or just a pet's. I should probably keep thoughts like that to myself at the press conference, the last one before the fight. I put the fake skin aside, run a hand through my hair, and reflect on the past few weeks.

I've exhausted myself in the day, sinking into dreams of Mary and the baby at night. When Marquis told me they wanted to come, I said yes, even if it was probably a mistake. I said yes because being apart from her is like being cut with a knife, except it stings more.

I should be with her, my hand resting on her belly, talking to her about the future—my beautiful girl. She saw through me and realized something I didn't even know myself. I was using her age as an excuse. If I could make that reason the worst, maybe the Brad betrayal would not seem as bad. She knows me better than I know myself.

Sighing, I look around the apartment. It never seemed empty before. It's Spartan, with few personal touches, but I never felt the aching emptiness. Now, I hear her laughter and little footsteps running up and down the floor. I hear happiness—maybe a barking dog.

Not much longer. A few more days. The press conference, then cutting weight, then the fight. Then Brad.

My phone vibrates. It's from Mary. I've managed to stop texting her by deleting her number from my phone, but I know this is her. I read the message, making me ache all over as I wish she were here.

Hey, Rust. I didn't want to bother you before. I'm just letting you know that we're in the city now. Do you want us to come to the press conference tomorrow?

It's up to you , I reply, my hand shaking because even texting her is enough to have me howling inside, with so much demand and need.

Okay, Mr. Aloof.

I grin. I have to be aloof. I've got business to take care of… for us.

So you still feel that way?

Always , I tell her.

She doesn't send me a text after that. She probably thinks I need my space to meditate or train or get ready, get savage, but there's only so much training I can do. Now that I know she's here, I can't think about anything else.

I turn off my phone, throw it onto the couch, and then go to the gym, the furthest point from it. It's goddamn childish, but it's the only way I can resist her. I need to focus. I've got another annoying-as-hell press conference to take care of.

As Marquis drives us to the press conference—probably so I don't make a run for it—I take out my phone and text my woman. Are you there yet? I held off last night, but I could feel her presence in the city, the passion tingling over me and grabbing hold of me. I never thought like this before. Tingles . What use does a fighter have for crap like that? She's injected me with too much love.

"You're smiling," Marquis notes. "This worries me."

"A smile worries you?"

"You hate these things. Did you just text your lady?"

"I thought you didn't know about that, remember?"

"You've done well," Marquis says. "Your training, Rust… The first few weeks and this Rust are two different men. Let me tell you, but I don't want you to get cocky."

"It's just a damn smile," I tell him. "I'm happy to see her. I know it's wrong, but I am."

"The last thing I need is a happy fighter," Marquis says miserably.

We arrive at the venue, the crew swiftly whisking us along. I don't let them put makeup on me. I never do, even as Marquis tuts, "Think of the lighting." I didn't become a fighter to have the privilege of wearing makeup. For this conference, it's just Cain, me, and a podium between us. There are three times the number of security guards than last time, probably because they know how easily I can cut quick angles and get to the prick.

The crowd is even bigger than last time, but I don't spot Mary or Brad in the front row. I'm guessing they've sat further back to avoid any of the drama. My phone vibrates in my pocket. I quickly check it as the announcer calls out Cain.

Yes. I can see you.

I look into the crowd, but all I can see is a mass of people and lights from phones and cameras. Cain swaggers out, wearing a denim vest, his fighting shorts, a cowboy hat, and nothing else. He shoots the air with finger pistols and blows each "gun" out, then sits, immediately leaning into the mic.

"You make sure to keep your bitch ass in that seat this time," he says.

I grind my teeth, ignoring him. Usually, at this stage of the fight week, I'm like an iceman. Nothing can crack me, but he's just such an arrogant, deluded ass. I got my hands on the bastard once, and I'll do it again.

"Nothing to say?" he taunts. "Really, Rust? I should get half your purse for selling this fight single-damn-handedly, and everybody knows it!" Cain declares, getting some cheering and clapping from the crowd. "He sits there like his shit don't stink, and his breath smells like roses and chamomile. You, Rust, a man who fucked your so-called best friend's sister."

A hush moves over the two-thousand-person crowd. I lean forward, wondering if I look guilty, wishing I didn't have to lie. I'd tell this whole crowd the truth if it wasn't for Brad. "Haven't you got anything new, Cain? Are you going to bring out that picture again?"

"Nah, I've got something new," Cain says gleefully. "In fact, I just posted it on my Instagram. Have a look, ladies and gents."

There's a loud rustling noise as thousands of people reach for their phones. I wonder if Brad and Mary are doing the same out there. I wonder what Photoshop stunt Cain pulled, maybe putting our faces into a porn flick or something stupid like that.

Then, from the void of the crowd, I hear a voice—the same voice I heard on the lake all those years ago. The same voice that told me, "You can make it, Rust. I know you can. You train harder than anybody else. You're more focused. More disciplined." And I told him, "When I make it, Brad, it will be because of you."

From the crowd, he yells, "What the fuck? Is this real?"

"What the hell is it?" I growl, staring across the stage at Cain.

He grins, holding up his phone. Oh, Jesus. It feels like the stage just fell out from underneath me. On the screen, there's a photo of Mary and me kissing in my car at night, with my arms wrapped around her. He swipes, showing more pictures and angles.

"You must've had me followed by a private detective to get a photo like that," I roar. "You rat ."

He just grins. "So you admit it, then?"

I grab the mic and stand up. I can't let the world think badly about Mary. I can't let them misunderstand this. It will hurt Brad even more, but I have to do this. For my woman. For our family.

"The only thing I admit is that I'm going to give my life to this woman. You all know me, Rust, the cold, stone-faced bastard. That's what's made me popular. It's not what I say but being me—cold and dead inside. A ruthless killer. That's the Rust you all want!"

The crowd starts roaring, beating their feet and their hands. I don't let myself think about how Brad's reacting out there; I don't let myself think about his pain. Maybe he's crying, but Cain's pulled this stunt, and now I have to deal with the consequences.

"If you look at that photo and you think you see a fighter taking advantage of a woman, you're wrong. The truth is, I fell in love with Mary Allen almost two months ago. We're going to have a family together—a baby. I'm going to do what my old man never could. I'm going to stand by my family, and if this prick thinks he can shame me for that, he'll feel more than shame on the night of the fight. He'll feel his teeth breaking and his nose caving in. For my family!"

I beat my chest with the mic, sending an echo all around the arena. I'm about to turn and walk away—I need to find Brad—when Cain starts laughing into the mic. "She's a bit on the big side for my tastes, but I guess you like them with a bit of meat, aye, Rust?"

I turn, my fists clenched so tight, my whole body trembling. There's a war drum pounding inside me. Primal. Hurt this man. Tear out his throat. Kill him for ever daring to bring my woman into this.

"And you knocked her up," he laughs again. "See, ladies and gents? All these years, he's been playing the saint. Look at him. His best friend's sister!"

"Shut your mouth. Don't you ever talk about her," I growl, not into the mic, but so only he can hear.

He puts his mic down and yells over the noise of the crowd. "After I'm done with you, maybe I'll give her a good whooping, too."

I almost explode again. Darkness creeps in at the edges of my vision, a blackout threatening, my instincts telling me to go into pure war mode, pure destruction. I stop and practice what I've been doing in training: breathe slowly and use all this anger to fuel the fight.

"You think these mind games are going to help you," I yell over at him, "but it's just going to make it worse for you, you bastard. Before, I was going to beat you. Now, I'm going to humiliate you for ever dreaming you could say something like that about my woman and get away with it."

I turn, walking away, promising myself that, no matter what, I'm knocking his ass out cold. I don't care about the wrestling. I'm going to hurt him. I'm going to break him.

I walk off stage, though the conference isn't technically over. It doesn't matter to me now. I need to find Brad and Mary and fix this.