Down and Out

“You’re distracted today.”
It feels like my heart’s declared war on my chest with the way it’s slamming into my ribcage right now. I can’t tell if it’s from the workout Marcus is giving me, or the proximity of the gorgeous chick I was dumb enough to hire.
I wipe sweat from my face and mumble, “I know.” Crossing the ring, I take out my mouth guard and grab the bottle of water sitting off to the side. I take a long swig, feeling Savannah’s eyes on me the whole time. 
She’s been indifferent to me all day, and that’s fine, that’s grand. She’s my employee after all, so the last thing I need is her batting those big, gray eyes at me because it’ll probably make me do something stupid. Like drag her back to my office, bend her over my desk, and f*ck her till I’m dehydrated of semen depletion.
I should try and retain at least a modicum of professionalism, right?
But then she had to go and ruin it. Then I had to catch her staring at me while I sparred with my trainer, Marcus. Those gunmetal gray eyes? which had seemed kind of cold yesterday, were alight with heat and desire, and damn it if the yearning on her face wasn’t the hottest thing I’ve ever seen. Then Marcus sucker punched me while I was distracted and by the time I looked back at her, it was gone and replaced with the guarded look she wears so well.
It almost seems like she doesn’t want me to know she finds me attractive, and I can’t figure out why. Maybe it’s because she wants things to remain professional too, or maybe she just has a boyfriend. I don’t know.
Marcus comes up beside me. “She’s hot,” he says, following my gaze.
I frown and take another drink, watching her wipe down machines and collect stray towels as she goes along. “That’s not why I hired her.”
“Then why did you? A scrawny thing like that can’t lift shit around here.”
I’m not going to lie and say there was some kind of instant connection between us, because there wasn’t. Savannah’s a pretty girl who needed help, and guys are hardwired to want to help pretty girls. Simple as that.
Besides, I’m not a heartless bastard. She reeked of desperation yesterday and I was in a position to help her out. So I did.
I shrug and glance at Marcus. “She needed a job, I needed the help. End of story.”
She bends over and he tilts his head, eyeing her ass. “You gonna hit that?”
Rolling my eyes, I hit him on the chest. “Knock it off, man.” Marcus needs to learn to think with the head on his shoulders, not the one in his shorts. He already has a kid with his ex, and had a separate pregnancy scare a couple months back.
The side of his mouth hitches up into a cocky grin. “I’ll take that as a no. . . Can I?”
I set my water bottle back down, glaring at him as I point to him. “Stay away from her. The last thing I need is her taking off for maternity leave.”
His smile fades. “Not cool, bro. The last thing I need is you jinxing me with another baby mama.”
“There are these things called condoms. Maybe you should learn how to use one.”
He flips me off and gives me a droll look. “Ha-ha.”
I’d just popped my mouth guard back in when I see Blake enter the gym. His hazel eyes are grim as they land on mine. “Shit,” I mutter under my breath, taking the piece of plastic out of my mouth once again. “Let’s call it a day,” I say to Marcus, who frowns and shakes his head.
“This can’t be good.”
I bend down and grab my water bottle, then yank my shirt off the ropes. “Nope.”
Marcus knows better than anyone that Blake does not enjoy stepping foot inside this gym. So if he’s here, then some shit somewhere has hit some fan and he’s here to ask me to clean it up for him. Again.
As I wonder who he owes and how much, Blake heads around the ring to my office, keeping his head down. Marcus hits me on the arm and I turn to look at him.
“Whatever drama he’s about to bring your way, you gotta leave that shit at home, you feel me? Same goes for the new girl.”
I open my mouth to object when he cuts me off.
“Don’t waste your breath tryin’ to tell me she ain’t in your head. If she wasn’t, then I wouldn’t have been able to get one in today and you know it.”
My jaw clenches. He might be right.
“You can’t afford those kinds of distractions when you go up against Kerrigan this Friday. You’re good and he knows it. You better believe he’ll be lookin’ for any opportunity to slip one past you, and if your head’s as far up your ass as it was today, it won’t be hard.” His nostrils flare, his lips pressing into a hard line. “One second, Declan, that’s all it takes. One second of you being less than a hundred percent, and you’re on the ground while he takes the lead.”
My eyes drop down to the black knee brace on Marcus’s left leg. He should know more than anyone that one second is all it takes to make or break your career.
I mumble a goodbye and duck between the ropes, jumping down to the floor and making my way to the office. I push the door open, seeing Blake perched on the edge of the desk. His head’s still down, and all I can see is the mop of dark hair that’s the same shade as mine.
The door clicks shut behind me and I lean against the frame, crossing my arms. “How much?”
Blake lifts his head. His eyes are red and bloodshot as he sneers at me. “I don’t need a dime from you. It’s Dad.”
I laugh and wipe off my face with my shirt, then sling it over my shoulder. “I’m not settling any of that bastard’s debts, so you can tell him to go—”
“He’s dying, Declan.”
I frown and study my brother. “How?” I’m ashamed to admit it, but my first thought is that this might be some kind of scam. My old man brings it on himself, though, for consistently being a shady and generally shitty person. Father of the year he is not.
Blake rubs the back of his neck, looking much older than his twenty-five years. “His liver’s shot to hell.”
Snorting, I say, “I could’ve told you that. You can’t knock back a bottle of Jim Beam every day and expect to live forever.”
Blake scowls at me, and I feel like shit for cracking a joke when he’s so obviously torn up about it. “Sorry. Has he, uh, been to the doctor or anything?”
He nods. “Doctor said it was . . . psoriasis?”
My brows pull tighter as I bite my thumbnail. “Cirrhosis.”
“Yeah, that.”
“Well. . .” I rack my brain for anything other than a “that sucks” and come up empty. Like I said, father of the year he is not. There’s no love lost between us, and I’ve made my peace with that years ago. “How much time does he have left?”
Blake shrugs. “More if he quits drinking, less if he doesn’t.”
“So not much, then.”
He clucks his tongue. “Nope.”
After several seconds of tense silence, Blake says, “You know what you have to do.”
I cock a brow. “No, I don’t.”
“Yes, you do. You have to make things right with him before it’s too late.”
Laughter bursts out of me. Did I just hear him right? “I have to make things right? I’m sorry, am I the one who gambled away our Christmas money when we were little? And am I the one who got popped for public intoxication at your Thanksgiving recital? ’Cause I sure as hell don’t remember doing that, but I must have if I’m the one who has to make things right. Oh, and I must be the one who left for a pack of smokes one day and never came back, right?”
“Look, I know he can be a douche and his track record sucks, but—”
“But what, Blake? You were there for every drunken spectacle, every hurled insult, and every pathetic morning-after apology. How can you stand there and defend him?”
“Because I’m just f*cking like him!” he shouts, shoving his finger into his chest as he stands. “The only difference is that you have my back and Dad has no one. He’s family, Declan, and we’re all he has left.”
Blake’s right. He’s turning out to be quite the screw-up, just like our old man. I mean, it’s one thing to get into a bit of trouble here and there in your early twenties, but he’s consistently gambling with money he doesn’t have, constantly mouthing off to the wrong people, and he always has some kind of shady “business” deal with some person or other.
I don’t know, maybe it’s my fault. Maybe if I hadn’t bailed him out every time he got into trouble he’d learn to clean up his own messes or—gasp—not get into trouble in the first place.
I don’t understand where we went wrong. Growing up, Blake and I were thick as thieves. He’s thirteen months older, but we might as well have been twins. Then dear old Dad left, and shortly after, Mom died. We were both pissed off and angry at the world, and Pops taught me to channel all that anger and hate into fighting, but he couldn’t get through to Blake like he had to me. No matter what Pops said or did, Blake couldn’t get rid of that chip on his shoulder.
Fast forward ten years and here we are.
I shake my head. “That’s where you’re wrong. Dad burned his bridge with me when he walked out on us, so you are all he has left. Blood doesn’t make you family, Blake. You have to earn that shit, and he hasn’t, plain and simple.”
Turning to leave, my hand is on the doorknob as Blake says, “Pops would want you to make it right.”
I whip around and shove at his chest. “Don’t you dare bring Pops into this. He knew what a screw-up his son was, and he made his peace with that. He didn’t blame me for cutting Dad out of my life, and he wouldn’t blame me now.”
Blake’s eyes harden. “You sure about that?”
No.
“F*ck you,” I snarl, storming out of my office. It may not be the most adult way to end our conversation, but it could’ve been worse. It could’ve ended with my fist to his face, like last time.

I run a hand through my freshly showered hair as the gym’s back door slams closed behind me. I knew it’d be dark out, but damn. Everything around me is quiet and still. It’s got to be late.
Turning, I pull the handle on the heavy, rusted door to make sure it locked. My fingers twitch with this angry, jittery feeling I can’t quite get rid of, even after staying past closing to work out. Blake’s visit got me all knotted up and pissed off. So I pushed myself to lift more, run more, until I thought I might pass out. But apparently it wasn’t enough, because I still feel like I’m burning up inside. Usually when it’s this bad, I either need to break someone or f*ck someone.
As if right on cue, my phone buzzes in my pocket. I don’t even have to take it out to know that it’s Jamie. She’s been blowing up my phone since I ditched her the other night, and she doesn’t seem to understand my lack of response means I’m not interested.
But right now, I could give a shit about her obnoxious personality or that normally I think she’s the Antichrist. Because right now, Jamie’s the only one who’s got what I need. She requires zero effort and likes it as rough as I do. I could take all my frustrations out on her and she’d still turn around and ask for more.
Damn, she sounds like the perfect girl when I think about it like that. Why am I avoiding her, again?
Because when she opens her mouth, you want to strangle her.
Oh, yeah. That.
Maybe I can get her a ball gag. . .
I pull out my phone and glance at her text, rolling my eyes when I see this gem:
Jamie: I’m so wet right now. . .
I type out a quick response and hit send.
Me: Then get a f*cking towel.
I’m slipping my phone back in my pocket when a flickering light down the street catches my eye. The bulb in a streetlamp is going out, but that’s not what has my attention now. What has my attention now is the rusted hunk of yellow scrap metal parked down the street.
Otherwise known as Savannah’s car.
She left hours ago, so what is her car still doing here? Does she live around here?
I drop my gym bag on the pavement near the back door and jog across the small parking lot. Pausing to check for oncoming cars, I walk across the street and up a little ways.
Her backseat windows are boarded up with cardboard, which is weird, because the glass isn’t broken. It’s almost like they’re blocked out for privacy. . .
The thought dies in my head as I peer in through her rearview window, seeing baskets of clothes in the hatchback of her car. My already pissy mood takes a nosedive into dangerous territory when I spot the tops of her pale, bent knees in the backseat.
Oh, hell no.
“I knew it. I f*cking knew it.”