“I’m here for a meeting with Creighton Karas.”
“Of course, Mr. Legend. Please come with me.”
Without introducing himself, he turns and pushes open the door, and I step into the hallowed halls of Cannon Freeman’s club. I didn’t expect to feel instantly jealous, but that doesn’t change facts. Anyone who runs a club like this knows what they’re doing and has his shit together. I can’t deny how nice that would feel.
Fucking hell. This place is swanky.
I try not to meet any of the curious eyes that lock on me as Team No-Neck leads me across carpet so soft that my shoes sink into it. It even smells expensive up here, like I shouldn’t be breathing the air. Something about its rich man’s old-world library atmosphere makes me feel even more out of place than my clothes.
I’m not built for this life, which is a real kick in the ass, because Scarlett is. I can’t give her this. I wouldn’t even know where to start.
Except . . . then I see Da Real Ting, a rapper who got his start on the streets slinging drugs, sitting at a table in the corner next to a guy in a sharp suit. Ting, wearing black jeans and a black T-shirt, gives me a chin lift, and I feel oddly more at ease.
Maybe it doesn’t matter where you come from when you’re rich as hell and don’t give a fuck what anyone thinks of you. Maybe then, you just know you belong, because no one can tell you to leave. I have no idea what that feels like, but I’m pretty sure I’d like to.
I return the rapper’s silent greeting and follow the big man from the entryway back to a hallway with heavy wooden doors every several feet. He stops in front of one and knocks.
“Enter,” a muted voice says from inside.
Instantly, I pull my shoulders back and stand tall and proud. I may be wearing forty-dollar sweatpants, but I’m not walking in with shit posture.
Team No-Neck swings the hefty door open, and I step inside to see Creighton Karas wearing a three-piece suit and holding an unlit cigar in one hand.
“Mr. Legend. Thank you for joining me on such short notice.” Karas, a dark-haired man with gray starting to lighten his temples, smiles as he rises from the leather club chair.
I step farther inside, and the door shuts behind me. “I was under the impression it wasn’t a request I should refuse.”
He holds out a hand, and I firmly shake it.
“I appreciate your flexibility, Mr. Legend. Have a seat.”
“It’s just Legend,” I tell him. “No mister.”
“Right.” Karas nods as I claim the other big leather chair. “Legend. You’ve really made that name work for you over the last few years.”
“I’m just getting started.” The words come out without any forethought.
His jaw rocks as if he’s holding back a chuckle. “I like your attitude. How’s the training going?” he asks, motioning to my clothes.
“Good. I’m just getting started with that too. Great coaches. Best I’ve ever had.” I rub my hands down my thighs, just for something to do with them.
“I heard Silas Bohannon pulled a few strings and set you up. He’s a good friend to have, or so my sister tells me. She and her husband are quite close to him.” He taps the unlit cigar against the high-end table beside him.
“Bohannon seems like good people. I’m not real sure why he’s helping me, but I appreciate it more than he knows.”
“Yes, I would imagine,” Karas says as he leans forward, the leather creaking beneath him. “And Bodhi Black’s using your old coach to prepare for the fight. That had to be a blow to your confidence.”
I study him with narrowed eyes. “How the hell do you know all this?”
Karas smiles, but it’s not an expression of pleasure. It’s more like what you’d imagine if a shark could grin. “It’s my business to know things. Information is one of the most valuable commodities a man can possess.”
I don’t know what it is about this guy, but his presence demands respect. He’s on a different level, one I doubt I’ll ever be familiar with.
“So, is that why I’m here? You want information?”
Karas gestures with his cigar. “You want a stick before we start discussing business? It’s on me.”
It might be the one shot I ever have to smoke something that costs more than a used car, but I shake my head. “Can’t. Gotta get my cardio up. Fifteen minutes in the cage is a fucking eternity if you’re not prepared.”
“Fair enough. I should’ve known. I’ll abstain then. I wouldn’t want the secondhand smoke to damage your chances of beating Black.” Karas sets the cigar down in a lined box and closes the lid. “I’ll save this one for later.”
“With all due respect, Mr. Karas, can we just cut to the chase? I don’t know what you want, but I’ve got shit to do, and I have no idea why I’m here.”
Karas leans forward again, planting his elbows on his knees and lacing his fingers together out in front. “All right then. Your lawyers—have they sent the contract back for the venue or the fight?”
His question makes my head jerk back a few inches. “So you don’t know absolutely everything that happens in this city?”
“I’m aware you got the contracts. The reason I called you here at the last minute is because I don’t want you or your legal team to fuck them up. Call it protecting my investment.”
I run my hand over my hair and scratch the back of my neck. “Your stake in my club is a drop in the ocean of your money. This shouldn’t even take up a minute of your time. So, why is it?”
A faint smile ghosts over his lips. “I’m intrigued by you, Legend. You don’t quit, even when the odds are unfairly stacked against you. You seem willing to do anything to save what you’ve built, including putting your own ass on the line to possibly take a massive beating. I invested in your club on a whim, but I’ve been fascinated by what’s happened since then.”
He relaxes in the chair and leisurely crosses one custom-suit-pant-covered leg over the other. “I’m not sure what to make of you because you don’t fit any molds, and that intrigues me enough that I’ve taken a personal interest in the city’s new Legends—the man and the club.”
Part of me expected to be greeted with an ultimatum from Karas—win the fight or lose the club completely because he would pull the plug on the investments. But this . . . this is something totally different.
“I’m not sure what that means, Mr. Karas.”
“Crey. That’s what my friends call me.”
It takes all my self-control not to stare at him slack-jawed in shock. “I wasn’t aware we were friends, Crey.”
That shark-like grin comes back. “We’re not, but we will be. Now, let’s talk about your plans for bailing out the club with your winnings from the fight.”
Twenty
Scarlett
So far, Meryl has chosen over a dozen pieces she can’t live without. Amy has been carefully taking each one out of the rooms to be wrapped, crated, and delivered to her Upper East Side home tomorrow morning.
When she’s finished her sweep of the third and second floors, we descend to the first so she can make a loop around it. I hand off the sterling slippers she spotted upon entry to Amy as Meryl picks up a small travel clock and then a watercolor framed in filigreed silver.