This place could be home—one of his homes.
He’d keep the flats in London. They didn’t have to be tied to one continent. It wasn’t such a stretch to imagine making a life here. Sebastian was happy. Augie lived here, and there were his bloody prick chat mates. Rowen, Mitch, and Landon truly were a bunch of wankers, but they were his wankers. A fizzy euphoria buzzed through him. He wrapped his arm around Libby’s shoulders, anchoring himself to her and taking solace in her presence.
“Even in the rain, the view never gets old,” she remarked, resting her head on his shoulder.
The jet touched down and taxied toward the terminal. They were back. The tropical respite was over. His emotions were all over the board, but he breathed easier with her in his arms.
He could do this. He could be a champion, a father, and a loving partner.
They gathered their things, thanked the pilots, and ventured into the rain. Libby’s shopping had added to the load, and he hoisted the bags over his shoulders while she accepted an umbrella from the co-pilot. They didn’t have far to go. No self-respecting Londoner would pop open a brolly for such a short stint in the rain, but he wasn’t just a Londoner anymore. Part-time Coloradan had a nice ring to it, too.
He glanced at the parking lot and didn’t see Briggs. “Let’s get out of the rain and wait inside the terminal. I’ll text Briggs and see how long it’ll be until he arrives,” he said as an airport employee held the door to the terminal open for them.
The regional airport had a decent number of travelers milling around. He looked for a few seats and spied a pair by the large windows in the front. “We can wait there,” he said, gesturing with his chin. “We’ll see Briggs when he pulls up.” He glanced from side to side. He could feel the eyes following them, watching their every move. Then came the whispers. It went with the job, but when two men and a woman held up their phones, filming them, he sensed something was up.
That’s Erasmus Cress!
I can’t believe he’s here, too. What are the chances?
Do you think they did this on purpose?
I bet somebody will want to buy this footage.
“Raz, what are those people talking about?” Libby asked, threading her arm with his.
“It’s posh Aspen. They probably saw another professional athlete or an actor coming in on a jet,” he answered. Still, he couldn’t shake the ominous feeling as more people glanced their way.
And he’s with Libby Lamb. I wonder if she’s going to throw anything at him.
“Ignore them, plum,” he said, squeezing her hand.
“Libby Lamb can throw whatever she wants at me,” came a man’s voice with a gritty Irish accent.
Bloody hell.
Libby stopped dead in her tracks. “Raz, that’s…”
A muscle ticked in his jaw. “Yeah, plum, I know.”
Ice and fire prickled in his veins as he stared down the unwelcome visitor, and one singular fact had become abundantly clear.
This was an ambush.
Thirty
Erasmus
“What is Silas Scott doing here?” Libby asked, disbelief coating her words.
“I’m not sure, but I’ll handle it, plum.” He surveyed the bustling lobby, then peered out the window. Briggs was still nowhere in sight, and bloody Silas Scott and his band of morons had planted themselves in front of the exit.
This was no coincidence.
There was no way to avoid them, and he wasn’t about to turn tail and scurry off.
The Snake wanted to confront him, but he had to keep himself in check. He couldn’t let the boxer turned wannabe internet provocateur provoke him.
The Snake’s entourage moved in. A gaggle of scantily clad women and four men dressed like faux thugs tittered toward them, mobiles out, damn near salivating as they filmed the encounter.
Time for cocky beefcake mode.
If these idiots wanted a show, he’d give them one.
Didn’t they know who they were dealing with?
This wasn’t his first time going toe to toe with an adversary. He’d won belts—plural. He’d been beating the piss out of a different version of Silas Scott years before this prick stepped into the ring.
That is, until Mere died, and then his life went to shit.
Focus.
He stared down his opponent. Twenty-four years old with a smirk on his lips and a chip on his shoulder and layered in so many gaudy gold chains it was amazing the kid could lift his head, Silas Scott sauntered toward them, clinking and jingling like a tea cart rolling over gravel.
“I see they let you out of Ireland. And you brought a pack of snakes with you,” he added, gesturing toward Silas’s crew. “You could be St. Patrick. I must say, I’m bloody glad you’re here.”
“Are you?” Silas tossed back.
Raz set their bags on the ground. “Yeah, we could use someone to carry our luggage.”
Silas scoffed, looking him up and down, then set his sights on Libby. “Well, hello, darling,” the man purred, his voice as greasy as his slicked-back blond hair. “Look what we have here. The former heavyweight champion and his spiritual coach.”
A muscle ticked in Raz’s jaw.
He shouldn’t take the bait, but this wanker was asking for it.
“Step back, plum. It appears Silas has forgotten his manners,” he said under his breath as he took a step toward the man who was begging to get his arse handed to him.
“No, I won’t,” Libby stammered. “And don’t do anything, Raz. They’re recording this. This isn’t some chance meeting. They must have known we’d be here.”
“Smart one, isn’t she?” Silas cooed. His green snake eyes glittered with mischief. “We caught wind that you were returning from Hawaii today and wanted to welcome you back. How nice to take a break from training so close to the biggest fight of the century.” Silas’s tongue darted past his lips like a bloody salamander as he eyed Libby. “I might fancy taking you on a posh island getaway, too, Libby Lamb. That is after I beat the Lion, or is it the Donkey? That’s your thing now, yeah? You do her and then go out and give it to the donkeys?” Silas paused, giving his moron squad time to hoot and whoop it up. “Wait, wait, you’re a geezer,” he continued. “You probably need a nap before you can get it up for the livestock.”
“Good one, Snake,” one of his idiots called.
Raz didn’t move a muscle. He knew this game. Trash talk was part of the show. With a hardened expression, he held back his fury. He could hear Aug in his ear.
Don’t let it get to you. Save it for the ring, Erasmus.
But an icy trickle of unease, drip, drip, dripped into his psyche.
A shiver passed through him.
Was the Snake more prepared than he was?
“I’ll make you a promise, Lion,” Silas bit out.
Raz narrowed his gaze.
Stay cool.
“Will you now?” he cooed, playing the game.
“I feel for you, mate,” Silas mused in a smarmy singsong tone. “I’ll let you get a few hits in during the fight. That is, if you actually make it to the ring.”
“I’ll be there, Silas,” he replied, his voice taking on a predatory tone.