Prologue
LOUIS
My name is Louis Kingston and I am a killer.
One punch. That’s all it took to end a life. I didn’t hate the man. I didn’t even really know him. I was doing my job. I was doing what we were both trained for. I know where to hit and where not to hit. I’ve spent my entire life training to avoid this exact scenario.
I still killed a man.
Lifting the bottle of extremely expensive Louis XIII cognac to my lips, I take a long swig. It was a gift for winning from my agent.
In fact, I have thirty that were gifted to me from my agent, one for every professional fight that I’ve won.
I’m sure he has some kind of deal with the company, and until today, I’ve never even thought about opening one.
Usually, I stick to beer and even then, I only have a few when I’m resting between fights. When I’m training, I don’t drink any kind of alcohol.
I stay pure in mind, drink, and food. Even my body stays pure, I stay away from women in general.
Closing my eyes, I let my head fall back against the chair. There’s going to be an investigation. They’ve already taken my blood, already had the cops interview me and I’m supposed to go down to the police station tomorrow for an even more in-depth interview.
The Association of Boxing Commissions and Combative Sports took my statement and the tape of the fight to look over. The referee is also being questioned along with the judges.
I know without a doubt that I am not at fault, but rules are rules, and everything must be done to the letter. None of that eases my guilt. I will feel this guilt for the rest of my life. It will never disappear. It will never fade. I have taken a life.
Months have passed. The investigation has been concluded. The autopsy has been done and results have not only been released to me, the commission, and the police, but also to the public.
The world knows that I didn’t intentionally kill this man. The world knows that a doctor told him, and made notes, that he was just a few punches away from death weeks before he entered the ring. He wasn’t forthcoming with the information, he was being cocky.
None of that matters, because at the end of the day, my fist ended his life.
They say that time eases the guilt. That eventually you don’t hear the sounds of the moment that changed everything in your life. They are wrong. I don’t think that I will ever forget. In fact, I’ve heard the noises, the sounds that circled around me that night on a fucking loop.
Day, night, asleep, or awake. It doesn’t matter, it’s all that I hear.
His funeral has come and gone. I had to stand there while his wife and daughter sobbed, while his young son just stared blankly at the box that was being lowered into the ground.
People can tell me every minute of every day that I am not at fault. They can say that he knew what he was doing, he understood the risks that he was taking and yet he walked into that ring anyway. They can say it over and over and yet, the guilt that I have for ending his life will remain.
I snort to myself as I finish the fifth bottle of Louis XIII cognac. I haven’t worked out once in a month. Fuck, I haven’t even seen the sun since I went to the funeral. Some would say I’m wasting away here in Vegas, hiding away from the world.
They would be right.
I should be training, or at least maintaining my physique. I can’t though. All I want to do is drink and wallow in my own guilt, self-pity, and self-hatred.
Dropping the fifteen-hundred-dollar, empty bottle to the floor, I close my eyes and the image that pops into my head isn’t at all unwelcome. For the first time in weeks, I don’t see the man I killed, instead I see her.
Shorter blonde hair splayed out around her head, big blue eyes that look straight into my fucking soul. She’s naked, her tits a little less than a handful. Her waist small and her hips flared. Her thighs thick. Her skin silky smooth.
Then she licks her full lips before they twitch into a small smile.
“Louis,” her sweet faint voice whispers. She sounds like she’s miles away, but I can see her right in front of me.
I let out a moan as she rises to her elbows, never taking her gaze off of mine. “Come back to me,” she exhales. “Please, Louie.”
Inhaling, my eyes pop open and I let out a long groan, leaning forward to catch my breath. My heart starts to race inside of my chest. It feels like it wants to break free from my body as it slams against my ribs.
“Fuck,” I growl. “Fuck.”
It’s better than the image of a man’s death that I caused, but it hurts to see her like that, more than the guilt that consumes me. I fell for Tulip Fischer instantly and I got burned, badly.
Standing, my body sways from my own imagination mixed with too much booze.
I need to rid myself of this, all of this.
Of everything.
Tulip is the past. Antoni Byers is gone and can’t be brought back, even by my own crippling guilt. I need to forgive myself. Forget her and find a way to fucking survive this life.
I need to go back home.
TULIP
Walking into the apartment, I cringe at the sight of the place. Joey is laying on the couch, one arm propped behind his head, the other shoved down his pants while he watches what appears to be an old episode of Sex in the City.
I hear him groan, then flick my eyes to the television before taking them back to him. His arm is moving and I know that he’s jacking himself off to Samantha fucking someone on the show. I gulp, unsure if I should continue into the apartment or turn around and let him have his moment.
“Come in and let me finish on your tits,” he calls out.
My body jerks from his words, but my feet don’t move. Joey doesn’t stop touching himself or even glance in my direction. I continue to flick my gaze between his swiftly moving arm and the television until I hear his distinct groan as he climaxes.
He lets out a puff of air, then lifts the remote control and turns the television off before he stands to his feet. I watch as he walks into the small kitchen and throws a paper towel away. He turns around to face me and tilts his head to the side with a chuckle.
“Fuckin’ prude, babe. When will you loosen up? We’ve been together since you were fourteen and you’re still shy as shit.”
I don’t tell him that I’m shy because he makes me feel like I’m not good enough. He criticizes everything about me, from my hair to my body, to my abilities in bed. Everything I do is wrong, is silly, and is stupid.
“What’re you making me for dinner? I’m fucking starved,” he announces, changing the subject.
My feet unstick from the floor and I walk into the kitchen just as he passes by me to resume his position back on the couch. I narrow my gaze at him, wondering why I let him back here. Not only in my house, but in my bed, and in my life?
I worked all day long, from six in the morning until six this evening, then I have to go to my second job in a couple of hours and work until two in the morning. Four hours of sleep a night, that’s what I get. I work to support him, to support us, and he does nothing.
My thoughts drift back to Louis, to the way that his arms felt around me. I didn’t deserve him then and I don’t deserve him now. I was selfish and let myself indulge in all that was him. But I knew that I couldn’t let it go on. It wouldn’t be right, because he deserves someone in his social class, someone better than me.