“From the police?” she whispers.
“Uh huh… except, you see… her brother is the cops. So our job is extra important,” I laugh. “And extra hard. Because he’s a good cop, and he doesn’t suffer fools. Now we have to move this stupid thing around all the time, and make sure we don’t get caught.” I purse my lips. “It’s a very important task. Someday, baby, he’ll be yours.”
I laugh at the concept. Instead of passing down empires, homes, businesses, or rare jewels, we’re planning to hand down stolen contraband, and a mission to keep it hidden. This statue is like our holy grail, and the Kincaids are The Knights Templar.
We’re classy like that.
“Come on, beautiful. Let’s go beat people up.”
“Okay!” She spins with a giggle and races to the door with Twain on her heels.
Walking back to Brooke and Iowa’s house, I help Lyss scramble into the back seat of her dad’s station wagon – it literally hurts my racing soul to climb into this damn thing, but I help her buckle up, then I slide into the front and wave when Iowa comes to the front porch and wrings his hands like an old woman.
“Wave goodbye to your daddy, Lyss. He’s worrying.”
Instead of waving, she winds her window down and screeches, “It’s okay, Daddy! I’ll see you soon!”
“I’ll come to the gym in an hour,” he calls back. “I miss you already, baby.”
She lifts her hand, shows him the love sign. Then she giggles when he points at his heart, then to her.
I roll my eyes and amble toward the security gate as they open wide to let us through. “He’s so soft on you, Lyss. You have no clue how many men you control.” I meet her eyes in the mirror. “You’re the puppeteer.”
“I like puppets.” She sits back and leaves her window down. “Except not the creepy ones. They give me nightmares.”
I shake off the memory of Slappy, my childhood nightmares, and drive onto the road outside our estate. “I don’t like the creepy puppets, either. They’re scary. Hey, you wanna spar today?”
“Really?” Her eyes snap to mine in the mirror. “For real?”
“Uh huh. Uncle will teach you.”
“I don’t have any gloves.” She lifts her hands and studies them. “Miss Evie said I have to ask Daddy to buy me some.”
“I’ll get you a pair.”
It takes only ten minutes to drive from the estate to the gym my family owns across town. You’d think that with all that Kincaid world champion money, our gym would be some kind of multi-story, fancy pants place where the rich and the famous come to take their Insta pictures.
In reality, it’s a shed.
The outside is unremarkable, a single sign that shows our name “The Rollin On Gym,” and that’s about it. But once you step inside, that shed turns into something else. A world that can’t be guessed at from the outside. The equipment is world-class quality, competition standard. But still, the floors are concrete, except for where we’ve laid out rubber mats. There are fans installed high in most corners, but no air-conditioning.
In the winter, we freeze. And in the summer, we puke from heat exhaustion. But we do it together.
Our family, our champions; we create them, we train them, then we spew with them.
With Lyss’ hand in mine, and Twain close behind us, I lead her through the front entrance and stop at the cabinet that displays the stuff we sell: wraps, mouthguards, cups, tanks, pants.
And on a shelf of their own, gloves.
I select a pair of pink and white kid-sized gloves, pull them out, and tug off the price tag. I shove that in my pocket, then I turn to Lyss and grin. “For you, baby.”
She accepts them with shaking hands. With awed eyes. “Only for me?”
“You don’t have to share them. You can leave them here with Uncle’s, or you can take them home. You can do anything you want with them, but only if you promise to use them.”
Her wide eyes come up to me.
“If I check them in a month, and they still look brand new, I’m gonna be a little sad.” I lift a brow. “Make sure the knuckles are scuffed up. That’s when we know you’ve worked hard.”
“I could take them outside and drag them along the road. That would scuff the knuckles.”
Hell if she ain’t wrong.
I throw my head back and laugh, then I pull her into my side and continue walking into the gym. “If I catch you dragging your knuckles along the road like an ape, I’ll be a little sad too. Learn how to fight, baby. It’s tradition, after all.”
“Do you think I could be a champion?” Her voice turns quieter as we enter the main room and discover Ben and Mac sparring in the boxing ring.
When I say sparring, I mean they’re beating the shit out of each other; fists, blood, grunts when a hit lands right, and curses when a jab slides straight off.
Ben is marrying my cousin Evie in November. And Mac is dating my other cousin, Bean. Eventually he’ll find the balls to ask her, too, and when that happens, maybe she’ll ask me to escort her down the aisle.
Yes, I’m salty because Evie didn’t ask me to give her away.
Yeah, maybe she has a daddy that will do it. And maybe I’m one of a dozen male cousins she could have picked from. But shit, I’m the oldest! Instead, I get to be a regular wedding guest, and that doesn’t feel special enough for me.
My daddy was called the peacock for a reason… it would appear the apple didn’t fall far from the tree.
“Benny hits so hard,” Lyss whispers. She cowers back when he races forward and slams a flying jab to Mac’s jaw, then she crushes her eyes closed when, in reply, Mac spear tackles Ben to the canvas and whales on him.
Best friends outside the ring. Mortal enemies inside.
“Get out, Sasquatch!” Evie stands outside the ring and shouts at her fiancé. “Hips up, dummy! Hips. Up!”
“Hips down,” Bean shouts at Mac. Best friends outside the ring, I laugh. Mortal enemies when a fight is on the line. “His left side is slacking,” she coaches. “Slide around, take that arm. He’ll be your little bitch.”
“Aaaand that’s enough of that.” I hurry Lyss out of the room and into the hall that leads to other training spaces.
She knows us now, she knows this family, and hell, she knows “shit”, but trying to explain to her why Uncle Ben will be Uncle Mac’s bitch is way out of my paygrade for today.
We pass the room with the regulation-sized octagon – my dad is sparring in there – and then the weights room – my mom and aunt laugh and screw around in there. We circle back around, pass a room filled with ladies working on their yoga, and finally, we stop in a room that houses hanging bags, red mats on the floors, and a wall of pads for training. Mirrors line one wall, and a rack of skipping ropes hang nearby, taunting our clients when it’s common knowledge that skipping is a special kind of torture.
As soon as I decide on our room, I push my shoes off and kick them against the wall. Then when Lyss drops to her butt, I help her remove her flashing boots and toss them next to mine. I remove her socks, tickle the bottoms of her feet, and when she squeals and rolls away, I laugh and pull the bag from her back and toss it onto our pile.