The checks. The goddamn checks.
Everything that had happened to the young man in that room as well as the boy whose father I’d put in the ground was on me. All of it.
For the first time in a long time, I was completely unaware of my surroundings and of time itself. It wasn't until my brother’s heavy hand on my shoulder and his brusque voice calling my name that I was forced to return to reality.
“Hey,” King said as his eyes connected with mine. I realized I was sitting on the floor just outside of Micah's room, my ass on the cold linoleum and my back pressed against the wall. If anyone had noticed my odd seating choice, either they hadn't said anything, or I hadn't heard them. In any case, King's eyes were filled with worry, something I rarely saw in the usually unreadable orbs.
“I'm fine,” I said with a shake of my head. But nothing was further from the truth. I wanted to turn tail and run. I wanted to give Micah exactly what he wanted.
Me gone.
I felt paralyzed. Helpless to move even a muscle. Trapped in my own body like Brady had been for so many years. But for me, the momentary rush of fear was just that… momentary. Brady hadn’t had that luxury. There had been no escape for him.
For Micah either.
“They pimped him out,” I choked out as I stared at the ugly floor. “They fucking pimped him out. It’s my fault.”
“How is that your fau—?” King began, but I cut him off.
“Tell me what to do, King,” I whispered helplessly.
Normally, I was the fixer, the peacemaker. I was always trying to find the solution that didn't require the use of my or anyone else’s fists. But now I had no clue what to do. Micah wanted me as far gone as I could get and with good reason. A big part of me wanted that too. I wanted to run back to Las Vegas and lose myself in the throngs of adoring people who thought I was something I wasn't. I wanted my biggest worry to be which suit to wear to some social event or premiere. I wanted to lose myself in the fake charm that I was so good at turning on when a microphone was thrust into my face.
But none of that worked here. Not in this place. I'd never been able to hide in this place—this part of the world that knew deep down who I really was and had been witness to the fact that I’d come from nothing.
That I’d been nothing.
I’d purposefully put this part of my life in my rearview mirror when it had come time to fully embrace the life of Zeus, the mysterious fighter who’d come out of nowhere and taken the MMA world by storm. Those who’d been following my career from early on, who might've remembered Brady Fox, had done the same thing I had… they’d pretended they didn't remember because remembering Brady lying motionless on his back with his little brother sobbing over his motionless body would have meant they’d have to face their own consciences.
My brother’s big palm spread over my cheek and he used his thumb to tilt my chin up so I was forced to look him in the eye.
“You go in there and you fight. You fight like you've been fighting your entire life. Only you do it for that boy in there and those kids. You do what you did for Lex and all those other kids you took home to their families.”
My brother's eyes were sharp with anger and his voice held that same no-nonsense tone that only came out when he was done playing around. There was no pity. There was no permission to let me wallow in my self-doubts and regrets.
King held my face until I nodded and then he released me and grabbed my arm. He pulled me to my feet which immediately gave me a view into Micah’s room. Little Rory was hanging half-on, half-off the bed as she appeared to talk a mile a minute to her uncle while Christopher stood nervously off to the side, his small, frail body dwarfed by all the equipment that was hooked up to his uncle. Micah had managed to move his injured arm to the little girl’s back and although he did pay attention to her seemingly excited jabbering, his eyes kept darting toward Christopher.
I could see the worry in them. The fear, the regret. It was like acid eating at my flesh. I couldn't stop imagining Christopher’s frail body pressed against that same wall that Micah had been shoved up against by Ricky. Thankfully, the boy had been saved in time, but how many times had Micah cried out for help and no one had come? How many times had he been held against that wall or bent over a bed or pinned to the floor as his body was violated over and over, all because he was the only thing of value that Ricky and Clara had had to get their fix?