His words were like a foreign language to me—one I didn’t want to understand. Murderer? Slayer Death Attack?
“It was a long time ago,” Slayde’s voice was flat. “I was out of control.”
I tried to approach my love. I was afraid, and I wanted him to hold me. I wanted him to be okay, but Derek snatched my arm, jerking me back. “What are you doing?”
It was so sudden and violent, Patrick stepped forward, touching his shoulder. “Easy, partner. What’s this about?”
“Are you with him?” Derek’s grey-blue eyes flashed from me to Slayde. “Don’t you fucking know who she is?”
Slayde looked at me, but he was crumbling. I could see it—as if he knew the answer before it was given. His voice was barely above a whisper. “Who... is she?”
Derek stepped in front of me, his tall form and broad shoulders creating an unwanted shield between the man I loved and me. His voice was pure judgment.
“She’s the widow of Blake Woods. The man you beat to death five years ago outside a bar in Princeton—”
Slayed doubled over. His fist went to his mouth, and those pale blue eyes met mine with such anguish. He stood up fast, pushing through the glass doors out of the gym. The noise of his abrupt departure echoed in my ears, but my heart had stopped.
My vision clouded over, and I couldn’t seem to move. Everything was falling apart, shattering with my insides into a million pieces. Confused, I tried to look up at Derek, but I was blinded by his words.
“Why did you say that?” I couldn’t breathe. I was drowning in the answers my brain was fighting to reject.
Patrick was with me, scooping me into his arms. “Hold on, Ken. I’ve got you.”
Mariska’s voice was far away. “I don’t understand. What just happened?”
Derek answered her slowly. “Five years ago I helped put Slayde Bennett and his accomplice Stitch Alana away for the second-degree murder of Blake Woods and Max Marconi.”
He paused for a moment before driving the meaning home. “Blake was Kenny’s husband.”
It was the last thing I heard before my world went black.
Chapter 27: “I am the architect of my own destruction.”
Slayde
Five years ago...
Stitch was on his fifth beer, and I’d finished my fourth shot of whiskey. It wasn’t working. Bitterness smoldered in my chest, ready to ignite. With every breath the burn grew stronger.
“They fuckin’ invited Compton.” My jaw was clenched. “He fights like he’s on fuckin’ Quaaludes.”
“Fuckers are scared,” my friend said. “They passed you over because they know you’ve got more talent than all those assholes. They’re afraid of losing their careers.”
He patted my shoulder leaning forward into my face. I pulled my arm back with a snarl. “Your breath stinks.”
The bartender stopped in front of me. I pointed down. Another shot of whiskey. My friend laughed, and I raised the short glass. A skinny punk slammed into my arm, knocking it out of my hand.
“What the fuck?” The rage was burning behind my eyes now. Two steps and this asshole would be eating my dirt.
“You talking to me, motherf
ucker?” The idiot actually got in my face.
“Ah, shit.” Stitch’s low voice hissed beside me. “Keep moving, lowlife.”
Too late. I was out of my seat. “I’m talking to you.”
We were nose to nose. He was my height, at least twenty pounds lighter, and he wore a white tank that showed off skinny arms covered in ink. I couldn’t wait to wipe the floor with this wannabe badass.