Page 22 of Love Me

I was relieved when I heard he’d died. I thought I could finally bury that old demon of mine. But now, standing face-to-face with his spitting image, brings that familiar anger back.

Garcia’s eyes balloon.

“Get the fuck out,” I order between clenched teeth.

“Father said you had a temper,” I hear him murmur as he tosses me a glare over his shoulder.

As I step in his direction, he picks up his pace toward the exit.

I slam my office door and run my hands through my hair. I had plans to visit Monique, but I can’t go to her like this. Not with how disturbed I am over seeing that bastard.

When I send her a quick text to let her know I’m going to be a little late to her viewing, she replies that the meeting just got pushed back anyway.

A sigh of relief releases from me.

I know exactly where I need to go to get rid of this extra energy burning through me right now.

CHAPTER4

Diego

I look around the dark, dank basement of the brick building I entered. Over the years, I’ve learned to control my anger. I’ve managed to filter the rage that’s gotten me into trouble more than once in my life.

One main way was in this room.

The smell of sweat, blood, and adrenaline meets me as soon as the heavy metal door opens.

“Diego,” the beefy guard greets with a sharp nod.

“Mike.” I give him the same courtesy.

As I step over the threshold, the door slams behind me. A chorus of grunts and cheers greets me. A crowd gathers around the thirty-foot octagonal cage on the other side of the sparsely lit room.

“Are you here to fight or to watch?” Mike asks behind me.

I look at him over my shoulder but don’t say anything.

He gives a slight nod. “Fight.”

This is one of the ways I’ve learned to manage my anger. After the last time my rage boiled over and caused massive amounts of upheaval in my life, my father introduced me to Uncle Josh’s underground fighting ring. One of our family’s worst kept secrets.

Or best. Depending on who you ask.

“It’s been a while since I seen you down here, kid,” Buddy, an old friend of my grandfather’s, greets me.

I don’t know how old Buddy is, but he’s been running this fighting group for years. He still looks like he can take on just about anyone who passes through those doors, though.

“Something must’ve really got your goat if you're down here in the middle of the week.” He’s always saying weird shit like that.

I nod but don’t go into details. We don’t talk about our feelings down here. Our fists are the language we use. Right now, my hands are itching to hit something or someone.

An image of Gabriel Garcia Jr. standing in my fucking office flashes across my mind.

“I need a fight,” I say.

Garcia Jr. looks so much like my biological father that I can’t help but see his face also. I hate that man. I’m glad he’s dead but somehow his ghost decides to haunt me from his grave.

“You know where the changing room is,” Buddy says.

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