Page 46 of Forgotten Comeback (Parisi Family #5)

Chapter

Forty-Five

Gavin

I’m the one who pushed for a relationship, but dammit, I didn’t know Taylor was going to crawl in my skin and poke around inside my head.

My phone rings, and I’m relieved it’s not her, because what would I say?

Sorry for making sex weird?

Sorry for bouncing?

Sorry for proving you right?

“Whatsup?” I answer.

“Get to Inferno’s office now,” John says, each word clipped.

“Alright,” I say, ending the call. It sounds like I’m in trouble, which is actually a good thing. It’ll take my mind off what just went down.

Shifting into high gear, I let loose on the accelerator, wanting to outrun my thoughts.

I knew Taylor was trouble right from the jump. Should’ve fucked another Brit-type woman. Or Bree-type woman. Or whatever hell that woman’s name was, and forgotten about a fiery redhead who keeps getting my head.

Arriving at Inferno’s, I’m in a shitty mood for a man who just had the most out-of-this-world amazing sex, and yes, those are my words too.

“What’s wrong?” Inferno asks when I plop down in the chair.

“Nothing,” I mutter.

“Something is wrong,” John says, pacing. He grabs his phone from his pocket and hands it to me.

“What’s this?”

“Video surveillance of you throwing a fucking Molotov cocktail inside Fabio Mazza’s restaurant.” John seethes.

“Then maybe Fabio Mazza shouldn’t have threatened my…” Girl, who’s probably not my girl anymore. Damn, that was a short run.

“Ring girl ‘friend?’” Inferno fills in for me.

“If you already know the answer, then why are you asking?” I snipe.

“Is your girlfriend going to be a problem?” John asks.

“Is your boyfriend going to be a problem?” I counter, shoving his phone back at him.

“Yes,” Inferno interjects.

This time, it’s John who flies over the desk, taking Inferno to the ground.

“I’m out,” I say, getting tired of the bullshit around here.

I’ve got enough bullshit of my own.

Stepping outside, I begin to my car, when a loud boom lifts me from my feet. I’m slammed against the brick wall.

Smoke billows from the burnt-out shell of my car.

Inferno and John appear, with Inferno wailing. “Get inside,” John tells his twin calmly, holding him by the shoulders.

“I’m going to burn the Parisis to the fucking ground!” Inferno bellows.

“Let’s go,” I agree, pulling myself up and giving my head a little shake.

“Nobody’s going anywhere,” John says firmly, shoving a fire extinguisher into my hands.

I spray down what was once my pristine car, my hands shaking with rage.

First my girl and now my car?

Fuck John’s peace agreement. I’ll get my own revenge.

“Whatever you’re thinking, the answer’s no,” John tells me.

“We had the upper hand. We could’ve gotten you out with the trade of Fabio’s wife, but you said you had it under control. This doesn’t look like control to me!” I rage, flinging the empty extinguisher against the wall.

“Gavin’s right. It’s us or them. Whose side are you on?” Inferno demands.

“Our side. Always. Let me handle this, yeah?” John tells me.

“You have twenty-four hours,” I warn him.

Then I handle things my way.

Taylor

Having arrived at the arena early, I grab my phone and pull up my messages from Kat. Now that I’ve had time to simmer down, I scroll through them.

What?????? Dominic tried to do what? Oh my God, I’m so sorry. IDK what went down at the reception, but I’m not going to talk about my husband over text message. Please call me.

The Parisi family, taking care of their own.

I continue scrolling, her last message sent earlier today.

So yeah, you never called. I hate that things have gotten sideways between us. When you’re ready to talk, please let me know. Let’s meet up somewhere.

I refuse to be threatened again by your husband, so hard pass on the meetup.

Bubbles appear, and I wait for her reply.

And I apologize for that. But Taylor, I saw the pic of you and Gavin. I’m really trying to understand, but I’m having a hard time with this. And from my husband’s perspective, it does look suspicious.

Your husband’s perspective is the only one that matters, then. Case closed. I’ve moved out of your condo, btw. I’ll mail you the key.

Where did you move to?

So that your husband and his goons can kill me? I’d rather not give them the head start.

Apparently, I’m not as simmered down as I thought.

More bubbles, but I beat her to the punch.

I have to work. Let’s talk about this another time.

Tossing my phone, I grab my stack of round signs and go in search of Steve. “There you are. I wanted to run these new signs by you.”

“No need. The janitor was able to get the Round 1 sign from under the ring,” Steve tells me. “It’s a little scuffed up, but we’ll make it work.”

“Actually, I’m using these signs I painted instead.” I display them one by one.

“Too artsy-fartsy,” he tells me with a wave of his hand.

“It won’t kill the spectators to be exposed to a little art,” I inform him.

“Taylor, they’re not paying for art, they’re paying to watch grown men beat each other’s asses.”

“Grown men are still going to beat each other’s asses; my ‘artsy-fartsy’ signs won’t interfere with that,” I argue.

Steve shakes his head. “The round number needs to be clear so that even the most inebriated of men can see it.”

I cross my arms. “If a man’s that inebriated, does the round number really matter?”

He sighs heavily.

“Go hold a sign in the ring, and I’ll move to the back and see if the number’s visible. You won’t even have to wear a thong,” I tell him.

He mutters something, climbing through the ropes, and I hustle up the stairs to the nose-bleed seats.

I give him a thumbs up and make my way down the steps. Snatching the permanent marker from his pocket, I tell him, “It’s visible, but I’ll outline each number to make it pop.”

“Thank God it’ll pop,” he says sarcastically.

“Did we just become besties?” I joke.

Because sadly, I might be in the market for a new one.

“No,” Steve says deadpan. “Be ready for weigh-in in twenty minutes. Please don’t tell me this is what you’re wearing.” He eyes my overalls spattered with paint.

“I’m going to change,” I assure him

“Doubtful,” he mutters.

“Ha, that’s probably true. I’m going to change outfits,” I clarify.

“Nineteen minutes.”

“You know what, Steve, you’re a pain in the ass,” I tell him, gathering my signs and hurrying to my dressing room.

“Eighteen minutes,” he calls after me.

Stepping inside, I stroll around the room, pretending I’m not searching every nook and cranny for a certain boxer.

But of course Gavin’s not here; he ghosted me, I remind myself.

Refusing to cry by sheer willpower, I get to work outlining the numbers on my “artsy-fartsy” signs. With a glance at the clock, oh shit, I realize I only have a few minutes left. Changing out of my overalls, I slip on my new red dress and slap on a coat of matching lipstick.

My wardrobe decision having nothing to do with making Gavin regret his decision.

Locking up, I make my way to the stage. Steve spots me in the crowd, and he hustles over. “Now this look I approve.”

“Thank God,” I say, releasing an exaggerated sigh.

“You’re still the bigger pain in the ass,” he informs me, leading me to the stage.

With a grin, I take my position. All the while I’m mentally armoring up for when a certain boxer’s name is called.

Except Gavin’s name is never called. The Spider isn’t on the fight card tonight, and I should be relieved.

Yeah, I should be.

At least there’s a silver lining: Mike’s name isn’t called, either.

The weigh-in festivities come to an end, and I’m escorted off stage to a slew of catcalls and whistles.

“The crowd loves the red,” Steve tells me excitedly. “I’ll agree to the artsy-fartsy stuff if you agree to make red your signature look.”

I shrug. “Deal.”

Returning to my empty dressing room, I change into my new red bikini and examine myself in the mirror. As long as the bottoms don’t ride up, you won’t be able to see the ghost of a hand print on my ass cheek.

Fuck Gavin and his ass smacks.

With signs tucked under my arm and water bottle in hand, I march my way ringside.

“Damn, girl. What those tits do?”

“Slap you in the face. Smother you. That sort of thing.”

He can’t hear me, and figuring this guy will eventually run out of questions about my body parts, I wave and keep walking.

“Taylor?” A familiar voice has my spine steeling.

Seated ringside is Mia, and next to her is the handsy bartender coworker. Eyes wide, Mia says, “You’re the ring girl?”

“Yep,” I say, popping the p. Turning to her coworker, I say, “You must be Mia’s boyfriend.”

His eyes linger over my chest before meeting mine. “Mia and I are just friends.”

“Taylor, I need to talk to you,” Mia interjects.

“Sorry, I’m working,” I say dismissively. “Enjoy the fight.” I continue to my seat.

Trying to settle myself, I go through my pre-fight routine. Water bottle, check. Round signs in order, check. No Spider getting my ovaries worked up, check.