Page 45 of Ruthless Lord

I stand over him, breathing hard. Every part of me hurts. Fuck, I’ve got too many injuries and nothing ever seems to heal right these days.

“Good fight,” I say, offering the young buck a hand up.

He knocks me away and pushes himself to his feet. “Got fucking lucky,” he snarls, glaring at me.

I shrug a little. “Guess so.”

He storms off, throwing his gloves onto the floor as he disappears into the gym’s back room. I watch him leave with a sigh, rolling my aching neck and slowly unwinding the tape from my hands.

“Why’d you let him get away with that comment?” My trainer’s an old-timer called Jimmy the Toes. I asked him one time what the wholetoesthing is about, and he just shook his head and said,a guy can’t have a fetish without everyone asking questions? We never talked about it again.

“Shit-talking’s a young man’s game. He’s mad. Let him be mad. He’ll sit back there and run the fight over and over in his head, and he’ll either figure out what he did wrong or he’ll never improve. Either way, not my problem.”

“You’re getting wise in your old age.” Jimmy grins at me, chewing on the butt of an unlit cigar. The man’s a walking stereotype, I swear to fuck. “You hitting the warehouse anytime soon? I got the winnings from your last few fights burning a hole in my pocket.”

“I want to pretend like I’m staying away for a while, but you know me.” I groan as I crack my neck. It feels good but it also hurts. Story of my life.

“Hey, by the way, how’s the wife doing?”

“Don’t know.” I climb out of the ring and shuffle over to my things.

“Whaddya mean, you don’t know?” Jimmy frowns down at me, leaning against the rope. “You married her, didn’t ya?”

“That’s what they tell me.”

Jimmy shakes his head, grinning. “You’re an odd one. Always have been. By the way, your left jab’s getting slow.”

“It’s all getting slow.”

“Yeah, well, I can’t help with that other shit.” He mimes a few punches. “Gotta work on the distance, remember? Measure up and stay out of range.”

I give him a nod before heading out of there.

On the drive back to my place, I keep thinking about my wife. The wedding was three days ago, but I haven’t heard much from her since then. I’m not the kind of man who begs a woman to move in with him, and if she wants to take her sweet time, I’m not going to make a stink about it.

But she’smine. Sooner or later, she has to come to me.

I don’t even know why I care. Maybe it’d be better this way. She stays at her house and I stay at mine. We keep on like this, pretending to be married when really we’re still strangers with some paperwork between us.

The thought’s repulsive to me, though. It’s one thing to be in an arrangement and another to be in a fucking farce.

I do what I say. That’s how I’ve always defined myself. So when I said those words up on the altar, I meant them.

‘Til death do us part.

Probably my death, if I’m realistic.

But still, so long as I’m breathing, that girl’s my wife.

I park my truck outside my house and head inside. I’m thinking about what Jimmy said, and he was right. My left jab really is getting slower. I’ll have to work on it, especially if I’m going to keep fighting those young bucks. And Lord knows I can’t help myself.

As I shuffle into the entry hall with my gym bag slung over my shoulder, I nearly fall straight on my fucking face over a pile of cardboard boxes I swear to all that’s holy I don’t remember putting there.

“The fuck?” I say softly, frowning at the words on the top.Kitchen Utensils, Plates, Bowls, Etc. I don’t recognize the handwriting.

But there are more boxes.China and decorations.Vinyl records.Toiletries, hair products, makeup. More of them down the hall, like they sprouted up in the couple hours I was gone.

“Hello?” I call out and get no reply. Nobody in the kitchen or the living room. Nobody downstairs at all. “Who’s bringing all this shit into my house?” I yell up the stairs.