Worth Forgiving

  Worth Forgiving

  by

  Vi Keeland

  Copyright © 2014 by Vi Keeland

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  This book is a work of fiction. All names, characters, locations and incidents are products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, locales or events is entirely coincidental.

  WORTH FORGIVING

  Edited by: Caitlin Alexander, Warneke Reading

  Cover model: Jamie Dominic, Official Jamie Dominic

  Photographer: Jamie Dominic Photography

  Cover art: © RomCon® - www.romcon.com

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  Vi's Bookshelf

  About The Author

  Contact Vi

  For The Reader

  “When people show you who they are, believe them.”

  —Maya Angelou

  This book is dedicated to the man that inspires the words, yet never reads them.

  Chapter 1

  Jax

  Back in my hotel suite, I let the pulsating stream of hot water in the shower pound my aching muscles. Taking two weeks off from training might as well have been a year for all the screaming my muscles are doing as I finally get my ass back to a gym. Although my body may be pissed at me for more than just taking a few weeks off.

  The last couple of months I’ve abused it. Trying to avoid the circus that my family’s life became over the last six months, I’ve spent half my recent days ducking from reporters and the other half drinking myself into oblivion. It was the reporters that finally got to me. The assholes are relentless, pretending to be joggers while I ran my usual path around Arlington Cemetery, only to jump in front of me and snap pictures. The more pissed off they made me, the more money they’d likely get for their shots.

  I’ve switched hotels twice in the last two weeks, yet the reporters always find me within a day. I’m the cheese to these damn rats and they seem to sniff out where I am before I can even unpack. People in D.C. know who I am, know who my father is. All it takes is a hundred dollar tip to the bellman and the rats are at the door of my suite pretending to be housekeeping. If I can get to the airport without being followed tomorrow, I might finally get some peace in New York. Nobody will care who I am there. The news moves faster, the pictures from the latest story that ran in the New York Times and Wall Street Journal two weeks ago are hopefully long forgotten.

  Drying off after my shower, I make the mistake of turning on the flat screen in my bathroom suite, hoping to catch the day’s market report. I wipe the steam from the foggy mirror and, just as it clears, a picture of dear ole Dad reflects back from the TV behind me. Unable to stand the sight of his groveling, pathetic face anymore, I flip it off quickly, saving myself the pain of hearing some speech a twenty–two-year-old Harvard grad likely prepared. A speech prepared using results from a poll on what could be done to save his ailing career, I’m sure.

  Turns out my father, a once upstanding pillar of the community, public servant extraordinaire, Senator Preston Knight, is the opposite of everything he preaches. The man that I grew up admiring, looking up to for his honesty and hard work, is a complete fraud. A fake. A liar. The opposite of everything he supposedly stood for.

  Too in awe of the persona that was my father to see things right in front of my eyes, I justified everything I’d seen over the last decade – him not coming home, interns a little too friendly, even the smell of perfume on his suit as he’d quietly slip in through the back door in the morning, still wearing last night’s clothes. I told myself everyone wanted a piece of him, to bask in his light, be near the righteous churchgoing Senator. In reality, it was him that wanted a piece of everyone. Every woman, that is.

  Christian values my ass. Six months ago I found out I had a brother. One that is only a matter of weeks younger than me. The love child of a rising Senator and a drug addict stripper. And the best part? My half-brother, the other spawn of Satan himself, is a fighter that just took the middleweight championship. Something I dreamed about when I was a kid, only to be told repeatedly it wasn’t a respectable career by my father. Irony’s a bitch sometimes.

  I only wish that’s where the story ended. It seems that once the news of my father’s infidelity broke, there was an endless stream of women who couldn’t wait to share their story. Torrid stories of them and my father. The sick shit he was into, things a kid should never know about their parent, regardless of their age. And the adultery wasn’t even the worst part. Once he was done with the affairs, he discarded the jaded women like trash, yielding his power and clout to threaten them into submission. A liar, cheat, and an abuser.

  Lucky me. I look just like him.

  Wrapping a towel around my waist, I walk to my ringing cell and answer it, even though I’d rather not.

  “Mother,” I answer sternly.

  “Jackson, where are you?” She’s done nothing wrong, yet I can’t help but feel resentment toward her. Why is she still standing by his side?

  “I’m leaving town for a while. I’m fine.” Intentionally, I fail to mention exactly where I’m going. Who knows if she’d tell him, even if I told her not to.

  “Your father and I have been worried sick about you.” Whatever tension the heated shower helped to uncoil quickly ravels its way back through my muscles at the mere mention of Daddy Dearest.

  “Maybe he should have thought about us before he decided to screw half the women from D.C. to California.”

  “That’s not fair, Jackson.” Really? I thought I was being nicer than even he deserves. I toned down my true feelings out of respect for her.

  “I need to go.”

  “When are you coming back?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Mom’s quiet for a minute. For a split second I wonder if, maybe, she finally realizes it’s not just all about Dad. It’s about us, too. The woman has spent her whole life worrying about his career. His reputation. His success. Sometimes I think she’s lost who she is.

  “Your father needs us, Jackson. He needs our support now more than ever,” she pauses before going in for the kill. “And the media needs to see us forgive him, if he has any chance of the world forgiving him, too.”

  “Goodbye, Mother.” I don’t give her a chance to say anything else before I press end, tossing the phone back on the nightstand.

  Feeling more pity than anger after hanging up, I pack my suitcases and don’t bother
putting clothes on, or pulling the covers back, before crashing on the big soft bed. Tomorrow I move forward. On my terms. With my own plans. No looking back at the life I once thought I wanted. Because I never really wanted it, he just talked me into believing I did. And you know what? Fuck him.

  ***

  After the best night’s sleep I’ve had in weeks and a flight that actually lands early, I’m eager to get to the new gym. On the way, I make a few calls, checking in with my CFO and assistant. Lucky for me, I have Brady Carlson. He’s not just my CFO, he’s also my oldest friend. The last few weeks he’s been juggling more than just my once thriving investment firm. Reporters stake out our building, nervous clients call hourly needing reassurance that my family’s bad publicity won’t affect them. It seems my father’s stink has made its way into my business to stay for good. I can hear the stress in his voice. He probably hasn’t slept in a week. I’m definitely going to owe him a six-figure bonus again this year.

  He gives me an update on who’s pulled their business from us this week. Brady’s more concerned than I am. Frankly, I wouldn’t give a shit if the whole damn company folded, if I didn’t have people that depended on me for their livelihood. I do my best to assure him everything will settle, but it’s difficult since I’m not sure I even believe my own words.

  New York makes it easy to blend in. So many people, a frantic flow of pedestrians maneuver to their destination, most even avoiding eye contact. Perfect after the chaos I’ve been putting up with in D.C. Walking everywhere is so much more appealing than the usual darkly tinted glass town car I’ve grown accustomed to being shuttled in from place to place.

  Opening the door to the gym, I’m greeted by a muscle head standing behind the desk. He looks up anxiously as I enter, catches sight of me, and practically snarls. Clearly I’m not who he was expecting.

  Walking to the desk, I expect him to look back up, but he pretends I’m not standing right in front of him, even though I’m less than two feet from his face. So much for the customer service in this damn place.

  “Think you can direct me to a trainer named Marco? I’m supposed to meet him here.”

  Muscle head points to the back, but never looks up again. Welcome to New York.

  ***

  Marco is the cousin of my trainer in D.C. Although I’ve never met him before, I would’ve recognized him anywhere. He’s the spitting image of his cousin Mario, only some silver has started to gleam through his thick, shoe polish black mane. It’s slicked back in that Soprano-ish way that few young guys can pull off without looking like they’re wearing a costume. This guy wouldn’t look right with anything else. We train for close to three hours, yet a hair isn’t out of place when we’re done.

  “How long you in town for? Mario said maybe I could look into some local fights for you.” Marco stops me as I walk out of the locker room, my hair still damp from the long shower.

  I laugh to myself, but Marco doesn’t get the joke. His cousin Mario’s been trying to get me in the ring for some real fights for years. Not a day has gone by in eight years where we didn’t end a session with him asking, “Want me to book you a fight? You’re ready, you know.”

  I’ve been fighting since I was a kid. The trainers tell me I’m good enough to make a go of it in the ring, but I’ve never really given it any serious consideration. I was always expected to do something more appropriate for a living. “After all, you are a Knight,” My father would always say.

  “I’m not sure how long I’m staying yet.” I pause, allowing myself for the first time since I was a kid with dreams of my own to seriously think about getting in the ring for a real fight. Getting in the ring for a pro fight wasn’t part of my plan, but that’s the beauty of having your own plan and not living up to anyone else’s expectations. My plans can change…because they’re mine. “You know what, I’ll think about it, Marco.” And for the first time, I really might.

  Marco nods. “Stop at the front desk. Get on my schedule for the rest of the week, either way.”

  Slinging the strap to my gym bag diagonally over my chest, I wave goodbye to one of the guys I sparred with and head toward the door with a chin lift back to Marco. I expect to find Mr. Friendly from this morning at the reception desk, but instead, the scenery is much better. A beautiful woman sits behind the long counter. She’s completely engrossed in what she’s doing. Unlike the asshole from this morning who intentionally ignored me, she has no idea I’m even standing in front of her. I can’t help but smile as I watch her thick gray pencil move feverishly over the sketch paper, her petite hands half covered in charcoal. A slight smile on her face tells me she’s in another place…a good one. One that must be her escape. I can’t take my eyes off her as she studies the drawing, her smile growing even bigger when she lifts her head to take in the full sight of her page. She likes what she sees on the paper, almost as much as I like what I see in front of me.

  Long blond wavy hair, half of it tied on top of her head haphazardly in some sort of a twist, the other half hangs loosely framing her porcelain skinned face. Big, bright, blue-green eyes, I get the urge to move closer so I can study them close up to debate the actual color. Her smooth skin is devoid of the makeup that woman as beautiful as her seem to think makes them look better, only it usually doesn’t. Thick black eyelashes frame her almond shaped eyes. Full pink lips, half the bottom one sucked in, gripped between her teeth as she concentrates, studying her drawing. Beautiful. It almost seems a shame to interrupt her.

  “Hi.” Eventually beginning to feel guilty for my staring, I finally speak. Her head comes up, eyes traveling slowly up to my face before finally reaching mine. For a few seconds, she still doesn’t see me, even though she’s looking right at me. Until she comes back from wherever her head has been and our eyes lock, her full lips part, and the jolt from finding me standing there knocks her right off her chair.

  Chapter 2

  Lily

  I knew what being late to work meant. Caden was going to go apeshit, only it had nothing to do with him having to cover for me at the front desk for less than an hour. In his twisted mind, the only reason I could possibly be fifty minutes late to work on a Friday morning was that I was sleeping with someone. It didn’t matter who. The waiter from dinner, the guy that politely and innocently opened the door for me at the coffee shop, or perhaps even the teller at the bank where I took too long to make a deposit the other day.

  I don’t remember the exact moment the jealousy and possessiveness started. Maybe it was always there, only I was too desperate to see it. But by the time I opened my eyes, accusations were part of our daily routine. I guess it doesn’t help that I own a gym. A place filled with hulking men ramped up with too much testosterone. The place Caden also happens to spend most days training for his upcoming fight at the MMA Open.

  Ralley’s Gyms were started by my Dad and his partner, Caden’s Uncle, Joe Ralley. The two men were best friends since they were kids. Both dedicated to the sport of fighting, my Dad made his name as a fighter and Joe as a professional trainer. Fifteen years ago my Dad, known to everyone in the fighting world only as “The Saint”, retired as Middleweight Champion of the US Boxing Conference. Capitalizing on his fame, and Joe’s talent as a trainer, the two best friends decided to open a gym dedicated to Mixed Martial Arts Training. At the time, the sport was just gaining national popularity and there were few gyms devoted to training fighters who wanted to go into MMA professionally. The dynamic duo’s gym took off as the sport grew rapidly. One gym turned into two, then four, then eighteen after only three years. Today, the Ralley name has the east coast fighter market locked up, operating sixty-two locations.

  Reluctantly, I peer through the glass front door of the gym. I feel a sigh of relief that he’s not there. Sitting. Stewing. Waiting for me to walk in for a full onslaught inquisition. But the damn bells tied to the top of the door rattle loudly, even though I try my best to open the door quietly. Shit, I need to get rid of those things.

  “W
here you been?” Caden’s on me before my jacket is even fully off.

  “I overslept. Sorry you had to cover for me.” Giving him a hesitant, forced smile, I shrug, trying to sound casual and grab the mail on the counter at the front reception desk.

  “Then why didn’t your phone wake you? I called. You must have been too busy to pick up.” There’s no mistaking the anger in his voice and the bite of sarcasm at my being busy.

  Digging my phone from my purse, I look at the screen finding eleven missed calls. All from Caden. A quick survey of the times tells me he was growing impatient. Fast. The first few calls were five minutes apart…the last few, less than a minute elapsed before he was hitting redial. “Sorry. I must’ve forgotten to turn the ringer back on last night. I went to class and then fell asleep.”

  “You’re sorry for a lot this morning, aren’t you?”

  I lower my voice, I really don’t want a scene. Not again. “Please don’t do this now, Caden. I went to class and then home. I didn’t hear my phone alarm go off for the same reason I didn’t hear your calls. My ringer was off. Don’t turn it into something more than it is.” I pause, deliberating my words for a few seconds. “And you need to stop acting like we’re still together, Caden.” I don’t want to be hurtful, but he needs more than a subtle reminder he has no right to question what I’m doing anymore. I know he’s nervous about his big fight coming up, so I’ve been treading lightly. Obviously lightly isn’t the right tactic.

  Pete, Caden’s regular sparring partner, whistles from a distance. Caden looks torn between interrogating me more and getting back to his training. Lucky for me, a loud, impatient shout from Pete helps him make the decision, which earns me a reprieve. A temporary one, anyway.

  Pointing an angry finger at me before leaving the front desk area, Caden warns, “This conversation isn’t over.” But it’s definitely over for me.

  ***

  Even with my lateness, I’m able to get all my work done by the early afternoon. Caden may not be the right man for me, but over the last nine months, he’s done so much to make managing things easier. After my father’s heart attack, I was barely able to function, let alone keep up with the business of running sixty-two independently operated gyms. Caden’s uncle is a great guy, but managing the business end of things was Dad’s responsibility. Joe’s idea of keeping the books straight meant throwing receipts in a shoe box. Literally, a shoe box.