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I set my fork down with a slight clink against my plate. “Done with what? Fighting? Or the show?”
“Both.”
“No. And not quite.”
“What the fuck does that mean?”
I take a sip of water, then shake four Tylenol out of the bottle and pop them in my mouth. After swallowing, I look him in the eye. “It means, if I want to collect the rest of my winnings, I have to make an appearance at the reunion show.”
“What kind of bullshit is that? How are they getting all the other guys who didn’t win anything to come back?”
I shrug, then wince at the pain slicing down my back. “They’re fame whores? I don’t know or care about anyone else’s motives. I just want my money.” Should I tell him there’s some extra cash if I convince Molly to go with me? No, it’s her decision to make. I’ll discuss it with her.
“All right. As long as they’re not going to trap you in that house again. Or make you fight.”
I stare at him. “You know you’re not actually my dad, right?” Maybe that was too harsh. “Did you really miss me that much?”
“Yes, bonehead. Besides all the other stuff—that I’m not going to mention until you’re feeling better—you were missed.”
Not by everyone, I bet. “How’s Molly?”
“She’s fine.” He waves his hand in the air as if he’s dismissing the question. “She comes home on the weekend sometimes.”
“Don’t tell her I’m back yet.” I point at my face. “I don’t want her to see me like this.”
“You assume she wants to see you at all.”
Already tired of this conversation, I slam my fork down. “Remy, I didn’t sleep with that girl. You really didn’t tell Molly?—”
“Yeah, I told her,” he says, his voice thick with annoyance. “But you not coming home to set things straight,” he shrugs and shakes his head, “didn’t sit well with her.”
“I couldn’t!” I explode, then falter as pain flares in every part of my body.
“Stop.” Remy holds out his hands. “Finish eating. I think you should come stay at the house with me. At least until you can move without looking like you want to cry.”
“More like scream,” I mutter, shoving more chicken in my mouth. Do I want to stay at Remy’s to recover? Having him in my face constantly lecturing me about my recent bad choices isn’t all that appealing. But staying here by myself isn’t exactly a thrill, either. “You gonna feed me like this every night if I come stay at your place?” I tap my fork against my almost-empty plate.
“No, but if you behave, I’ll bring you leftovers from the bar.”
“How tempting.” Exhaustion tugs at my eyelids. “I’ll think about it. Right now, I don’t think I could make it back down those stairs.”
“Jesus,” he breathes out. “What are you going to do about your job?”
“I just need to heal for a few more days and I’ll be fine.”
Remy stares at me. “You look like you need at least six weeks of recovery.”
“Hey, guess what? You’re not my dad or my doctor.” There’s no way in hell I’m admitting to Remy that the doctor I saw advised I take it easy for eight weeks. Not even light training or cardio for at least a month, he’d said.
“How dumb do you think I am?” He scowls at me. “As you pointed out, this is what we do. Of course I know how much recovery time you need, dipshit.”
“We can argue about it another day.” I swipe a paper towel over my mouth and push my plate away. “Right now, I just want to go back to bed.”
He stares a hole through my face. “All right. I’ll be back before I open the bar to check on you.”
“Juliet said she’d stop by in the morning, so you’re off the hook.”
“I’ll still check in.”
