Fuck. Tyson moved toward him, careful to avoid with his bare feet the thin, sharp pieces of glass and the small pool of blood collecting on the hardwood floor. He set the bat against the desk and, bending down, he lifted his semi-conscious brother under the arms. Placing him reluctantly in the leather chair behind the desk, he crouched in front of him and snapped his fingers in front of his face. Connor’s head just rolled to the side. “Hey! Connor!”

His brother was limp, unmoving and bleeding all over his office chair. Unbelievable.

“Fuck me,” he mumbled before slapping his brother’s cheek. Hard.

Connor’s eyes flew open, a look of panic in their hollow depths and he immediately tried to stand up.

Tyson pushed against his chest. “Stay put,” he said, reaching behind him for his first-aid kit on the shelf. Better to start by cleaning him up to stop the blood from spreading further around his office. The thought alone made him ill and pissed him off. “Give me your hand.”

“No, it’s f . . . fi . . . fine.” Connor held the bleeding hand away.

“Give me your fucking hand or I’ll knock your ass out,” he demanded, yanking it away from his brother’s body.

His brother offered zero resistance, and he let his hand fall onto his lap of his dirty, torn jeans. He wasn’t wearing any socks inside his running shoes and the T-shirt he wore reeked of weed and alcohol.

Tyson opened the bottle of antiseptic and poured it quickly over the wound, grateful to see there was no glass stuck in it.

“Ow . . . Jesus!” Connor said.

Well, at least he was straight enough to feel something.

Next he wrapped it in gauze and secured it with tape. “There. Now can you tell me what the hell you’re doing here, trashing my gym?” He could take a guess about why he was suddenly getting a late-night break-in from Connor, but he folded his arms and waited for his older brother to speak.

Connor wiped the sweat from his forehead and swallowed several times. “Do you have any water, man?”

Dry mouth—a side effect of heroin use.

He leaned forward and grabbed a bottle of warm water from the case on the supply shelf, but held it away when Connor reached hungrily for it. “Talk first, then you can have it. What are you doing here?” he asked again.

“I needed a place to go, and I had nowhere else.” He reached for the water.

Tyson shook his head. “How did you get in?” A quick glance toward the front door, illuminated by the exit sign revealed it too was still locked. No broken glass or signs of forced entry.

“The code on the back door. You’ve used Mom’s birthday for every code you’ve ever had,” Connor mumbled.

Tyson’s jaw clenched at the sound of his brother just mentioning their mother. Unfortunately, what he said was true. Tyson did use the same code for all of his security passwords. The fact that his brother knew that was the most shocking part. “Are you high right now?”

“I’m always fucking high, man. Can I have the water now?”

Tyson tossed it at him.

Connor struggled to open the cap.

Seriously? Tyson watched him struggle, not wanting to offer the slightest bit of help or sympathy. His brother had done all of this to himself and he had no one to blame for his current state. His inability to open a simple bottle cap was pathetic, and Tyson was disgusted looking at the guy he’d once looked up to when they were kids. What felt like a million years ago.

He looked away, scanning the damage to his office. The safe was still closed, though he suspected it was Connor’s inability to control his trembling hands that had prevented him from opening it, not the mystery of the security code. But the trophy display case that housed their father’s championship trophies and his father’s three division-win championship belts was destroyed. Broken glass was everywhere; inside the case, several trophies were on their sides, and the wooden display holding his Kempo and Kung Fu belts had fallen off of the wall. On the floor was his computer monitor, the screen busted—obviously the tool used for breaking the display case.

Anger simmered in his chest as he grabbed the water from his brother, opened it, then shoved it back into his unwrapped hand. “I’m guessing you’re here for money,” he said coldly. The idea that his brother meant to steal their father’s accomplishments and sell them at one of the pawn shops on the strip made the veins pulse in his forehead.

He could break his brother in half so easily in this moment. The only thing keeping him still was the thought of his upcoming fight. His brother was lucky. He didn’t need assault charges . . . or any unwanted, negative attention drawn to himself or his gym right now.

Though he suspected his brother’s sudden appearance was going to do just that.

Connor shook his head, draining the bottle. “I told you, I just needed a place to crash.”

He’d certainly crashed all over this office.

“I’m not giving you any money.” That had never been the solution before and he’d learned that lesson the hard way.

“I don’t want money . . .” Connor paused as he surveyed the damage he’d done, almost as though seeing it for the first time. “Fuck, man. I’m sorry.” He ran a trembling hand over his scruffy face. “I do need money . . .” He blinked and looked as though he struggled to remain conscious. “But I . . .” His head drooped and his eyes shut again.

“Connor!” He shook his shoulder.

No response.

Fantastic. What the hell was he supposed to do with his unconscious, strung-out, addict of a brother?

Wake his sorry ass up and get him out of the gym.

He sighed, knowing that wasn’t something he could do.

Instead, he kicked at the glass, making a pathway toward Connor. Then with barely any effort, he lifted his brother, careful to avoid the still-bleeding hand that had stained the gauze a bright cherry red. Tiptoeing around the glass, he carried the comatose guy out of the gym and up the stairs to his apartment. He tossed him onto the sofa and he didn’t even wake up.

Tyson moved away from him and battled a myriad of emotions as he stared at his older brother passed out on his couch. “Great timing, Connor. Perfect. Fucking. Timing.”

*   *   *

“So, the audition is a week from today in LA,” Ian said through the speakerphone on her cell.

“Which studio?” Parker asked, slightly out of breath as she struggled to lift a ten-pound weight over her head in her home workout room. She’d been in there maybe three times since she bought the house. Equipped with every cardio machine invented, free weights, and a separate area for yoga, the space was a fitness-enthusiasts dream; but not a big fan of sweating, she had always relied on a strict diet to stay slim.

“No studio,” Ian said. “The address is 4 Caly Way in Glendale.”

She frowned, setting the weight down. Five bicep curls and already her arms were burning. Glendale? The audition wasn’t even in LA? Again, her stomach felt queasy. Why couldn’t this script have come from well-known writers and a big production company? “Is that a hotel?”

“Um . . . no . . . I think it’s some sort of community center thing . . .”

“What?” She opened a bottle of water and took a gulp, studying her reflection in the floor-to-ceiling mirror, for the first time unhappy with the image staring back at her. Tyson’s words about her not having the right body shape and muscle mass was her biggest worry. No gym in a ten-mile radius had agreed to train her—except Cage Masters, and she’d rather die than train there. The place had been dirty, the equipment had been old and worn, and the owner’s sleazy, unconcealed interest had her practically running back to her car. So, she’d decided to build strength on her own.

Who knew weight training was so hard?

“I told you, this is an indie film. These guys have very little budget and they aren’t wasting it on a fancy hotel ballroom suite to hold auditions,” Ian was saying.