Nick was already waiting outside in some sweatpants and T-shirt ensemble that almost had Hudson rethinking the shopping idea.

Almost.

His clothes looked to have been salvaged from the hamper and his hair was a frickin’ mess. As if someone had turned him upside down and mopped the floor.

Nick jerked the door open and plopped into the seat. “Oh yeah, the ass heaters are on,” he said as he slammed the thing shut.

“Hey, easy on the door.”

“Sorry, did I bruise your precious Assssston Martin?” Nick took a one-two at him. “You’re all designer, mixy-matchy.”

“I don’t look like I rolled out of bed.” Hudson’s jaw tightened as he put the car in gear and hit the gas. The pistons churned and the engine roared to the perfect pitch of a finely tuned automobile. “Get your seat belt on.”

Nick pulled the strap across his chest and the belt slid home with a soft click.

“So what’s the plan? Saks? Neiman’s?”

“No. Better.”

“Better?”

Hudson glanced at his brother and his mouth twitched into a slight grin. “Absolutely.” The cityscape streaked by as he maneuvered the car through traffic with laserlike precision. Beneath them the tires crunched over salt-crusted roads, and outside tree branches twisted and curled like arthritic hands, begging for the renewal of spring. They reminded Hudson of the skeleton of a man he was without his heart; without Allie, he was a shell.

But what better way to burn off steam from sins of the past and frustrations of the present than . . .

“Holy shit,” Nick said as the DB9 came to a stop in front of Chicago Fight Club. The sign on the North Elston gym read BRING YOUR OWN WEAPON with double fists as bullet points. “I know you’ve wanted to kick the shit out of me for a while now, but are you serious?”

“Does Pinocchio have a wooden dick?” Hudson cut the engine and yanked on the door handle. “Get your ass out of the car.”

“Fuuuuuck,” Nick cursed under his breath. “Never mind kicking the shit out of me; you’re going to whoop me across the whole damn state.” He got out of the car and slammed the door shut. Again.

Hudson glared over his shoulder as he strode toward the gym. “That’s not working in your favor.”

Nick dragged his feet, then jogged a couple steps to catch up. “Wouldn’t you rather swaddle me in cashmere, then feast on Al’s Beef—greasy, hand-dipped, succulent meat n’ cheese? We’ll be like ladies who lunch.”

“No.” Hudson held the door open. “Come on, go inside like a big boy.”

“Ass.”

“Inside, princess.”

“You’re being a real jerk,” Nick said, shuffling into the fight club.

“Take it out on me in the ring.”

The second they walked in, Hudson heard the rhythmic sound of jump ropes slapping against concrete; the goading, shit-talking trainers shouting out drills; and the even-tempered thump-a-thump of gloved fists working well-worn, bloodred punching bags that dropped from the sky. Chicago Fight Club was hard core, and belts hung on the wall to prove it. This was the joint he sought out to silence the torment between his ears. Because when you were stuck indoors after mother nature decided to send the city into a deep freeze, beating the hell out of something seemed like a better energy burn than hamster wheeling it on a treadmill.

They moved deeper into the place, toward a roped-off ring in the back. Hudson gave tight nods to various trainers, and regulars like himself kicked a chin at him or grinned with mouth guards puffing out their cheeks and brightening their pearly whites.

When he’d started there six months ago, Hudson wasn’t into the formal training. He was a street fighter with defensive skills developed to survive one shitty neighborhood after another. But he quickly found sparring with an opponent channeled the simmering angst that always hummed in the background of his mind, endlessly shifting up and down like an equalizer. And working with a trainer honed his technique. His brother, however, was just as good, if not better, with the natural instinct. Despite the bitching and moaning, taking Nick into the ring had the potential to be one of his most challenging rounds yet.

“My brother the billionaire takes me to the nicest places. Couldn’t we have gone to Equinox or some fancy gym where they offer massages and women wear spandex?”

“What’s wrong with this place? You want to work up a sweat, you come here.” Hudson unzipped his jacket, then with a shrug of his shoulders tossed it off and to the side.

“What’s wrong? This is like some first-rule-of-Fight-Club place. And no, I don’t want to ‘work up a sweat.’ I want to chow down with my big bro picking up the tab while I leave the tip.” Nick looked up at the exposed support beams and the pipes that snaked around them, rattling and clanking from someone turning on the showers. The concrete was worn, the paint clean but peeling, and the walls bare. “At least they have hot water so I don’t have to ride home with your stench.”

“I shower at home.” Hudson fisted a hand behind his neck, pulling his T-shirt over his head and throwing it on top of his jacket.

“Oh, fuck me. No way.” Nick balled up his hoodie and dropped it onto a chair. “I’ll cab it, take the bus, walk through the sn—”

“Shut up and get your gloves on.” Hudson chucked his brother a set of gloves, derailing the next smart-ass comment that was without question about to fire out of Nick’s mouth. With his own pair in hand, Hudson parted the ropes and ducked into the ring. He shoved his left hand into a glove, then his right. Going head-to-head with his fists, he knocked the padded gloves together. “I’m waiting.”

Nick ducked into the ring with a glove on his left hand. “Violence isn’t the answer, bro.”

“Stop whining like a little girl.” Hudson rolled his head from side to side, giving his neck a crack to loosen it up.

Nick stabbed his right hand into the glove, then shook the hair out of his face. “Fine. If taking a couple swings at me makes you feel better, let’s do it,” he said, squaring off. Hudson immediately recognized the reckless gleam in his eyes. It was a trait they both shared, one that pushed them to their own respective extremes.

“If I only wanted to swing my fists at you for a couple hours, I wouldn’t need a boxing ring to do it.”

“True that.” Nick fanned his arms out to shoulder level. “So come on then, you thread-humping, designer-whoring pussy.” He flashed a smug grin. “Give it your best shot.”

Hudson chuckled as he watched his brother bounce on the balls of his feet. “Let’s see if your jab is as quick as your smart-ass mouth.” He stepped forward and raised his fists, keeping them tight to his chin. He knew his brother had game, but that didn’t stop him from . . . “Trigger shy?” . . . taunting, antagonizing, firing him up to strike.

Nick snapped out a couple of punches that were met with a forearm block. Hudson was quick to retaliate and nailed a clear shot to his brother’s ribs.

“Fuck, that hurt.” A swift kick to the other side of Nick’s torso had him ducking out of the way. “I thought we were going to just play around some, then go get you a fancy latte or some shit.”

“Says the fancy-ass coffee slinger.” Hudson was already balancing out his weight. He was like a bomb attached to an ignition switch and that bitch-ass bastard Julian was cranking the key. This was what he needed to level him out, to dull his mood into a tolerable state. Raw fucking would have worked, too, but one had to work with what one had. Besides, Allie had elevated the physical act into another dimension. There was no going back from that. She owned him—heart, body, and soul. Man, did he sound like a whipped son-of-a-bitch. As if he gave a flying fuck.

“All right, game on, bro. We’re goin’ to get scruffy now.” Nick threw out a left jab and something hot ripped through Hudson’s gut. He refocused, and with tremendous strength his muscles coalesced into the perfect uppercut that made his brother stagger as though he were drunk.