Tanner Grayson stepped out of the MMA cage, sweating and breathing hard after working out with his sparring opponent. His blood pumped inside him, and his heart beat out a rapid rhythm as he pulled out his mouth guard and tried to catch his breath. Removing his helmet, he shook his head and sweat sprayed around him.

Beside him, his partners and best friends, Jason Dare and Landon Bennett, men he considered brothers, scowled as they did before and after every match or practice Tanner participated in. But they understood, as Tanner did, that working out his aggression was therapy for his anger issues. Hell, it was therapist approved.

Kicking, punching, grappling, anything that ultimately involved full-body contact in a channeled way was a relief to his senses. Better than nearly killing a human being in anger, and his partners understood that. They still liked to show up and have his back. Just as he’d always have theirs. He owed them his life. Jason had called in a favor when Tanner had hit rock bottom. His friends had saved him and he’d never forget it. He’d never fuck up what they’d created together.

“Good job,” Jason said, handing Tanner his water bottle.

Tanner squeezed it over his face and head before drinking what was left.

Landon passed him a towel and slapped him on the back. “Feel okay?”

Tanner nodded. “Thanks for being here. Let me take a quick shower and we can go grab something to eat before we head over to the club for the night.” Tanner jogged into the locker room area, leaving his friends behind.

A short while later, he rejoined them and immediately noticed the change in atmosphere, the tight set to Jason’s shoulders, and Landon’s steely-eyed stare. Something had clearly occurred while he was cleaning up.

Tanner’s entire body tensed as he went on alert. “What happened?”

“Another incident at the club,” Landon bit out.

“Fuck,” Tanner muttered. They’d had a string of not-so-random problems that had been escalating.

Ever since they’d expanded the club with live acts and had become an even bigger presence in the Manhattan night scene, someone had been screwing with them. From issues with the sound system that they’d at first attributed to hackers, to automobile vandalism in their parking lot, which had caused them to upgrade the security system and add outdoor cameras, it had become clear that someone wanted to hurt their business.

After the smashing of windows in the parking lot, they’d accompanied their guard outside and found one of the kids with a bat in hand. In exchange for not reporting him to the cops, they’d discovered he and his pals had been paid well by Daniel Sutherland, an owner of a nearby club that wasn’t nearly as successful as Club TEN29, to cause trouble.

Tanner had wanted to have a talk with Daniel Sutherland, the owner, but the guys had outvoted him. No one wanted to risk him losing his temper, and Tanner had to agree they were right to hold him back. Instead they’d sent their security to issue a warning. None of them wanted to involve the police unless they had to. Tanner’s blood ran hot at the thought that, once again, someone was sabotaging their hard work.