The Total Package Read Online Free Page A

7-Eleven. Not even Tyson’s cell phone was invited to his pity party. The one message from his new agent was, Talk to you next year. Get your act together. Stay off social media . He didn’t want to hear from well-meaning friends either. In his mind, he had no friends and those trying to intervene were just trying to ruin the only good times he had left. His family back home was fractured and hurting, he couldn’t add to that burden. He just wanted to do his own version of Leaving Las Vegas and be done with it.
    That’s when Tyson met the Goons.
    There wasn’t much of an introduction. They broke down the door to Tyson’s room and hauled him off the floor by his armpits, then they dragged Tyson out to a waiting car and punched him when he started waking up on the tarmac of a small airport. The next time he awoke, it was with a splitting headache and in a comfortable bed in what looked to be someone’s guest room. It was spacious and tastefully decorated, even the sunlight smelled fresh. The headache, though, was completely familiar.
    “Where am I?” The words hurt his ears, and the dryness in his mouth and throat was ever present. He put a trembling hand up to his face, to shield his burnt-out retinas from the light streaming through the window.
    A man sitting in a chair near the foot of the bed spoke up. ‘You’re in my home. If you’re going to throw up, there’s a bucket on the right of the bed.” The Goon standing at the man’s left shoulder took a step and pointed in the direction of the receptacle, to make sure they sufficiently had Tyson’s attention.
    “I need a drink.” Tyson rasped out the same four words he had started every day with for the better part of a year.
    “There’s water next to you, on the nightstand,” the man replied. He was soft-spoken with a country twang. “If you’re looking for something stronger, I’m afraid that’s not going to happen.”
    Tyson tried to focus on the man through his painful tunnel vision. He was someone Tyson felt like he knew, or at least knew of. He was sixtyish, trim, sporting a full head of silver hair and a weathered tan face all packaged neatly in a brown Hugo Boss suit.
    “Who the hell are you?” Tyson asked irritably.
    “I’m the man who’s going to save your career.” He had the nerve to sound nonchalant, even soothing, “And considering all the scuttlebutt surrounding your pathetic display around Blitz training camp, probably your life.”
    Hearing the words got under Tyson’s already stretched skin. Making matters worse, the man was standing in the way of Tyson’s hair of the dog.
    “Let me guess.” Tyson tried to sit up despite the hammering in his head that increased with movement. “You’re my guardian angel and we’re going to take a tour of what the world would be like without me.”
    The man smiled. “Yes, I’m the patron saint of party boys. Call me Saint Mercenary.”
    The Goons snorted in unison from their positions on either side of the chair and then went back to looking menacing. The man added, “Sorry, son, I’m not that noble. I’m just a businessman who enjoys a good challenge.”
    Tyson eyed the trio from the middle of the queen-size bed. Whoever this man was, he was able to pull off a kidnapping, had at least two vicious-looking henchmen, and a really nice bedroom. Tyson glanced down at the stained, grungy Blitz T-shirt he’d been wearing for five days straight. He could remember when the word challenge filled him with vision and determination. Currently, standing on his own two feet without falling over would be about all the challenge he could handle.
    “I’m still waiting for you to tell me who you are,” Tyson said, dropping his head into his hand and attempting to rub his eyes free of the double vision that, added to the smell of his shirt, was making his stomach churn. One of the Goons snorted again, this time in disgust. Apparently he took Tyson’s lack of knowledge of the importance of his host