by Emilia Finn
I roll my eyes and step around the desk so he can pull me into a squishy hug, which I know was what he was angling for all along. “Tomorrow morning. Pinky promise.”
“You go back to school tomorrow,” he pouts. “You’ll be gone all week.”
“I know.” I press my ear to his chest and close my eyes for just a moment. The fact I’ll be gone all week is the very reason my to-do list is always kicking my ass. “But I’ll be back on Friday night. It’s not actually a whole week,” I reason. “Four nights.”
“Five days,” he grumbles. “You’re leaving early tomorrow, and won’t get home until late Friday. That’s five whole days, Bean.” He pulls back, but only to hold my arms and stare into my eyes.
His are light blue and boast green and gold specks. Mine are just… brown. That’s it; there are no flecks, no depth, nothing exciting or redeeming or worth writing poems about.
“I miss you when you’re gone.” He leans forward and presses the kind of kiss to my forehead that makes my breath catch. It’s not noisy or for show. It’s the kind of kiss that makes my heart swell and my eyes itch. It’s a kiss of love, and though I get that a lot – my family loves me, and they love so deeply – the one person whose kiss I wish would be pressed to my brow barely even knows I exist.
“Coffee in the morning.” I take a single step back, and study my handsome uncle. “I swear.”
“Wanna spar today?” he asks with a wicked grin. “You know I enjoy beating you up.”
Laughing, I take a final step back and let his hands fall. “Sure. We all know who’ll win, so whatever. I’ll enjoy laying you out.”
“Oh, please.” He picks up his pen, and slowly ticks names off a list, going back to whatever he was doing when I walked in. “You’re just a girl,” he teases. “Everyone knows girls can’t fight.”
“Let’s go, Ben!” Evie, my cousin, stands just outside the octagon and rattles the fence as I step toward her fiancé with my hands lifted the way Soph tries to undo.
In dance, I need loose arms, lowered and languid. In fighting, they need to be up, or I risk a jab to the chin and being sent to sleep. The fact that Evie’s fiancé is, by blood, my half-brother, doesn’t change my approach as I sweep in low and slam his two hundred and ten pounds to the canvas.
Ben hits the ground with a boom, and though Evie grits her teeth with sympathy as his head bounces on the floor, she still rips him apart with her words.
“She gets you every damn time, Sasquatch! What the hell are you doing?”
I scramble over his broad chest and blow my long hair out of my eyes. We fight for dominance, but I’m nothing if not predictable. He knows I’m going for the arm bar. It’s who I am – I find something that works, and then I beat that horse until it’s dead.
I leap over his panting chest and grab onto his hand. Placing my legs over his torso, and wrapping myself around his arm, I tug back with a deep grunt, but he merely lifts me again and tosses me away so I land, all alone, three feet away.
“Bean’s getting rusty,” Evie taunts as I simply lay on the canvas and try to catch my breath.
Panting, Ben pushes to his hands and knees and makes his way over to me. He peeks over my shoulder, and presents me with smiling eyes and a wicked grin. “You okay?”
I nod. That’s it, that’s all he gets, because I have no energy for anything more.
“You hurt?” he asks.
I shake my head, then close my eyes when a body fills the doorway leading into the room. Macallistar Blair is the fourth and final member of our typical group of friends. Usually, when you find one, you’ll find all four of us, and almost always, when you find all four of us, we’re probably breaking the law.
Or, well, Evie is. Possibly Mac, too, while Ben and I hurry behind and clean up their messes.
“Bean?” Ben presses. “You okay?”
I nod and turn to my hands and knees so I can hide my face. I’d rather not look into Mac’s green eyes as he saunters forward with his devil-may-care attitude. Fuck him and his ability to not give a shit about anyone except himself.
“I’m fine. I’m done for today, though.”
“Me too.” When he’s certain I’m fine, Ben drops back to the canvas and lays out like a starfish. “It’s too hot for this shit.”
“I’m going to have a cold shower.” I slowly climb to my feet when Mac stops on the outside of the octagon. He stands beside the blonde and beautiful Evie, and studies me and Ben. “I need to wash off the sweat,” I add. “Then I’m going home.”
Mac’s eyes follow my every step as I cross the octagon and push the door open. He moves in my direction, almost like he might offer a hand to navigate the stairs down to the regular matted floor, but I ignore him, and turn in the opposite direction.
I could just snatch up my bag and cross the room to get to the locker room. But because I’m in a shitty mood now that the aftereffects of dance have left my blood, I go the long way around and make a point of not going anywhere near him.
It’s never so apparent to me that I’m wearing booty shorts and a sports bra as when I’m leaving a room. Does Mac stare? Does he even know I exist? Hell knows, but I’m too damn proud to turn around and check, and there’s nothing anyone could offer that would convince me to ask.
Macallistar Blair is my best friend. He’s also a clueless prick.
He’s always moody, and unhealthily obsessed with greatness and world title kind of success. He needed a brand-new heart when he was fourteen years old, but instead of waking with an appreciation for his second chance at life, he woke in a bad mood and with a ‘the world is always so mean to me’ attitude. In his quest to always be the pitied underdog, he ignores the friends he has around him, those of us who change our lives to try to make his better. He’d rather obsess over people that aren’t important to his life – fighters that he wants to beat – rather than those of us who are here for him, day in, day out. Those of us who chose a completely different major at school just to help him, rather than pursue the very thing our heart yearns for.
It’s me… I’m the idiot who fell in love when she was just a child, the one who changed her major, and the one that won’t pursue professional dancing, because that doesn’t fit in with the life of a heart transplant survivor.
Instead, I go to nursing school, work my ass off to ace my exams and get the best placements, and when I come home… nothing. He’s still a prick in a bad mood.
It’s poetic, really, how life can cycle around and repeat.
“Hey, Lucy.” Mac reaches out, despite the twenty or so feet of space between us. “I was thinking we could hit up the weights room this–”
Without a single word, I pass through the doorway and into the hall. If there was an actual door there, rather than a simple opening, I would slam the damn thing to emphasize my shitty mood. But instead, I clamp my lips shut before I spout off something mean, and rip the showers on just as soon as I step onto the locker room tile.
Kiss me, Macallistar Blair, you clueless douchebag.
Kiss me, or let me go.
Mac
Checkmate
When the IRS comes looking, I’m technically employed at Alesi Auto – a garage at the top end of Main Street – where I get to work under the hoods of amazing muscle cars at least one day out of seven. The other six days are spent working on soccer mom SUVs that need fresh oil, or windshield wiper replacements.
I live for the moments spent working on muscle, so when there’s absolutely nothing else to do, no other paying customers lining up, and my boss has nothing else to justify the salary he pays me, despite the fact that before I started here, I had absolutely no knowledge of engines, I roll my 1970 Plymouth Barracuda onto the lift and work on making her shine.
Owning and driving a ‘Cuda sounds cool and all, but in reality, she’s dented, faded, scratched, the engine rattles, and the interiors are worn down like maybe a mountain lion used the seats for a scratching post at some point in the eighties.
&nbs
p; The garage is how I spend much of my time – except of course, the time I spend at the Rollin On Gym. But other times, times that we don’t really speak about, I work for the same security company my mom’s husband works for.
Checkmate Security is a legitimate firm that helps set folks up with systems that protect homes and businesses. They also provide personal security when it’s needed – and usually comes in the form of our seven-foot-tall ex-Army ranger, Spencer.
Some chick wants a little help moving out of her abusive ex’s home? We send Spence in to watch her six. It’s rare a dude will stop his girl from taking any damn thing she wants when he’s standing nearby.
Eric, my mom’s husband, was a federal agent once, working as his now-employers’ handler. It’s a long, convoluted story that ends up with a group of misfit thugs setting up base in this tiny town that I was born in. But Eric decided he liked what he saw whenever my mom served him coffee in the local diner, and now that they’re married and have a new baby, I do my best to stay out of their way.
I moved out a little more than a year ago, but just because my bed is in a different building these days, that doesn’t mean I don’t end up sending my mom insane on a daily basis. I eat at Franky’s Diner once a day at least, which means my mom gets to feed me, just like she has every other day of my life, but I get to feel good about it, because I pay for my meals, drop as much cash into the tip jar as I can afford, and when I walk away, I tap my knuckles on Eric’s – because he’s still watching my mom work, like a total creep – and then I meet up with him again an hour later at Checkmate, if there’s work for me.
Checkmate pays… a lot more than the garage.
Doing one job for the Bishop brothers pays more than I can earn in an entire week at the garage. That’s not to say Angelo Alesi is ripping me off. It’s more that Checkmate has a bigger budget, and the balls to quote high. They’re not afraid to lose a contract – the competition is fairly nonexistent in this town, and the work isn’t always safe. They value the lives of those who work for them, and seeing as I could be – and probably should be – training at the gym for my upcoming fights in my desire for world domination, or, ya know, just one single fucking win, my time is expensive.
Kane and Jay Bishop understand what drives me. Money. The answer is always money, so when a job comes across their desks that looks like it might be a good fit for me, they quote high, and they let me keep every single cent so I can continue to add to my poverty-stricken bank account.
Each time I make a deposit, I pray that it somehow, magically bred and grew while I wasn’t watching.
Twenty-two years down… no growth yet. But you just never know; tomorrow’s always a new day.
I walk through Checkmate’s front doors on Friday, a little after one. I’ve been by the diner to eat, my mom got to squeeze my face and remind me that she adores every annoying part of me, and seeing as it’s Friday and Ang closes the garage early leading into the weekend, I meander my way toward two days off, and stop in the office where Kane Bishop sits at a desk and tosses a tennis ball across the room.
He bounces it off the brick wall, times himself to catch and release, then he sends it hurtling toward the wall again. “What’s shaking, Blair?”
I stop by the soda machine that rests against the wall not far from Kane’s tennis ball target, but instead of sliding coins into the slot, I kick the machine on the bottom right corner, and grin when a Coke pops forward and drops into the chute. “My exhaust, that’s what. It’s shaking so much that the cops are gonna impound me if they catch on.”
Kane catches his ball and turns to me with a furrowed brow that speaks of impatience. “So fix it, dumbass. How are you gonna be badass if your exhaust is dragging on the road?”
“Can’t fix it without money. Can’t afford to buy a Coke,” I lift the can and pop it open, “especially can’t afford a new exhaust.”
“You work in a fuckin’ garage,” he huffs. “Make up some new metal straps and secure it to the car. Why is this so difficult?”
I roll my eyes and turn away from the machine, only to sit on the desk I know belongs to Eric, then take a sip of my soda. “Thanks for the pep talk, moneybags. But I need a whole new system. There are only so many times I can patch her up before the masking tape quits working.”
“How much is a new system gonna set you back?”
I cast a glance around the room and wonder where the dozen or so Checkmate staff is. “Dunno… Five hundred bucks for a standard system. Maybe a thousand for the kind she deserves. There are exhaust systems, and then there are the exhaust systems made for race cars.”
“Thousand bucks…” Sitting back, he rolls the tennis ball from one hand to the next. “Not so unreachable.”
“Kinda is,” I insert. “Because it’s not just the thousand. It’s the ‘I should probably save this for my medical deductible.’ And ‘Anti-rejection meds are expensive, probably should save for that.’ Then there’s the ‘I really want to save for a house someday,’ and the ‘Probably gonna want to give the love of my life her dream wedding one day.’” I stop, and meet his questioning gaze. “It ain’t just a thousand bucks. It’s never so easy for me.”
“Why you thinking about weddings and houses?” he smarts. He turns back to the wall and throws the ball. “You don’t have a girl.”
“Shut the fuck up about that.”
“What?” Laughing, he catches the ball, only to release it again. “I know who you see in that house you’re building in your head. I know who’s wearing your ring, and I know who’s dancing in your lap whenever you’re feeling filthy.” He pauses… turns to me. “But she doesn’t know, does she? Mac Blair forget to grow a pair of balls.”
“Fuck you, Bishop.” I push off the desk and check my pockets for my keys. “I don’t come here to listen to you shit on me and my love life.”
“Can’t shit on something that doesn’t exist,” he laughs when I turn away with a shake of my head. “Blair, wait!” His chair groans under his weight as the thump-thump-thump of the ball stops and he stands. “I have a job that’ll make you a clean grand in one evening.”
Despite my big speech about how money isn’t simple for me, I still pause at the doorway. I swallow my nerves. Mentally count my savings.
Then I turn around and try to ignore his smug grin. “What job?”
“Rhino’s Club is picking up speed now that 188 has closed down. They’re getting the nightlife, the crowds, the bands, and all of the other cool shit. There’s this one chick working the bar – Nicole – who’s having a rough time with her man. She’s on her last shift tonight, and would like a second pair of eyes to wa–”
“Her last shift?” I step back into the room and sip my soda. “Why’s it her last?”
“She’s ditching town. She moved here for her man, thought she’d found the perfect life in a small town, but seems he likes to smack her around. She’s moving back home, and her U-Haul is set to leave tomorrow, but tonight is Friday night, and the tips she would make could set her up for a while.”
I narrow my eyes. “Instead of paying the grand for protection, she should just ditch and keep that money instead. No way is she making that much in tips.”
He shrugs and turns away to throw the ball – and to lie to me. “I’m just passing on the job. Having one of us watch her would be fine, I suppose, but we’d stick out. You’re younger, you’re part of that crowd. You could perch your ass at the bar, and no one would know a damn thing. Get her through her shift, get her into her car, and tomorrow, if you’re feeling extra generous, swing by her place and make sure she’s still breathing. It’s an easy grand for a few hours of sitting at a bar watching girls dance. Tomorrow morning, after you lap past her place, you’ll be a thousand bucks richer. You can save nine-fifty for your meds and house. And the other fifty could buy Lucy Kincaid a nice breakfast.”
“Fuck you,” I spit out. He says her name, and my temper spikes so fast that it’s potent and poisonous.
; Saying Lucy’s sweet name makes my blood boil; she’s too expensive for me. She’s fight world royalty. She lives on a closed fucking estate, with security up the wazoo, and enough money that her kids’ kids could still be fine if no one worked a day from now until then. She’s the proverbial princess, and I’m the homeless street urchin.
I pull in a cleansing breath and concentrate on relaxing my clenched jaw. “Don’t say her fucking name. She’s none of your business.”
“Ya know, Blair… My wife looks like an expensive treat only the elite could afford. She likes brand name products, and becomes jelly in my hands when I buy her a day at the spa.”
I send my eyes skyward. “Don’t particularly wanna know about your princess and bank accounts.”
“I’m gonna tell you anyway.” He pegs the ball at my stomach and makes me spill my soda to catch it. “She looks expensive, and of course she likes the nice things in life. Everyone likes to be spoiled sometimes. But when it’s just us — me, her, our daughters — when we’re lying in bed on the weekend, watching cartoons and sneakily making out while the babies watch the TV…” He grins. “That’s when she’s happiest. I get extra points when I bring her coffee beforehand,” he adds, “coffee that costs me nothing but the beans in the machine, and two minutes of my life. But I swear to you, Blair, I’ve bought her nice things – jewels and such – but not once has she looked at them with the googly eyes she gives that coffee on a Saturday morning.”
“You live such a blessed life.” I roll my eyes and let the tennis ball drop to the floor. “Congratulations, Bishop. You’ve got everything you ever wanted. Maybe I’ll live long enough to get a taste of something similar.” I turn away and begin toward the front of the building. “I’ll take the job. Can you text me?”
“Little bitch,” Kane grumbles.
He wants a reaction, but I give him none. Instead, I pass through Checkmate’s front office and out the doors until I’m in the sweltering heat and mentally bargaining with myself about the money I’m not going to spend – exhaust, or air conditioning?
