by Juniper Hart
“You don’t have to rub it in, James. I know what I’ve done.” Jordan clenched his jaw and gritted his teeth, a side effect of the drug he had snorted. He was already regretting having done it, particularly when James peered at him with too much interest.
“You okay, Southy?” he asked. “You look a little wired.”
“Well, yeah! I am a little wired! I just got beaten by a gorilla! I owe money to the mob! I’m more than a little wired.”
James nodded and raised a manicured hand easily to settle his client.
“Okay, okay, calm down. No need to yell at me. I’m here to help you.” He sat on the floor, and Jordan immediately rose to his feet. He didn’t want James to sense that he was high, even though he was fairly sure that his agent already knew.
“What am I gonna do?” Jordan moaned, beginning to pace the small space. “I don’t have the money to pay them off.” He secretly hoped that his agent would volunteer a loan so that he wouldn’t have to go through the embarrassment of asking him.
“Yeah, I guess you don’t yet,” James said pensively. He stared at Jordan, and the younger man shifted his eyes guiltily. He was just being paranoid. James was not staring at him funny.
“I… uh… I don’t suppose you could help me out?” Jordan hated himself as soon as the words left his lips. He couldn’t believe he had to grovel for money.
This is partially James’ fault, he reasoned. He promised me a much bigger paycheck than this. The justification didn’t make him feel any less nauseous for asking.
“No, Jordan. I’m not giving you money,” James told him firmly. Jordan felt his jaw lock. He glared somewhat angrily at the agent.
“Why not? I’ll pay you back! I’m good for it! You know where to find me!” he protested in a barrage of words, his fists balling in anger. “I need you to help me, James!” He cringed as he heard the desperation in his voice, but there was nothing he could do to stop himself.
“Yeah, I know all that. And I will help you. But not by giving you cash.” Jordan looked up questioningly.
“Then how?” James said nothing for a moment, considering his words.
“I know Alex Carlucci,” he said slowly. “Maybe I can talk to him, and you two can work something out.”
“You know Alex Carlucci?” Jordan asked in disbelief. “Can you get him to forgive my debt?”
“I am not his brother, Jordy, and he’s not into charitable gambling donations. That said, he is a reasonable man. I bet he’d be willing to work something out with you, given your skillset. Let me give him a call in the morning, and I’ll see what I can do.”
Suspicion shot through Jordan like a bullet. Work something out? My skillset? What the hell code language is he speaking right now?
“Yeah, he seems really reasonable,” Jordan said sarcastically. James shrugged.
“Do you want me to help you or not?” Jordan stared at him with both suspicion and gratefulness.
“What skillset?” he asked, voicing one of the many questions on his mind.
“Oh, don’t be modest, Jordy. You’re a renowned fighter now. Everyone knows who you are.”
Jordan felt a surge of hope at the words. “How does that help anything?”
James gave another frustratingly nonchalant shrug. “I don’t know for sure. All I can do is try.”
“Are you sure he’ll listen to you?” Jordan asked skeptically. James rose to his feet, beginning to look annoyed at all the questions.
“Do you want me to try or not? It’s worth a shot, isn’t it? He can be a reasonable man. Let me get back to you tomorrow. Get some rest. You had a crazy night—and that was before you went ahead and made it crazier.”
Jordan slowly walked him to the door.
“Okay,” he agreed, feeling slightly more relaxed, even though nothing had formally been accomplished. “Thanks, James. Sorry to be such an ass. I’m just a little worried. I mean, things are going so well…” He trailed off and looked at James sheepishly.
“Yeah, I know, Southpaw. Don’t worry. I got your back, but you’ve gotta have mine, too, okay?” James paused at the splintered threshold and eyed Jordan warily.
“What?” Jordan demanded, sensing that something else was coming that he wasn’t going to like.
“This help comes with one very important condition,” James said. There’s one condition.”
Jordan waited expectantly. “What is it?”
James turned away as if to block his expression from Jordan’s view. “You can never tell Harley about this. Any of this.”
“You’ve got a deal,” Jordan agreed, exhaling with relief. That was the last thing he was thinking about doing.
11
What the hell am I still doing here? Samantha lay awake staring at the ceiling, trying to stop the thoughts racing through her head. It was the third night that week in which Marco had not come home. Not that it bothered her from a romance perspective, but every moment he was gone reminded her just how alone she truly was.
ICE had not let up on them for a moment since their wedding, almost as if they had already suspected that Samantha’s heart belonged to someone else and were waiting to pounce and revoke Marco’s citizenship application.
She told herself that she just needed to lay low a little longer, and then she could reach out to Jordan, yet the mantra was becoming less convincing as the days passed. She couldn’t shake the deep despair that had seeped its way into her soul, wondering where her mate had gone. Several times she had tried his cell, but it had been disconnected after Christmas. Although she had left a message on his home phone, as far as she knew, he hadn’t even tried to reach out to her once.
I lost him, and each day that goes by, I lose him more and more. She thought that was ridiculous, that mates simply couldn’t walk away from one another, but the emptiness in her chest told her she was lying to herself.
She had not slept in days, the stress of the government agents wearing on her as much as her being apart from Jordan. Even Marco was acting worse, more aloof. A sudden moodiness had materialized from nowhere, and it didn’t take Samantha long to understand that he, too, thought he was going to be free after they were wed. Instead, they both seemed more confined than ever before.
Once, Marco had been easygoing, a little boyish, even, but now he snapped at her for no reason, and no matter how hard she tried, Samantha could not seem to reach him. Married or not, she was more alone than she’d ever been.
Somewhere in the giant house, Samantha heard a door open, and she exhaled. She had not even realized she had been holding her breath.
“Are you awake?” Marco asked, his voice gruff. Instantly, she popped her head up and looked at him with wide eyes.
“Yes.”
“I think we have a problem, Sam.” She stared at him expectantly.
“What problem is that?” Samantha asked, trying to gauge his expression.
Marco’s eyes glittered in the darkness, his jaw locking. “Legal problems. Huge ones.”
“Why do you say that?” Samantha pulled the comforter around her and continued to stare at him. It was unusual for him to come to her room in the night like that. He’s really worried about something.
“Is there anything you want to tell me?” Marco’s voice was barely audible now, and a prickle of apprehension shot through Samantha’s body.
“A-about what?” she asked. “What are you talking about?” Marco advanced on her, his eyes flashing indignantly.
“About Jordan Archer,” he hissed, his face a mask of anger.
“W-what about him?” Samantha rasped, wondering how he’d found out about it. Why now? It’s been months since I’ve seen Jordan.
Marco scowled. “I think your boyfriend is going to be our undoing.”
You can do this. You’ve been doing this your whole life. This is no different than what you do in the ring, and it’s no different than what you did in your youth.
The pep talk, however, was not working, and Jordan was filled with a sick
ening feeling in the pit of his stomach.
He sat in the back of the stretch limo, Alex Carlucci staring at him with a sardonic expression on his face. He was an impressive man for his age, with shocking white hair but an almost completely unlined face. He was the quintessential stereotype of a mobster, with a pinstriped suit and a wolf-headed walking cane. His shoes probably cost more than everything Jordan had owned in his entire life.
“You okay, slugger? You look a little pale.” Carlucci leaned in and peered at Jordan with inky eyes through horn-rimmed glasses. There was an almost mischievous twinkle in his gaze.
“I’m fine,” Jordan replied quickly. “I’m fine.”
He was not fine, not in the least. He could not believe he was sitting in the midst of such a situation. The mob kingpin was waiting for him to crack, to back out of the deal, and the thought was beyond tempting. The alternative was equally painful, and Jordan rolled his shoulders as if he was gearing up for a sparring match. He heard a series of tense cracks erupt in his shoulders.
That doesn’t sound very good, does it?
“There you go, buddy! Now you’re warming up. Go to it. I’ll be here when you get back.” Carlucci tapped on the glass partition with his cane, and a moment later, the driver opened the door, stepping back to allow Jordan to exit. “And Southpaw, don’t skimp. I don’t like shit done half-assed. Capiche?”
Jordan nodded without meeting his eye and scrambled out of the car, eager to be away from Carlucci. When the door closed behind him, Jordan was suddenly faced with the urge to run down the street.
He could go hide out in Mexico for a few years. Surely Carlucci didn’t have guys in Mexico. After a couple of years, the heat would die down, and he would have forgotten all about him. Or he could just wait to outlive him and return. There were hundreds of packs in Mexico. They’d be happy to have him.
Jordan imagined Wren and Landon shaking their heads when they heard the news. And Harley. Always Harley.
The idea, while tantalizing, was a fantasy. Jordan knew what he had to do to make things right with Carlucci, and this was it.
Besides, if he ran, what would happen to James? He had stuck his neck out for him. Carlucci might do something awful to him. That was the way the mob worked. Jordan could defend himself, but they went after your loved ones if you didn’t pay. It was in all the movies.
That was all the motivation Jordan needed to start moving up the long driveway toward the small bungalow at the end of the street. He did not allow himself to stop, briskly walking up the cobblestone pathway. He tried to ignore the fact that he was hyperventilating. At the front door, he took a deep breath, trying to breathe normally. He lifted a powerful leg to kick the door open.
The frame splintered in a hundred pieces, but Jordan did not pause. He rushed into the house, hearing the terrified screams of a woman from the rear of the property. He strode inside, cornering a young family in their living room. A small solemn-faced boy stared curiously up at Jordan from his playpen as his mother desperately ran toward him to protect the child.
“Stay where you are,” Jordan choked. The woman froze in her tracks, looking desperately from her husband to the child and back to her husband.
“Jeff! Do something!” she screeched, tears of fear streaking her face. The man was paralyzed, staring at Jordan. His green eyes seemed to reflect understanding as their gazes locked.
“You know why I’m here?” Jordan asked softly, silently pleading with the bile in his stomach not to spill from his throat. Jeff nodded slowly, and his wife screamed.
“Take anything you want! Just take it and leave. We won’t call the police! Just don’t hurt us!”
Ignoring her, Jordan closed the distance between them.
“Get the child out of here,” he said in a flat voice he didn’t recognize.
“No, please, don’t hurt my—”
“GET HIM OUT!” Jordan roared.
“Do it, Maddy,” Jeff breathed, and his wife scooped up their son to run him out of the room.
I’m sorry, Jeff, Jordan thought miserably before delivering a blow to Jeff’s waiting face. The child began to howl from the other room, like he was in sync with his father and aware of the danger in which he was surrounded.
The blow caused the man to fall unconscious instantly, and Jordan was both relieved and horrified simultaneously. He was not expected to hit a man down, was he? Carlucci didn’t want the guy dead. He just wanted his money. He stood uncertainly for a moment.
Shit! How am I going to deliver the message about the money if he’s out cold? Jordan turned and looked at Jeff’s wife, who had returned to gawk at him in terrified shock.
“Tell your husband he now owes Mr. Carlucci eight thousand dollars. I’ll come to collect again on Friday.”
“What? He owes who what? You have the wrong man!” she cried. “You son of a bitch! He’s a law student! He doesn’t owe anyone anything!”
Jordan almost walked away without responding, but something stopped him. The look of naked anguish in her eyes made him speak.
She deserves to know the truth about her husband, he reasoned, gritting his teeth. Especially if they have a kid together.
“Your husband has a bad gambling problem, ma’am. You better get him to stop before it’s too late for all of you. Next time, someone might come after your kid.”
Her face went gray at the thought, and she scooped up her son protectively, tears streaming down her face.
Jordan left the house and hurried down the street to meet the limo. Carlucci rolled down the window and noted the blood on Jordan’s fists.
“You didn’t even break the skin on you,” he said. “Did you deliver my message?” Jordan didn’t trust his voice and instead bobbed his head. “Good.” Carlucci nodded approvingly and tapped the glass partition without saying a word. The car disappeared down the street, leaving Jordan in an area of Bellevue he did not know.
He was obviously expected to make his own way home, but he had no idea where to start.
When he was sure that Alex Carlucci’s car was gone for good, Jordan began to breathe slightly easier.
Okay. Okay, that was bad. It was awful, but it’s done, and you’re even now. You don’t owe Carlucci any money. You made a stupid, drunken mistake, and you paid dearly for it. Time to go home and forget any of this ever happened. James will never talk about this to anyone, and you can focus on the UFC. Make Harley proud. Consider this your rock bottom.
Jordan started walking down the winding street, and in a few moments, he was feeling somewhat normal. He finally oriented himself and caught a bus which would take him to the train leading him back to Seattle. By the time he was sitting in a window seat in traffic, Jordan had managed to convince himself that the entire experience in the bungalow had been a bad dream.
It wasn’t until the bus was almost at the station that Jordan received the text message reminding him that his deal was nowhere near completed and that things might just be getting started.
It was from James.
I hope you’re still in town. Mr. C needs you again. 792 Rio Vista Drive, Seattle. You know what to do.
It was at that moment that Jordan realized that he was in much bigger trouble than he could have ever foreseen.
12
Samantha would be forty next week, although she didn’t look a day over twenty-seven. She stared at her reflection blankly in the glass. She almost did not recognize the beautiful stranger before her. Her light red hair was untinged by any hint of grey that would touch a mortal woman of her age, and there was not a wrinkle to be seen on her flawless skin. There was no sign of her aging, yet Samantha felt as though she was twice her natural age.
And it’s only going to get worse from here, she thought tersely. In this life that I’ve chosen for myself. There’s no escaping it, not now. Lately, she had found herself questioning everything; her work, her beauty, but most of all, her marriage. This was never a real marriage, she recalled. What did you expect would happen?
>
Marco had become someone she did not know. He seemed to avoid her at all costs, and while she felt old, Marco seemed ancient. His dark hair was now streaked with white, and there were definitive wrinkles around his mouth. Something was aging him, and quickly.
Since the night he had confronted her about Jordan, things had quickly become grimmer and grimmer in the household.
“You have to stay away from him,” Marco warned her. “The agents know about him because you were so careless at work. You knew they talked to everyone, Sammy, everyone! How could you be so inconsiderate?”
Defensiveness sprung through her, and she sat up on her knees, glaring at him.
“For years, I pretended to be your girlfriend!” she reminded him, ignoring the ways his companionship had benefitted her.
“ICE didn’t find out about me!” Marco roared. “Because I know the meaning of the word discretion. You—your carelessness—it put me at risk. All of us at risk!”
Samantha’s brow had furrowed. “All of us?” she echoed. “Who is all of us?”
“Never mind,” he snapped, spinning to leave the room, but not before pausing at the doorway to stare at her with daggers in his eyes. “Stay the hell away from him. That means no calls, no emails, and definitely no face-to-face contact. You have no idea how much trouble you caused with this.”
That was the first and last time they’d talked about Jordan, but the conversation had roused more questions than answers in Samantha’s mind. We’re married. ICE would need good cause to send him back to Italy, better than my affair. What is he so worried about? And who is “all of us”?
Every time she tried to broach the subject, Marco would act as if the house was being bugged and silence her. Their conversations had become strained, superficial, and with every empty word they exchanged, Samantha’s heart became more and more leaden. She’d made the wrong choice letting Jordan go without telling him the truth, and now it was too late.
She could still reach out to Jordan, but she didn’t dare. She couldn’t shake the sense that something was happening, something she hadn’t noticed and that she should have.
