by Jay McLean
Copyright © 2015 Jay Mclean
Published by Jay McLean
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form, including electronic or mechanical, without written permission from the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
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Published: Jay McLean May 2015
Cover Design: Ari at Cover it! Designs
AUTHOR NOTE
Please note that this is not a fighter, biker, billionaire, alpha, or BDSM romance, and in no way, whatsoever, includes any form of sex with dinosaurs.
Dedication
To Debbie Flowers; for telling me on a daily basis to “just write the damn book.”
Here’s the damn book.
Punkin.
“Once upon a time there was a boy who loved a girl, and her laughter was a question he wanted to spend his whole life answering.”
– Nicole Krauss, The History of Love.
Prologue
I FLEX MY fingers, watching the dried blood shift around my knuckles. I should be at home icing the shit out of them. But I’m not. Instead, I’m in a tiny room with nothing but a table and two chairs. I don’t know how the fuck I got into this mess. Actually, I do, but the asshole was talking shit and I had no choice.
That’s a lie.
There was a choice.
I made mine and I ended up here.
The door swings open, and a suit walks in; his back to me—talking heatedly with someone on the other side of the door. “I’ll handle it, Pulver,” he says, before shutting the door and then...nothing. He just stands there staring at the closed door. His shoulders heave once, his head moving from side to side. And then slowly, he turns.
The corners of my lips lift, but drop when I see him jerk his head. The action’s so slight that if I weren’t focused on him, I would’ve missed it. His gaze shifts to the camera in the corner of the room. It’s a split second movement, but one I understand. He rolls up the sleeves on his crisp, white shirt and takes the only seat available on the other side of the table. Resting on his forearms, he leans forward. “Parker.”
I smirk. “Officer.”
“Detective,” he corrects.
“Who’d have thought,” I mumble.
His features falter for a second, but only a second before his mask is back in place. He looks down at the open folder in front of him, his eyes scanning the page from side to side, and then he lifts his gaze. “Kyler Parker?” he asks, but he already knows who I am.
I nod once.
His eyes fix on the cuffs digging into my wrists. Letting out a breath with a huff, he leans to one side and shoves his hand in his pocket, revealing a set of keys.
The second he removes the cuffs; there’s a banging on the door.
His eye roll makes me chuckle.
Another suit, a fatter one, stands at the door with his eyes narrowed. “Davis,” is all he says.
“I said I’d handle it!” He stands up and walks to the door, then proceeds to forcefully shut it in fat-suit’s face.
Once he’s settled back in his seat, he resumes his stance from earlier. “You’re in a bit of a mess,” he states.
I nod again.
He pulls a picture from the folder, now settled in the middle of the table, and pushes it under my nose. “You recognize him?”
Another nod.
“You broke his jaw, his nose, busted a rib, and punctured his lung. You also did some heavy damage to his right eye. They don’t know if it will have full functionality again.” He raises an eyebrow. “Was it worth it?”
I clear my throat and lean forward, matching his position.
Amusement fills his eyes. Then, just like that, it’s wiped. “Are you mute?”
I bite my lip to stop from smiling. The taste of my blood hits my tongue.
He hides his smile. “Does it taste like victory?”
I drop my chin to my chest and do my best to keep it together.
The scraping of his chair grabs my attention. He’s on his feet now, working his way over. Stopping next to me, he takes a seat on the edge of the table.
“Ky,” he starts, then pauses for what I assume is dramatic effect. “I can call you Ky, right?” He doesn’t give me a chance to answer before adding, “Here’s the thing. Witnesses say that you had to be pulled off of him, and even then you kept throwing blow after blow. The damage you did—there’s too much of it. Obviously he’s pressing charges, so is the owner of the bar you just trashed because you couldn’t control your temper.”
“Fuck you.”
He raises his eyebrows. Then, clearing his throat, he slowly crosses his arms.
“I could just leave you here. You could go to court—do the whole trial thing. I bet you think your chances of being let off are high—ex-combat vet suffering PTSD...all that shit. But the truth? The truth is it might have worked if we were talking assault, but we’re not. We’re talking attempted murder, Parker.”
I lean back in my chair and look up at him.
“I’m here to make a deal—one that you should take.” He sighs and drops his head, then pushes off the table. Reaching into his back pocket, he pulls out a pair of handcuffs, the same ones I was wearing when he walked in. He circles them around my wrists—looser than they were before. “You have one night.” He places his business card in my hand. “An officer will tail you. I suggest you get a drink and think about taking the deal.”
“Fuck your deal.”
He smiles. “Fuck your life.”
1
I LOOK OVER my shoulder, but nothing has changed. Officer Declan, the poor asshole chosen to babysit me, hasn’t moved from his spot in the last two hours.
Flipping the business card between my fingers, I eye it curiously.
Detective Jackson Davis, right above the Philadelphia Police Department logo.
And his hand-written note; meet me at Colton’s Bar.
“Asshole,” I mumble under my breath.
“I’m the asshole? You’re the one that left and never looked back.”
I flinch in my seat—not from him being here, because I expected that, but because of the harshness of his words. “Jackson,” I greet, just as he sits on the barstool next to me.
“I thought for sure you’d at least call. I didn’t expect much, maybe a ‘hey bro, I’m alive.’”
I return my gaze to Officer Declan, but he’s no longer there.
“I told him to leave,” he states. “So, I’m glad you actually read my note instead of trashing it like I thought you would.”
I dip my head and stare at the beer in my hand. “You said something about a deal?”
He orders a beer for himself and turns to me. “I need your help.”
I don’t respond. I don’t know how. I was already fucked, but whatever he’s offering isn’t going to save me. It’s going to save him.
He says my name and then pauses for a long moment. “It involves you.”
I turn to him. “What the fuck are you talking about, Jax?”
Running a hand through his hair, he takes a sip of the beer j
ust handed to him. “This stays in the vault. You got it?”
“Sure. Whatever.”
“I’m working on a case. It’s an underground fighting organization, but we suspect it’s more.”
“More?”
“We think it’s a cover for a drug ring.”
“So where do I come in?”
“I need you to fight.”
“I don’t fight.”
“Pretty sure that guy you just put in the hospital would say otherwise.” He blows out a heavy breath. “What the hell did he say to get you so amped?”
My jaw clenches. My fingers curl, gripping the beer tighter. “He said the war was fake and that we were fighting for a cause that didn’t exist.” I search his face, waiting for him to tell me how stupid I am, but it never comes. I add, “I fought so he could wake up every day and not be afraid to leave his fucking house and he thinks—”
“You should’ve killed him.”
I shrug. “Maybe.”
“So?”
“So what?”
“Deal?”
I have no real information on what the hell the deal entails, but that isn’t important. What is important is why. “Why?”
Instantly, his eyes turn to stone. “They’re selling shit to kids. And when I say shit, I mean shit. It’s like ecstasy on crack or vice versa.”
“And how does that involve me?” I ask, even though I already know the answer.
“Because, Ky, I think it’s the same shit that killed Steve.”
KY
Age Fourteen
“Every damn day,” I mumbled to myself. I dropped my backpack and slowly walked over to the playground. Every day I’d walk past and see the same thing going on—two kids beating the shit out of someone. Normally, I’d walk away and ignore it.
Yet there I was—a few steps away from them—and I’d had enough of their crap.
“We know you have money, you little shit!” one of them yelled.
“I don’t!” their victim squealed.
Every.
Damn.
Day.
“Give it to us, you pussy!”
One of them kicked the kid already on the ground. It must have been pretty hard because he yelped and shouted, “Here! Just take it!”
I crossed my arms and pushed my chest out. “Hey! Leave him alone!”
Almost in sync, the two bullies turned around; eyes already narrowed.
“Stay out of it, Parker. This has nothing to do with you!”
I recognized the tormentors from school. They were twins, two years older than me; Harry and Barry Berry. Clearly their parents were just as stupid as their spawn.
The poor, beaten kid slowly came to his feet, patting down his clothes as he did. He had a busted lip and a cut on his cheek. “It’s okay, Ky, just go home.”
“Yeah, Ky, just go home!” Barry mocked.
I eyed him and his brother, wondering if I could take them both. Luckily for me, my growth spurt hit at twelve. I was tall, but not that built. Not that it mattered. I’d grown up around this shit my entire life.
I took a step forward. “No.”
“What are you gonna do? Fight both of us?”
The beaten kid got between us, becoming my shield like he could somehow protect me. He couldn’t even protect himself.
“Just stop,” he said to me. Then to the others, “I gave you my money. You can leave now.”
“No,” I cut in. “Give him back his money!”
Barry stepped forward, his stance matching mine. “Or what, Parker?”
His fist was halfway to my face before I reacted by ducking and charging his stomach. The immediate impact on my shoulder made me want to scream out in pain, but I didn’t let it show. I didn’t even show it when Harry came at me while Barry and I were on the ground. He started to bend over to get me off his brother, but I kicked the back of his knee hard enough that it gave out. Their victim screamed and charged over to Harry, grabbing a backpack on his way and started hitting him with it. I got two punches to Barry’s gut before I had a chance to look at Harry, now cursing and lying on the ground, trying to defend each consecutive hit of the backpack.
With my fists balled into Barry’s collar, I seethed, “Give him his money back, and while you’re at it, give him all of yours!”
Harry groaned next to me.
“You too, asshole!”
“Fine!” Barry said, his hand already in his pocket.
Harry cursed again. “Okay!” he yelled. “Just get this psycho off me.”
I tried to contain my laugh as I watched the kid get one more hit in before letting out a maniacal laugh.
Standing up, I took the money they were more than willing to hand me. They ran away as soon as the opportunity presented itself.
“You didn’t have to do that, Ky,” the kid said quietly. “I was handling it.”
I kept my eye roll to a minimum when I handed him the money. “What’s your name?”
“Jackson,” he told me. “I live next door to you.”
I picked my backpack up off the ground and tried to remember if I had ever seen him before. But then again, I made a conscious effort to not pay too much attention to my neighbors.
“I’m sorry I don’t know you,” I said lamely.
“It’s cool. I don’t expect you to. I guess it’s just kind of hard not to know you.”
***
We walked home in dead silence, only stopping when I got to my gate. “So this is me...” I said quietly. I looked over at my house, sure that it had changed a lot in the two years since we’d moved in. Back then; it was a picture perfect suburban home. Now—the word shithole wouldn’t even cover it.
It was exactly the kind of house you’d expect someone just like my dad and his pathetic friends to occupy.
At first, the neighbors called the cops because the loud music and the general sound of assholeness never stopped. The cops came around a few times, but they never did anything. After a few months, the number of bikes in our front yard outweighed the number of residents that lived on the street. I guess they had no choice but to put up with his shit.
Just like I did.
My front door burst open, and my dad walked out—shirtless, tattoos on display—scratching his nuts. His eyes narrowed at us.
“Perfect,” I whispered sarcastically.
“Well, if it isn’t the useless cunt!” Dad yelled.
Jackson shook his head; his eyes cast downwards as he fiddled with the straps of his bag. He waited until he heard the front door close before looking up at me.
“So that’s my dad,” I mumbled.
After shoving his hand in his pocket, he pulled out the money provided by the twins. “You should take this.”
“Nah.” I waved him off.
He lifted my hand and placed the scrunched up cash on my palm.
I stayed frozen in my spot—not sure how to respond. Pity—especially from him—was the last damn thing I wanted.
“I’ll see you round, Jackson.” I started to walk away, but he grabbed my arm.
“What are you doing now?”
I looked at his hand on my arm, then to my front door. “Probably getting my ass beat.” I scoffed. “Again.”
He looked like he wanted to say something—maybe ask a bunch of questions no one had the balls to ask me yet. “Hey...” His voice shook as if he was nervous. “Maybe we should both use this money. We earned it, right?”
We walked to the closest diner and ordered everything we could afford—the splurge made even sweeter because of how we obtained the funding. We talked about movies and TV shows. Turned out, he was only a year younger than me. I would have sworn by his physical appearance and the way he acted that he was no older than ten.
After a few minutes of us eating everything, and me watching him eat, he rested back in his seat with a huge grin on his face.
“Did you enjoy that?” I asked.
He nodded enthusiastically. “You want to know why?”
“Why?”
“Because it tastes like victory.”
***
Jackson doesn’t offer small talk or even a greeting when I show up at the station the next morning. He leads me to the same room as the night before and motions for me to sit down. Then he removes his jacket, takes a seat, and pushes a picture under my nose. “Nate DeLuca,” he says.
I lift the picture for closer inspection. It isn’t a mug shot; it’s a surveillance shot, and from what I can see, there’s absolutely nothing remarkable about the guy. Dark hair displayed under his ball cap, average build, around the same age as me—maybe a couple years older. That’s basically all I can make out. “And?” I ask.
“And he’s who you need to get close to. He runs the fights, but like we said, we suspect it’s a cover up for the drugs. You need to get to know him. You need to live and breathe him. And if you can do that—get in his circle, get in his head—then it can lead us to the people responsible for Steve–” He cuts himself off and looks down at the table, realizing the mistake he was about to make. “For the deaths...” he corrects himself.
“And what do you get out of it?”
“Justice.”
2
THE FIGHTS, JACKSON told me, are held in basements of bars throughout Philly. You can buy your way in with a five grand VIP membership. The memberships were limited to two hundred. You show up and act like a dick; your membership’s revoked.
The venues are announced to a maximum of only sixty people, chosen randomly, via text message two hours before fight night begins. In order to get into the basements, you needed to meet at somewhere off-site first, show the message on your phone, text it back to a number, and they mark it off the list.
Obviously, Jackson had prepared all of this in the few days since I’d agreed to the deal.
I did everything that was asked of me, and now I find myself standing in the basement of a bar I’d never stepped foot in before. The place is exactly how I imagined—tiny room with barely enough space to move. The crowd’s rowdy, but obviously interested enough in the fights that they’d fork out five grand just to watch.
