by Emilia Finn
I want to be excited at the sight of a powerful and angry Kane fighting.
I even want to cheer when he bucks the guy off and flips them over. I want to fist bump the air and maybe touch myself a little bit at this new side of Kane Bishop. Shirtless. Sweaty.
Powerful.
But the man’s fists are heavy, and Kane’s face is bleeding.
Strangely, that hurts me.
Women in little more than scraps of lace leave the great room with buckets of money. Literal, actual buckets.
Men stand around the ring and shout orders at the fighters.
Do this. Do that. Roll over.
Kill him.
Taking my eyes off of the only man I truly want to see right now – like he’s my raft in a swollen sea, my shelter in a violent storm, even though he’s a storm in and of himself – I let my eyes slide around the noisy room that presses in on me.
I wanted an inside view of Infernos club. I wanted to know what they sell here. What they do here. How billions of dollars pass through this club when, on the state business register, it’s listed only as a dance club.
I mean, Britt’s husband’s family own a club in town, too. They’re richer than God, but I’m pretty damn sure billions don’t move through their club each year.
Following the crowd with my eyes, I scan the doors that circle the great room. More rooms like the one with ropes? Something else? Kane mentioned rooms we could use…
Looking up, I stop on a man behind a glass wall. A powerful man.
A man I’ve been studying for months right alongside Kane.
This is the first time I’ve ever seen Abel Hayes in the flesh.
He doesn’t notice me here. He has no clue of my existence. He simply watches the fighters like it was the most important thing happening in his life right now. With broad chests, angry features, and hands on their hips, half a dozen men in suits surround him. They’re all easily more than two-hundred pounds each, but none of them are fat. Almost every inch of skin visible above their collars and at the ends of the sleeves is covered in tattoos.
Abel isn’t scared to be surrounded by these men.
He’s not under their control. They’re under his.
Like a wave against the rocks, the spectators scream at the ring and jockey to get closer. They push and shove as the excitement notches up in the main room and the men in the ring fight for victory.
It’s ridiculously inappropriate to even consider betting on the fight, and yet, my fingers itch to show my support, to show the criminal – the murderer who took such gentle care of me – that I believe in him.
I can’t bet on him. I shouldn’t be here at all, let alone watching the fight like a common groupie. But I can’t walk away, either. I can’t move and leave him up there with the giant fighter. I can’t walk away and not know the outcome of the fight he’s winning.
Sweaty fists slide along sweaty skin. Deep booming thuds of the man’s fist against Kane’s chest make me grit my teeth.
How do they do that and not have injuries? How do their hearts take it?
Like he knows he’s being watched by the all-mighty Abel Hayes, Kane shoots a fast glance up at the window. Swearing – I know he’s swearing – he turns back to his opponent with resolve in his eyes.
From chest thumping fists, to a slippery slide over sweat, his fist glides off the side of the other man’s face, then the men switch position as Kane is flipped to his back and the concrete foundations shake beneath my feet.
I see it coming before Kane does.
I see the man’s heavy fist coming down on Kane’s face. But my knowledge helps no one, least of all Kane; I couldn’t shout loud enough even if I tried. There’s no way in a million years he’d hear me, so instead, I stand thirty feet from the ring and watch on helplessly as, no more than three seconds after the men switched places and Kane’s head slammed against the floor, the man’s fist swings down and snaps Kane’s head to the side.
Legs that were strong and braced a second ago now turn floppy. Hands that were up to protect his face now drop like dead weight. The crowd’s cheers turn wild; some with elation, others with disbelief.
A few with rage.
The crowd floods toward the ring, but I remain in place and try not to regurgitate last night’s pizza as my mind replays that final second over and over and over.
Fist, meet head.
Head, snap to the side.
Dead.
Moving forward at the sight of muscled men picking Kane up off the floor, my stomach rolls at the sight of the blood dripping from his face, leaving a trail on the dirty floor as they move.
Rushing to keep him in my sight, my cute wedges slide in the puddles of blood they leave behind. And though the crowd converge to get a closer look at the wounded, though they cut me off and make it so I can no longer see him, I follow the spotted dots beneath my feet.
Rushing through tiny gaps, elbowing men aside, evading ass grabs and hungry hands, I follow the men into a hall different to the one I came in, and past a billion new doors.
The space turns darker the further away from the main room we go. The people, creepier. Their smiles, scarier.
I follow the muscled men all the way to a heavy security door, and as he pushes it open, the one on the left – the one with Kane’s top end in his arms – brings a hand up to his ear. “Yes, sir.”
He looks to his compatriot – to the man holding Kane’s legs – and with a single nod, they swing Kane’s lifeless body between them and let go.
He flings through the air to loud cheers and whoops of pleasure from the still watching crowd, until he lands outside with a heavy thud, rolling lifelessly as his skull bounces off the concrete and his limbs tangle.
Sprinting forward without thought, I push past the distracted men and skid down by Kane’s side as the security door closes.
“Oh my God, Kane.” Brushing a shaking hand over his face, I pull him back until his head rests on my bent legs.
I’m not my brother. I have no medical training except the stuff we learned in the backyard over years of skateboarding on a homemade halfpipe. We sliced ourselves up plenty. Broken bones. Split lips. Lots of crying and limping. But more often than not, the guys were there, too. And being the caring big brothers they are, they took care of any injuries in secret before our parents realized how careless we were being.
But now it’s just me, and with his blood already on my fingers, I go in search of a pulse on his strong throat. The way his head snapped to the side after that final hit, the way his legs dropped away, and the way they twitched, all triggers a muscle spasm that threatens a surge of vomit at what I might find. It all strangles my heart until finally, my fingers find a strong bub-bump in his neck, and my breath races out on a cry.
He’s a criminal.
He’s a bad man.
Him dying would probably make my life easier. At the very least, it’ll remove a barrier in our quest to nab Abel; and yet, my stomach knots over the thought of him in pain.
Alone in the dark with my unconscious hero, my blood slows when the two men from earlier step out of the shadows with a swagger and filthy grins. One of them pops gum between dirty teeth. The other flips a pocket knife.
Open.
Closed.
Open.
Closed.
The silver blade slides in and out of the handle, taunting me and reflecting off a streetlight in the distance. “Hey there, beautiful. We meet again.”
Kane’s weight on my legs both comforts and panics me. “Wake up. Wake up. Wake up, Kane.” Ignoring the tweak of pain in my ribs, I work to get my arms under his heavy chest and pull him up. Tapping his face harder than I should, my breathing turns shallow and makes me lightheaded as the men move closer. “Wake up, Kane. Right now. I need your help. Please help me.” The men creep closer. “I shouldn’t have come out here. You shouldn’t be unconscious. Wake up, Kane.” My words are barely more than a whisper; I refuse to give the men the pleasure of hearin
g my panicked words. They just see me holding my boyfriend. They see he’s unconscious, but they have no clue the panic rushing through my blood.
Do they?
“Need a hand, darlin’? He’s out, but we could show you a good time.”
“Kane!” I slam my fist against his chest, cruel, like his opponent, but I’m furious that he’s unconscious. For the first time in my life, I want a hero, and he’s not here. “Wake up. Wake up. Wake up. I need you to wake up.” I slap his bloodied cheek, already puffy from the fight; his eye is swollen closed, and his lip is cut through from his teeth. I should feel bad for hitting him, but with his blood on my hands and his unconscious body in my arms, I’m furious that he was right.
He said not to come back, but I did, and now I’m scared.
“Darlin’.” I recoil away from the hand on my shoulder. Goosebumps break out along my skin and my ribs ache at the hammering of my heart.
Kane’s not waking. He can’t save me, so I shoot to my feet and stand up to the men that reek of body odor and sex. I stand with my back to Kane and pretend I’m braver than I actually am. “You can leave.” I jut my chin forward in defiance and look down my nose, though both men are taller than me. “Go away. Kane’s resting after his big fight.”
“Resting?” The front man, the only one who seems to have a voice, laughs, sending rank breath into my lungs. The stench knocks me back a step until my heel rests against Kane’s ribs.
He’s so close.
Yet so far away.
“He had a fight tonight, but we’re going home now. I don’t need your help.”
Sucking on his own tongue, the man’s eyes slide along my body in a way that genuinely feels like a physical touch. “Need me to squeeze the pussy juice outta your snatch, then?” He giggles and bounces his head on his shoulders. “I could show you a good time. What’s that sayin’, Fred?” He doesn’t spare a single glance for his friend – for Fred – but his eyes remain on mine, on my lips, on the cleavage peeking out from my sundress. “Ya snooze, ya lose. I’m no wordsmith. I don’t write poems for a livin’, but fuck, I know it goes something like that.”
“Get away from us.” Bending, I snatch up my dropped cell and open the screen to Alex’s contact. I don’t want to tell the police where I am. I won’t get arrested for being here – I don’t think – but I will get a big brother talk. I’ll be scolded for putting myself in danger, but as much as I don’t want to do it, I won’t risk my life or Kane’s. “I’m on a first name basis with the cops. You want them raiding this place tonight?”
He scoffs. “You’re a dumb shit if you think I give a fuck. Call the cops, pretty pussy. I’ll fuck you before they get here, then I’ll do what I do best; I’ll disappear into the shadows and my bastard son will tear your pussy apart in nine months. Like father like son.” He noisily licks his lips. “We like the pussy.”
I step forward with more bravado than I feel and slam my palms against his chest. “Disappear? You didn’t disappear!” Please wake up, Kane! “I saw you out front, you know that, right? Even when you ‘disappeared’, I still saw you.” I shove a second time and ignore the blade in his left hand. “Stupid ass uneducated fool. You suck at the thing you do best. This untrained, never-had-to-learn-to-look-out-for-idiots-like-you, blonde office worker could still see you. How are you not already dead or in prison? Is Fred the brains in your friendship? You’re the mouth with rotten breath. He’s the brains. Neither of you got the beauty.”
With a terrifying roar, the man picks me up with surprising strength and slams my back against the dirty brick wall. The breath explodes from my lungs, but I get no chance to replace it before he presses a strong hand against my throat and cuts off my airway. He moves in close enough that his rancid breath bathes my lips. “Listen here, you little cunt. Around here, men are king and women are pussy. That’s all you are. Now, you get to be fucked by me. Then Fred. Let’s see which one of us can make you bleed. We’ll use you so fast, my hand on your throat won’t matter.” Tears stream along my cheeks when he leans in and runs his tongue along my jaw. “Can you breathe, baby?”
I kick out wildly, connecting with his shins in an attempt to hurt him. My lungs burn with need, and my hands claw at the single arm holding me off the ground.
Just like three nights ago, the sound of a belt buckle makes my stomach revolt. I can’t breathe. I can’t speak. I can’t even tell him no.
With the pressure building in my head, my skull shrinks, crushing my brain. Blood roars in my ears and my tongue goes desert dry when he transfers his knife so the handle digs painfully into my throat.
Then his pants drop.
Kicking out and screaming in my head, I struggle to escape when he slides his spare hand beneath my dress. Rough fingers, not the same as Kane’s, slide along my panty line and tear them from my body.
I cry out in fear.
Twice, I’ve walked into a dangerous place I knew I shouldn’t.
Twice, I’ve learned my lesson, but only when it was too late.
He brings my torn panties up to his face, and with a feral grin, shoves them in his mouth.
I want to be sick.
I want to die.
I want him to die.
Leaving my panties between his teeth so the thong string hangs from his lips like a spaghetti noodle, he brings his spare hand back to my crotch as black dots float in my vision.
Not enough oxygen.
Too much pain.
Too much everything.
My arms and legs continue to jerk, but it’s my body’s dying nervous system and natural reactions, not my fight-or-flight instincts.
No more flying for me.
Just sleep.
Go to sleep and escape before he gets his way.
Like I’m in a tunnel, I watch through the graying mist over his shoulder to avoid looking at his horrible face. I pay no attention to his hungry eyes or my panties hanging from his lips. Those panties touched my most private flesh only a minute ago. Now they touch his tongue.
His hand slides along my ribs on the outside of my dress. Then my thigh. Then up to my bare ass and around to my tightly clenched core.
Don’t let him in.
Don’t give in.
Calloused fingers crawl over my pelvis like scary spider legs, over the small thatch of hair, between the folds and over my clitoris.
It’s not like when Kane touched me. When he was touching me, my skin was on fire with need. More. I wanted more, but my common sense said no. Now, my chest is on fire with fear and disgust. Every part of me is aligned – my heart, my brain, my stomach; and every part of me says I don’t want this.
Don’t touch me.
Don’t hurt me.
Turning my eyes to the dark sky, the millions of stars, the half-moon, I don’t give him what he wants when his fingers force their way inside my body. He wants a reaction. He wants me to scream.
I’ll do neither.
If I die, I’ll do it without begging him for a thing.
Waves roar in my head at the lack of oxygen. It feels like I haven’t taken a breath in ten minutes, though it’s probably only been one. Tears slide along my cheeks, but other than that, other than my nervous system twitches, I give him nothing.
Eyes.
My family’s. My sister’s – identical to mine. I think of my brother’s too; how we all share the same ocean blue. My daddy always said he fell in love with my mom because looking into her eyes felt like he was on vacation. Like he was floating in the Caribbean.
Three babies later, he was surrounded by an entire family of vacation eyes, and we all had his last name.
More eyes; I see Britt. My best friend. My sister. Her baby. Her brother, Alex the cop. I see Kari and her forest green. So kind. So innocent. She’ll marry my brother, and with her green, and his blue, they’ll make something more magical than vacation eyes.
Marcus. Angelo. Scotch. Oz. All the people I love the most, the people who’ll be hurt when they find out what I’ve do
ne. First they’ll hurt, but then they’ll turn angry when they realize I put myself here. They’ll be pissed at me, even in death, they’ll be pissed I was so stupid.
Kane’s; not bright like most of the people I know. His are dark. Almost black. So many secrets. So much anger.
Glittering with something I’ve never seen in my life, not even the other night when he pulled Lance off me, Kane’s eyes now sparkle with a rage I’ve never seen in a pair of eyes before.
The no-named-man’s hair tickles my chin as his tongue laps at my neck. He holds my throat with one hand while the other moves inside my body, but Kane’s eyes – despite the anger – give me something pretty to look at in my final moments on this planet.
From a slow river of gluey mud processing my thoughts, my world snaps back to focus – rapids of blood and sense flood my clouded mind – as the no-named-man’s hand leaves my throat, his blade glancing off my skin with the same stinging pain as a paper cut.
My chest fills with oxygen even without my conscious request – my body takes over and drags precious air past an aching throat – while I watch Kane’s eyes, so full of rage a second ago, close in pain.
Wrapping his arm around the man’s neck, he twists until a sickening crack echoes in the dark alleyway, and as soon as the no-named-man is no longer holding me up, I drop to my feet and stumble on tender ankles. Sinking to my knees when they give way, I come eye-to-eye with the man as he drops to his.
His eyes – always the eyes – watch me as we kneel together, then dead weight, he pitches forward and pins me to the wall.
His almost two-hundred pounds steals the oxygen from my lungs a second time. My heart races and slams painfully against my chest as I struggle to breathe under his weight. With a roar of anger that hurts my ears, Kane picks the man up and tosses him to the side like he was simply a bag of potatoes.
Hooking me under the armpits and pulling me up, Kane’s hands go under my butt, my legs wrap around his naked torso, and my arms choke him the way the no-named-man choked me.
Burying my face in his neck, I release the sorrow that lodged itself in my heart when I thought I would die.
