Shadow

by Nadine Nightingale

  “Boulder?” She interrupts my dirty trail of thoughts. “How did it go with Deveraux’s girlfriend?”

  “Awesome,” I grumble, adjusting my tight-as-fuck pants.

  “Uh-huh.” She laughs. “Right.”

  “You don’t even want to know.”

  Markus

  His elbow tears the skin above my brow, spilling blood in my eye. My sight blurs, and my head pounds like a motherfucker. Got to give it to him. Dark Ice is one tough son of a bitch.

  “C’mon, Boulder.” Deveraux slams his hand on the mat. “Show him what you’re made of.”

  Not helping.

  Dark Ice aims at my jaw, my nose—my whole fucking face. I take hit after hit, barely able to keep up my cover. If I was vain, I’d probably schedule an appointment with one of Miami’s leading plastic surgeons.

  “Watch out,” Tiffany screams.

  Too little, too late. Dark Ice’s left knee just became acquainted with my stomach.

  Fuck. I could really use a break. This isn’t some junior competition, though. Except for the ring—a real one, this time, located in the basement of some nightclub near Washington Avenue—underground fights have nothing in common with professional fights. They’re ruled by street laws—last man standing gets the cake. Or in this case, the green bills. Which means, I better focus before I lose my honor and dignity.

  The Mohawk-rocking lean giant comes at me. His left shoulder moves. He goes for my jaw again. I’m quicker. I duck, avoiding a broken jaw.

  Dark Ice isn’t happy. He quickly brings up his right fist, grazing my cheek.

  “Yes, that’s it!” Deveraux sounds happy. Almost as if I already won.

  I haven’t. Trust me. But I am conjuring a plan as we speak. Dark Ice is quick and strong. He keeps his face covered at all times, except when he cheers on the crowd, bathing in a win he doesn’t own yet. If I want him on the mat, I have to take a couple more hits.

  I lower my arms, giving him full access to my face.

  “What the fuck are you doing?” Deveraux questions my decision.

  I ignore him, bracing myself for Dark Ice’s uppercut. The impact sends my head flying up. I bite the inside of my cheek, tasting iron and metal.

  A kick to my shinbone follows. I stumble backward, kissing the ropes securing the ring.

  “Dark Ice! Dark Ice! Dark Ice!” The crowd goes crazy for him. Seems like they picked tonight’s winner.

  Mr. Egomaniac, as predicted, can’t resist. He turns to his audience. “Who’s the boss?” he roars. “Who’s the fucking boss?”

  “Dark Ice! Dark Ice! Dark Ice!” they chant.

  He throws his hands in the air. “Fuck, yeah!”

  In this very second, I could take him out with a single blow. He has his eyes everywhere but on me. That’s the difference between a streetfighter and a solider. We never feel safe, never underestimate an opponent, and never give into prestige.

  “You play dirty,” Dasha’s words echo in the back of my mind. She watches the fight from the balcony. I don’t look for her, but I know she’s there. I feel her eyes on me. For some reason, I don’t want to give her the gratification of proving her statement true.

  Dark Ice turns to me, but his focus remains on the crowd. “Let’s end this. I have pussies to fuck,” he barks at me.

  With pleasure.

  He presses his back against the ropes, stretching them backward. Then he charges me, putting everything he’s got in a Superman punch to impress his fans some more. Dark Ice brings his rear leg forward, feigning a kick. Then he snaps the leg back, ready to throw a cross.

  I drop to one knee, landing a precise punch in his lower abdomen.

  He goes down, face hardened by the pain.

  “Let’s end this dance.” I throw his own words back at him as he lifts himself up.

  Red-hot anger flashes in his eyes. His analytical brain has shut off, giving his primeval instincts room to flourish and grow. “I’m going to kill you, motherfucker.”

  Except, he won’t.

  The problem with negative emotions like wrath and revenge? They override common sense. Narrowing my sight, I suddenly find myself in the blind spot, unable to think straight. That’s why he doesn’t see my low kick coming, why he can’t deflect my fist when he’s on the ground. It’s why he’s out cold moments later.

  The crowd goes completely silent. Like Dark Ice, they didn’t see this coming. When they register he won’t get up again, that his blood seeps into the white mat, they break into roars, chanting my name like I’m some holy man and they’re my disciples.

  “Fuck, yeah!” Deveraux throws his arm around me. “You did it. You fucking did it, Boulder.”

  My left eye is still swelling up, but I catch Tiffany’s proud nod with my good one. She was worried for a second. Now, she can rest in peace.

  Dimitri walks up to us. He wears a pink shirt and black jeans. His hair, as always, combed back and fixed with plenty of product. “You, Boulder, sure as hell know how to keep shit interesting.”

  I shrug my aching shoulder. “Keeps them happy, doesn’t it?” I point at the audience.

  “Hell, yes,” he replies, soaking in the chanting.

  I leave Dimitri and Deveraux in the midst of the ring to grab a bottle of water. The cool drink runs down my throat, easing some of the fire adrenalin has spread.

  Dasha comes out of nowhere. “Not too bad.”

  Don’t look at her. Just don’t—

  Damn, that black dress is tempting. Scratch that. It’s really her who’s tempting as fuck. Especially when she wears her fiery thatch down and purses her cherry lips like that.

  “Thanks,” I murmur like a complete asshat

  “Sure.” Arms crossed, she inches closer. “But we both know you could have taken him out earlier.”

  So she did watch. And she saw my chance to send him to the ground. Seems like she can’t take her eyes of off me either. “I—”

  “Boulder?” Deveraux shouts.

  I look up. “Huh?”

  “You up for a little party at Dimitri’s?”

  No. “Sure.”

  Dasha grins. “Good luck surviving that.”

  I’m all set to ask her what the fuck she’s talking about. She disappears before I can.

  • • •

  The Porsche speedboat races across the bay, headed for Fisher Island. Turns out you don’t have to be a hotshot superstar or lottery winner to own one of the villas inside the famous resort. Selling caviar and mamushkas does the trick.

  Deveraux, Dimitri, and I are in the back seats. Dasha and a couple of Dimitri’s guys are in the boat behind us. Oh, and Tiffany? She excused herself and went home. Can you believe it? She thinks Facetiming her hubby is more important than being my wingwoman. Little does she know, I need one to distract me from a goddess who already found her god.

  The speedboat docks Dimitri is the first one out. “Welcome to my modest home,” he says, gesturing to his breathtaking Mediterranean villa.

  I count the guards. Twelve, all heavily armed with AK-47s and whatnot. One of them—a tall, stern-looking dude—secures the entrance, checking the arriving guests. Of course, he doesn’t frisk us down. We’re his boss’s special guests.

  “You did very well,” Deveraux whispers for the hundredth time this evening.

  I’d blush, but my face is too purple to show it. “Not a big deal.”

  “It kind of is,” he admits as we move toward the lit-up garden.

  “How so?” I ask, drinking it all in. Hundreds of candles and a couple of torches cast a beautiful orange light onto a dozen round tables decorated with fancy white tablecloths, champagne glasses, and vodka bottles.

  He stops, waiting for me to face him. “Truth be told, I didn’t think you could knock Dark Ice out.” He bites his lower lip, chewing on the red skin. “I placed a bet against you.”

  He placed a bet against me? And here I thought he’s my sponsor. “What did you lose?” I sound casual, the edge in my voice hidden
underneath a blanket of coolness.

  Deveraux looks back to the path we just came from. “You don’t even want to know.”

  I follow his gaze and find Dasha chit-chatting with one of Dimitri’s muscles. Bullshit. He can’t possibly…No, way. He wouldn’t…

  Would he?

  “Boulder! Will!” Dimitri waves us over. “What are you waiting for?”

  Baffled, I head toward the roaring party, my mind still at war with what Deveraux suggested he lost.

  “Buy them a drink first…”

  Markus

  Russians sure know how to party. They fucking own the three Bs—booze, boobs, and beat. Vodka streams senselessly, women in short, tight dresses float about, and the music is a sick mixture between jazz, R&B (to get the ladies’ hips moving), and some Russian songs that I imagine sound awesome when you’re wasted.

  Shame, I’m not. Wasted, I mean. Might make the whole thing easier to bear. Specifically, the fifty-something George Clooney wannabe to my right. He’s currently pulling a twenty-something hostess onto his lap. She smiles and all, but I’m not oblivious to the fear in her eyes when the dude snakes one hand around her hip, squeezing her tit with the other.

  I grit my teeth, doing my best to keep a lid on the disgust bubbling inside me. Who the hell does the fucker think he is?

  “Boulder.” Dimitri casts me an impatient look. “C’mon, there’s someone I’d like you to meet.” That’s what he said when he hauled me away from Deveraux a few seconds ago.

  Pulling my gaze from the brunette’s petrified expression, I follow Dimitri to an occupied table.

  I count four guys, two of which are determined to beat each other at a game of backgammon. They’re both blond, but one of them—the younger one—has an eerie resemblance to Dolph Lundgren. Like he-could-be-his-little-brother eerie.

  “Gentlemen,” Dimitri greets them. “This is Markus Boulder.” He points his chin at me. “Will’s new fighter.” He gestures to the oldest of the group. “Markus, meet Viktor,” his gaze darts to the backgammon players, “Lev, and Pavel.” His eyes light up when introducing the youngest member of the group. “And this is my son, Gleb.”

  “Pleasure to meet you.” The lie rolls off my tongue so easily, I almost believe it myself. Then I take inventory of the group and realize “pleasure” looks different. Sorta less Russian mob and more Russian goddess.

  Viktor runs a hand through his salt-and-pepper hair and looks me over—head to toe. His black devilish eyebrows along with the edgy face cast some sort of dangerous don’t-fuck-with-me aura around him. “Sit,” he orders, his Russian accent thick.

  I’d rather not, but whatever.

  Gleb brushes his dark-brown hair out of his face and reaches for a bottle of Oval Vodka. The thing is studded with Swarovskis. Just looking at it hurts my bank account. “So you’re the one my father speaks so highly about, huh?” I swear there’s a trace of envy in his voice. “I must say, you don’t look as tough as he made you out to be.”

  Young Dimitri is an asshole.

  Shocker.

  Brats like Gleb love to mess with people. They feel superior. They’re not. What differentiates Gleb from every other guy in the world are dollar bills. Unfortunately, charm or personality can’t be bought. But he could buy a new nose. The douchebag gives Pinocchio a run for his money.

  “All the better,” I retort, flashing him my teeth. “Gives me an advantage when little boys judge the book by its cover.” I lean over the table. “They never see their end coming.”

  Dimitri, Lev, and Pavel chuckle. They got the message.

  Gleb didn’t. “Personally,” he pours a shot, “I’d prefer the brawny type to invest my hard-earned money in.”

  “Daddy’s,” I shoot back.

  His gaze flies up to mine. “What?”

  Leaning back, I keep the smile in place. “You meant to say you’d invest daddy’s money, right?” I tilt my chin at his manicured hands. “You don’t strike me as the hardworking kind.”

  Two things happen at once. One: Gleb is furious. His face is so fucking red, someone better call the fire department. Two: the whole table bursts into laughter. Even Viktor can’t hide his grin.

  “Nicely played,” Dimitri congratulates me for insulting his son.

  “Yeah.” Gleb shoves the vodka shot my way, eyes narrowed to two thin slits. “Nicely played.”

  “Have some vodka, my friend.” Dimitri pats my shoulder. “You earned it.”

  “Thanks,” I start, knowing what I’ll say next won’t sit well with the Russians. “But I don’t drink.”

  They eyeball me as if I just admitted to being a serial killer in my free time. Then, after a moment of awkward silence, Gleb bursts into laughter. “Uh, you got us there,” he says, assuming I joked.

  “I don’t drink,” I repeat, voice harder, hands clenched.

  Viktor’s cold blue eyes scan my face. “How can man not drink?” He ogles his friends. “It’s like man says he don’t fuck.”

  The group laughs, and I’m the punchline of the joke.

  “Russian men,” Gleb gulps the vodka down at once, “fuck like they drink.” He slams the empty shot glass onto the table. “A lot and hard.”

  “Fuck being the keyword,” Dimitri cuts in, facing me. “I have a little something for you. A trophy, if you will.”

  Yeah, thanks but no thanks.

  “Gentlemen.” Deveraux comes out of nowhere, digging his nails into my shoulders. “I see you met my new horse in the stable?”

  “Yeah,” Gleb grumbles. “He’s a real bummer.”

  Viktor fiddles with his gold ring. There’s some kind of crest on it, if I can trust my sight. “Join us, Will.” I get the feeling he’s the leader of our dirty dozen. There’s just something about him reeking of authority and fear.

  Deveraux flings himself in the chair beside me.

  Dimitri nudges him. “Where’s my prize?”

  He looks over his shoulder to the bar, smiling like he owns the world. “Sipping champagne.” Dasha talks to some dude who seems to confuse her with a prostitute. Why else would he have his shitty fingers on her ass?

  Wait. Back up. Did he just say Dimitri’s prize is sipping champagne? That means… Fuck no! He really did throw Dasha in the pot? What the actual fuck?

  She won’t go through with it. A goddess like her would never sink so low. I hope. Fuck. I beg the universe and every other god willing to listen that she’ll slam both their heads in the wall when she hears what her super boyfriend did.

  Or else, I will.

  A phone rings. Dimitri reaches in his pocket. “Excuse me?” It sounds like a question, directed at Viktor.

  The old man nods. Only then does Dimitri leave the table.

  “You sure you don’t want some?” Gleb draws my attention away from Viktor and back to the Swarovski-studded bottle. “Might pull that self-righteous stick out of your ass.”

  I’m seconds away from breaking that bottle over his head. A shame that Dimitri returns looking pissed and…worried? “Will?” he breathes. Yup, definitely worried.

  Deveraux looks up. “Yes?”

  Dimitri shoves his hands in his pockets. “Have you heard from Alexei recently?”

  Alexei…Alexei…Alexei…Wait, wasn’t that the bald dude from Sin? The one who had a phone addiction?

  Lev and Pavel interrupt their game as they all focus on Deveraux. “Not since Sin,” America’s Favorite Son replies. “Why, is there a problem?”

  Dimitri smiles half-heartedly. “No. It’s just no one has heard from him in two days, and we’re a bit worried.”

  “C’mon, Dad.” Gleb rolls his eyes. “We all know he’s fucking some whore. It’s not like this is the first time he’s gone AWOL.”

  Lev—Dolph Lundgren’s younger brother—nods. “He’s fucking a whore and spending money he doesn’t have on blackjack.”

  “You’re probably right,” Dimitri says, rubbing his chin. “He’s taking a little time out.”

  That does
n’t sit well with good old Viktor. “Tell him to come see.” He shoots Dimitri a dark glance. “ASAP, as the Americans say.”

  “I will, Papa.”

  Papa? Is Viktor Dimitri’s father? If so, they have absolutely nothing in common.

  The group slowly dissolves. Gleb moves on to hit on some poor waitress. She’s got the shoot-me-please look down like a boss. Lev and Pavel finished their game and get hot and heavy with some bikini bunnies, and Viktor goes inside to rest.

  Deveraux, Dimitri, and I are the only ones left.

  “Listen.” Deveraux folds his hands on the table. “Alexei’s little stunt isn’t going to cause me any trouble, is it?” Deveraux’s eyes are like ice, his voice harder than usual. “I don’t deal well with delays.”

  Dimitri pats my sponsor’s, aka target’s, shoulder. “Don’t you worry, my friend.” He flashes his ugly teeth. “Your merchandise is already in Miami. We’re getting it ready for delivery as we speak.”

  I’d give my fucking arm to know what Deveraux buys from the Russians. Hell, if he wasn’t the son of the POTUS, my money would be on drugs.

  “Good.” Deveraux downs his vodka. “It’d be a real shame if I had to find another seller.”

  Dimitri leans in closer. “We’ll hold up our end of the bargain. You,” he lowers his voice, “just make sure you hold up yours.” Wow, this conversation went from cheerful to don’t-fuck-with-me in a matter of seconds.

  America’s Favorite Son finds Dasha sitting by the pool, feet dangling in the water. “I’m a man of my word.”

  Dimitri eye-fucks Dasha’s delicious back. “It’s a real fucking pleasure doing business with you, then,” he says, licking his lip. “A real fucking pleasure.”

  “I’m going to stretch my legs,” I excuse myself, before I end up doing something stupid like indulging in real fucking pleasure, Boulder-style.

  “What can I do for you?” the doll behind the bar asks. She looks so young, I wonder if she’s ever had a drink in her life.