In Your Corner

by Sarah Castille

  He lifts an eyebrow. “So, you a good girl lookin’ for a bad boy? Rebelling against your parents? Wanting to walk on the wild side?”

  “None of the above.”

  “So what’s the story?”

  “Story is…she’s with me.” A leather-clad arm slides around my waist, and I look over my shoulder to find myself pressed tight against the Devil himself.

  Tall and slim, his black hair slicked against his head, my new friend has the unnaturally pale skin and sharp, cruel features of a comic book villain. His eyes are dark, rimmed in red, and his mouth a thin slash between hollow cheeks. Despite his slender frame, he is surprisingly strong and I cannot pull away.

  He presses his lips to my ear and nibbles the shell.

  Clearly, there is no wasting time in the new Hellhole. No coy looks, brushed fingers, winks, or bad lines. No flirting over drinks or surreptitious feel-ups on the dance floor. See a girl you want to fuck—grab her. Nibble her ear. I can hardly wait to see what’s next. Is he going to bend me over the stool and have his way with me right here? Will he do for the night’s tickle and tease?

  “Name’s Bob,” he murmurs.

  Dear Lord. The Devil’s name is Bob. Well, better the Devil you know than the Devil you don’t.

  “Hi, Bob.”

  “You’ve attracted a lot of attention, Angel. We don’t often get your type in here.”

  More nibbles. Maybe I should give him some cheese. Unfortunately, I don’t need nibbles. I need dark and dangerous. I need rough, meaningless sex with a man who doesn’t give a fuck about me and will walk away in the morning without so much as a good-bye. I want to hurt on the outside as much as I hurt on the inside.

  “Good attention or bad attention…Bob?” I manage to say this in a sultry, non-laughing voice.

  “Doesn’t matter. I’m the only attention you’re gonna get tonight.” He trails his lips down my neck and bites the sensitive area near my shoulder.

  Ah, Bob has bite. Nice. A little bite is just what I need.

  But nice quickly transitions into uncomfortable when Bob doesn’t stop at a love bite. His teeth dig in harder until pleasure gives way to pain and a frisson of fear shoots through my body.

  “Let go.” I try to pull away but Bob tightens his grip.

  “This a game for you, Angel? You picked the wrong place to play. We don’t like cock teases here.”

  Suddenly I don’t want to be in Hell. The lights are too dim, the air too smoky, the music too loud. And Bob is a little too extreme, even for me.

  I twist in Bob’s grasp, but before I can escape, he yanks my hair, tugging my head sideways to expose the unmarked side of my neck. My pulse takes off down the speedway. God, what a mistake. I should be home in bed, waiting for my kinky friend with benefits to show up with his medical bag full of sanitized sex toys, not offering myself up for feeding time at the zoo.

  “Stop.” I stomp my stiletto on his instep and Bob releases me with a howl.

  “Fucking bitch.”

  My breath leaves me in a rush. Ice floods my veins. Bob’s mouth is still moving but I can’t hear him for the pounding of blood in my ears.

  Grabbing my purse off the bar, I edge back toward the rear exit door and give the bartender a beseeching look. He snorts a laugh and walks away muttering, “Good girl just found herself a bad boy.”

  Taking another step back, I hold up my hands, palms forward. “Look, Bob…I think we’ve had a misunderstanding.”

  “You paid your entrance fee, Angel. It’s my job to make sure you have a good time, unless you got something extra in that fancy purse to buy yourself some time alone.”

  I swallow past the lump in my throat. “You’re the owner?”

  He lifts a thin, black eyebrow and smiles.

  Is that a yes or a no? I can’t tell and at this moment, I don’t care.

  Pulse racing, mouth dry, legs trembling, I glance quickly at the sea of tables, chairs, metalheads, and Goths in front of me. A few of them are looking at us. Surely, they aren’t just going to sit around and watch me get robbed or assaulted. Or maybe that’s what they do for entertainment in Hellhole.

  “I made a mistake coming here.” I force my voice to stay calm and even despite the violent trembles wracking my body. “You keep the entrance fee and we’ll pretend I had a good time.” Then I whirl around and hit the back door running.

  Heart pounding, I take the stairs two at a time, no easy feat in heels. A few moments later, I burst into the alley and race toward the street. But before I make it to safety, the bouncer rounds the corner, blocking my way. Rough hands grab me from behind and pull me, kicking and screaming, behind a Dumpster.

  “Her purse is behind you.” The bouncer jerks his chin toward the exit door as Bob pins me against the wall. He covers my mouth with one hand and brackets my wrists over my head with the other, holding them against the rough brick surface.

  Maybe his real name is Beelzebub and they call him Bob for short.

  “We could have had such a good time.” Bob strokes my cheek. “Sure you won’t change your mind?”

  The bouncer joins us and frowns. “I thought you just wanted her purse.”

  Unable to imagine a “good time” that involves Bob in any way, shape, or form, I renew my writhing, kicking, and screaming efforts. My foot makes contact and Bob groans. He releases my hands, but before I can run, he grabs my hair. Twisting to get away, I lose my footing at the same time Bob releases his grip. Before I can catch myself, I go flying into the Dumpster.

  Something cracks.

  My head.

  Someone screams.

  Me.

  But the echo of my scream isn’t the only sound I hear as I slide to the ground.

  Tires screech. Doors slam. Feet thud on concrete.

  Voices. Shouts. Roars.

  “There in the alley. That’s her. The girl who was in my cab. Damn. I think we’re too late.”

  Shadows race toward me. Dazed, confused, flitting in and out of consciousness, I watch them as if I’m far away.

  “Fuzzy, better turn away. There’s gonna be some illegal activity going on in about ten seconds.” The deep voice is familiar. I last heard that voice at Redemption and it was attached to someone wearing a yellow happy face vest. My gaze focuses on a huge barrel chest. Rampage! What’s Rampage doing here?

  “Fuck that,” someone answers. “Nothing illegal about taking down two criminals who I’m pretty sure are going to resist arrest. I won’t even mind doing the paperwork at the station tonight.”

  A cop. Rampage called him Fuzzy. Oh my God. The cab driver’s son. Tears prickle my eyes and I wish I had a run-to-the-rescue kind of dad too.

  The shadows converge, and as they come into the dim light, I recognize them from Redemption: Rampage, Blade Saw, Homicide Hank, and Obsidian. When I was with Jake, we partied with the Redemption crew every weekend. Best bunch of guys I ever knew—big hearts, big muscles, and a bond so tight they were almost like brothers.

  And right now the brothers are on a tear with fury in their eyes.

  Rampage grabs the bouncer and tosses him through the air like a discarded tissue. I catch a glimpse of red hair and a thin, wiry body as Homicide Hank screams and drives his fist into Bob’s gut. But Bob is fast. He spins around and an inattentive Blade Saw gets a punch to the jaw. Blade Saw’s face curdles with rage and I look away. A former semi-pro heavyweight bodybuilder with fists of steel, Blade Saw is not a man to be trifled with.

  A crack. A scream. Bob drops to his knees. “My arm!”

  The bouncer lumbers to his feet and races over to help Bob. A shadow darker than night bellows with a voice so low my toes curl, intercepting him midstride. The bouncer flies through the air and crashes against the wall. Throws and takedowns are Obsidian’s specialty.

  “Hey, leave one for me. I can’t write up a rep
ort saying I just stood around doing nothing.” A tall man with broad shoulders and a shaved head wades into the fray of thudding fists, cracking heads, groans, and screams. This must be Fuzzy, the cab driver’s son.

  Although I try to push myself up, pain knifes through my shoulder and arm, driving me back down to the ground. The cab driver kneels beside me and strokes my head. I wait for him to tell me how disappointed he is in me, one of my father’s favorite phrases. Instead, his face crumples. “I shouldn’t have left you. I should have dropped you at Redemption and driven away.”

  My mouth opens and closes but no sound comes out. Speaking is too much of an effort. All my energy is focused on not succumbing to the blackness creeping into my vision.

  “Amanda.”

  Nononononononono. Squeezing my eyes shut, I turn away from that voice. The voice I hear in my dreams every night. The voice I heard in the boardroom last week. I must have hit my head harder than I thought. I must be delirious. Jake is not here. He said he didn’t fight anymore at Redemption.

  “Look at me.”

  Unable to resist the opportunity to torture myself further, I turn and look into a deep blue sea of concern.

  Jake. So handsome. I can’t look away.

  “Jesus Christ.” His face contorts into a mask of anger. “What did they do to you?”

  I would answer if I knew, but the world is a jumble of sounds and memories…and pain.

  The cab driver puts a hand on Jake’s shoulder. “We need to get her to a hospital.”

  “NO.” I find my voice as darkness creeps across my vision. “No hospitals.” Hospitals mean my parents will find out where I was and what happened. Hospitals mean confrontation and anger and a father’s disappointment.

  “What were you doing here?” Jake gently brushes my hair off my face. “I mean…this isn’t your kind of place.”

  “She told me she lost her job,” the cab driver interjects.

  Hmmm. Maybe he’s not so great after all. Kinda meddlesome. And violating my right to privacy. Doesn’t he know what’s said in the cab is supposed to stay in the cab?

  “I got the feeling she was going off the rails,” he says, clearly unable to read my thoughts. “I tried to talk her out of it.”

  Jake’s face tightens. “What do you mean she lost her job? I saw her at her office last week.” The blood drains from his face. “When?”

  “She said it happened last Friday.”

  “Friday?” Jake’s strangled tone has me shaking my head. “Fuck. It’s because of me. It’s my fault.”

  My heart squeezes at the pain in his voice. I want to tell him it isn’t his fault. I want to tell him it would have happened anyway.

  But the words don’t come. Instead I close my eyes and succumb to the darkness.

  Jake’s anguished face is the last thing I see.

  ***

  “I have never been so disappointed in my life.”

  My father brushes off his gray Hugo Boss suit and glares at me across the hospital room. Although he’s almost fifty-five, women still think he’s quite a catch with his piercing blue eyes, trim body, and square jaw. But I think my mom was the catch. Five years younger than my father, her soft blond hair curls gently around a perfect oval of a face, and her eyes are a soft blue, like a summer sky.

  “Your mother called Farnsworth to tell him you wouldn’t be in to work and he told her…” He draws in a ragged breath and turns to my mother. “Tell her, Viv. Tell her what we had to hear from one of our dearest friends.”

  Head fuzzy from painkillers and still dazed after being rudely awakened by my father’s bark of anger, I tilt my head to the side and frown. Well, at least they aren’t going to bother asking how I am.

  My mother shakes her head and sighs. “He said you were worried you weren’t on the partnership track so you propositioned him. He was mortified, especially since you’re his best friend’s daughter. He said if it had been anyone else, he would have reported you to the State Bar, but as a favor to our family, he just asked you to leave.”

  I draw in a sharp breath, inhaling the scent of antiseptic and the faint floral fragrance of my mother’s perfume. Farnsworth’s story is already in play, but he took a risk that my parents would believe his story over mine. Or maybe it was no risk at all.

  “He’s lying.” My voice is a soft rasp, barely audible over the beeping of the machines beside me. “He propositioned me.”

  My father gives a bitter laugh. “As if I would believe you. Do you think we didn’t know what went on in the house when we were working hard to put a roof over your head? Even now, every time we see you, you have a different boyfriend in tow. A person who is incapable of sustaining a stable relationship wouldn’t think twice about offering herself up to get ahead.”

  Mom puts a hand on his arm. “Stan. I think you’ve made your point. She’s been hurt. We should let her rest. Why don’t you wait in the hall?”

  Shocked, my father and I both stare. Mom never took sides between my father and me when I lived at home. She listened, kept her own counsel, and then sent me to my room. Except this time, I’m already in my room. Maybe that’s the reason for her first ever attempt to diffuse the hostility that permeates my relationship with my father—the hostility that began the day I dared to be born a girl. Disappointment number one.

  Unfortunately, my father doesn’t heed Mom’s warning. He’s on his high horse and clearly determined to ride it to the end.

  “Rest? She had all morning to rest and she was well enough to give a statement to the police. She needs to understand the extent of my frustration. Imagine. I was pulled out of bed on a trial prep weekend because our daughter, a Westwood, was found at a sleazy bar in Ghost Town.” He scowls in my direction. “You certainly got what you deserved. You should have known better than to go to a place like that.”

  “You’re being a bit harsh.” My mother taps my father lightly on the elbow. “She’s obviously learned her lesson. Look at her. She’s…injured.” Mom’s voice cracks. I am disconcerted by her unexpected show of emotion. I must look pretty bad.

  “Harsh? She’ll never be a partner at any law firm in California. After propositioning Farnsworth, she’ll never get a reference, and if people find out what she did, they won’t touch her with a ten-foot pole.”

  “He tried to blackmail me,” I croak. But before I can explain, my father cuts me off with a cruel laugh.

  “As if I would believe that. A girl like you? You’re a goddamn sl—”

  “Stan.” My mother interrupts. “She’s our daughter and I’m sure she knows she’s let us down.” She takes a step toward the door, urging my father forward, only to stop short when a tall figure dressed in black brushes past her.

  Jake.

  My foggy brain, already struggling to keep up with the family nightmare, freezes at the breathtaking sight of his hard, muscular body clad in a leather biker jacket and low-slung jeans.

  “Am I interrupting something?” He casually interposes himself between my father and my bed.

  My father pulls himself up to his full six-foot height, but he still has to look up to meet Jake’s gaze. “Who the hell are you?”

  “Jake Donovan.” He tosses his helmet on the bedside chair and folds his arms, treating me to an up close and personal view of his broad back and tight ass.

  My father harrumphs. “Mr. Donovan, we’re in the middle of a private family discussion. I suggest you visit another time.”

  Jake’s shoulders stiffen. “Private? Everyone in the hallway could hear you. Not only that, but she’s hurt. Is this really the best time for a verbal assault?”

  Emotion wells up in my chest at his unexpected support at the only time in my life I haven’t had the will or energy to defend myself.

  “Jake…it’s okay. I’m used to it.”

  “It’s not okay to me.” He looks back over
his shoulder and catches me with his breathtaking gaze, at once furious and concerned.

  The pulse in my father’s jaw throbs double-time and the blood drains from his face. Instinctively, my hands curl into the sheets. I know that look. And I know what comes next. I am suddenly so profoundly grateful for Jake’s intervention, my eyes prickle with tears.

  “She’s my daughter and I’ll speak to her when, where, and how I choose,” my father barks.

  “She’s my friend.” Jake closes the distance between them in two quick strides, his body quivering as if he wants to punch someone. “And I suggest you consider another time and place.”

  Two inches taller than my father, heavily muscled, and many years younger, Jake in a rage is intimidating even to me. But my father didn’t get to be a partner at one of the top law firms in the city by backing down. Ever.

  “Are you threatening me?”

  “Do I need to threaten you?” Jake takes a step closer to my father and his voice drops to a low, warning growl.

  “You’re out of line, young man.” My father’s lips curl in a snarl.

  He’s right. Jake is out of line. But then, Jake doesn’t care about lines or rules or convention. His cavalier attitude was one of the things I liked best about him. A total disregard for the things that defined my life.

  “Stan.” My mother wraps an arm around my father’s bicep and tugs. “It’s time to go. We can have a family discussion later. Let her visit with her friend.”

  But my father doesn’t move. Instead, he and Jake face off. Eyes locked, chests heaving, fists clenched.

  “She’s no family of mine,” my father mutters after a few tense moments. “There’s only so much disappointment a father can take. As of this moment, I never had a daughter.” With a final harrumph, my father breaks the stalemate and storms out the door. Mom takes a step after him, pauses, and then pats my foot under the covers.

  “I talked to the doctor and he says it was just a minor concussion and a lot of bruising and you should be out of here tomorrow. If you need to come home…” Her gaze flicks to my father’s departing back and then to me. “I suppose we could hire someone…we’re both in trial…”