THIEF_Steel Saints MC

by Paula Cox

  “Alana… I didn’t want her in that ring. She jumped in. I was so out of it, I had no idea. The next thing I knew, I woke up here with a million wires attached to me and her pretending to be my girlfriend.” His lips curl upwards as he says almost proudly, “I had security drag her out.”

  I can’t help but smile back as I walk to the edge of his bed, sitting near his side, “How did she take it?”

  Deadpan, he leans his head downward and whispers, “When I said ‘drag,’ I meant it literally.” We both laugh, and in those moments, our hands find one another. I’m careful not to rub against the IV attached to his wrist or move the monitor along his thumb.

  A cold sadness overwhelms me as I confess, “I heard what the doctors said… about you not fighting. Does that mean --”

  “I can’t make it to the pros on the timeline those scouts gave me. Yeah. That’s what it means. But I’m not going to listen to him. I am going to get a second opinion. Ricky’s making some phone calls about it first thing in the morning. I’ll get transferred out of here and see one of their guys. I’m sure we can find some doctor to bribe and sign off on the paperwork.” He looks away bitterly from me, probably guessing that I wouldn’t be too pleased to hear him go against everything his doctor’s told him.

  “But, Liam… he’s a doctor. He knows what he’s talking about. Brain damage? My dad has brain damage! Do you want to know what kind of hell he is going through just to learn how to eat food out of a spoon again?”

  “No. But fighting is my future, Alana. I don’t want to spend my life getting fat running my grandmother’s restaurant or running from the law with Steel Saints. This is my passion, and I’m not waiting around another second for another chance to come my way.”

  “I don’t understand--” Before this, I thought that Steel Saints was exactly what he wanted his life to be. He had managed to create this club where he could control an entire order of men to do his bidding. He could make millions in weeks if he kept up the dealing side of things. What more could he want? Sure, there was the hazard of being taken over by his own guys and a crazy ex-girlfriend jockeying for his attention, but he could handle anything. He was Liam Murphy.

  He sits straight up, leaning in towards me as he brushes a strand of my hair behind my ears. I can feel his warm breath against my cheek as he says low and soft, “This is the only way that I can be with you, Alana. If I fight, we can get out of this fucking mess and be together.”

  “Liam.. I…” My mind goes blank as I close my eyes. I think about everything my life has been the last few years with going to school, working tirelessly on my blog, putting so many extra hours of my life into running that ice cream truck for my dad. None of those moments made me feel half of what I was feeling right now, in this hospital bed, with Liam gently touching the line of my neck. What if everything I have gone through, everything I strived for, had managed to lead me right here? What if Liam’s finding my dad’s ice cream truck in the middle of that park was not an accident after all?

  I can’t ask myself any more questions. I do that too much already. I have to make a decision here and now. Liam was asking for a future together, and it’s a simple yes or no. Yes, and I stay -- I make this work. If it’s a no, then I am out the door, and I don’t bother to look back this time. My chest practically explodes with the possibilities. And for the first time in my life, I do the smartest and stupidest thing I have ever done -- I let go.

  With clear eyes, I stare back into Liam’s as I say, “Liam, I love you.” A moment passes, maybe three more. But the space between our lips meeting, our arms wrapping around one another, and the beeps of his monitors chiming alarms, are some of the happiest seconds I think I’ll ever experience again.

  CHAPTER 20

  It’s been four days since the whole “I love you” bomb. You’d think by now that I’d be totally okay with it, or at least numb. But just the memory of Alana looking into my eyes as she said it with such certainty makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand to attention. I haven’t thought of anything yet, even with all the time I’ve been putting in at the gym.

  Ricky did his job. Within a day of me being released from the hospital, he managed to land me a doctor who couldn’t give a shit about x-rays and test results. He didn’t even bother seeing me in his office. My boys delivered the money and came back with a filled out form my coach could submit to the boxing organization that oversees injury reports. Mr. Murphy was back in action and ready to fight.

  Still, I was being cautious. Despite protests from my trainers who aren’t totally in the loop about my condition, I stood my ground and committed to taking no hits before the match. I was on a strict cardio, strength, and shadow boxing routine for the rest of the week -- until my final match up before the promotion. I just had to get through it with a win under my belt. Nothing fancy. Not even a knockout. Just a W.

  I jump on the treadmill nearest the window. It’s part of the publicity plan my team has had me go after. After my last fight made national news, camera crews and photographers have been scooping my stories up like crazy. They followed me out of the hospital, peppering me with questions, while Alana held firmly onto my arm. I even caught them over at my apartment complex the other night, asking residents if they knew me.

  Switching on the television stationed on the treadmill, I manage to catch the end of a boxing program on Sportscast Live. It’s just a replay of that old footage they got a few days ago. There’s Alana in her sweatpants and tank top. She borrowed a pair of my sunglasses when she was told the press were outside. After hearing that Amy and her attacks on Alana were the reason why she had been so hesitant around me those few days before the match, I wasn’t exactly thrilled with putting her out there like a show pony. But she looked damn fine marching out by my side.

  I turn the program off, focusing on my run. Five miles to go until I can get off this damn thing. Working out without actually getting my hands messy is incredibly boring. I had nothing to do but to move my legs and think. Move and think. Move and think. It was just more time to remember Alana’s “I love you” and Amy’s kiss in the ring. It was more time to think about Steel Saints and the way the guys had been so passively around me the last few days. It’s as if they thought my head injuries were contagious.

  Speak of the devil -- my phone vibrates, rattling the plastic frame of the treadmill. The blasting rock music in my headphones turns off as I press the “answer” button on the Bluetooth earpiece. “What’s going on, Jason? Any word on that deal out on the strip? Did the hotel bite?” That would be the only reason why my second would be calling me when he knew I was working out tonight. My boys are under a strict order that unless it is a business issue or an emergency attack, I wasn’t to be bothered. Jason could take over for me on all things that didn’t need my attention.

  “No, no,” Jason says heavily, sounding beyond exhausted. “It’s something else… Look. The leadership and their seconds want to hold a meeting tonight. Could you get away for an hour or two to come over to headquarters?”

  What the hell would they want from me? My stomach turns to the beat of my feet hitting the track of the treadmill. Even by the dry tone of Jason’s voice, I could tell that whatever they needed to say to me wasn’t going to exactly be sunshine and rainbows. Something tells me that this has less to do with everyday business and more to do with the boys looking to put in a power grab against my loyal guys.

  I test the waters with Jason, knowing that he isn’t exactly willing to give up the whole plot before the meeting itself. “Does this have anything to do with me taking patches from Tyler, Mateo, and Rodney the other day? Because if it is, I am not going back on that. Those little bastards are fucking poison, and you all know it.”

  My blood pressure rises slowly as I think back to the first time I demoted the three for assaulting Alana in the parking lot of my restaurant. I warned them not to mess with me, but instead, they decided to pull a stunt where they changed the schedule of the collection runs so that
the wrong men went out to the wrong places and came back empty handed. We lost over $12k with that stupid fucking trick, and I was more than happy to finally get them out of the group for once and for all.

  “No... “ Jason answers slowly. “It’s not about them, Liam. It’s about some information that we got this afternoon. We think you should be here when we tell you about it.”

  “Look,” I say a bit more breathlessly as the programmed speed on my treadmill automatically picks up, “I don’t have time for your cryptic bullshit. You know that I am busy and that I am going to be until late tonight. You either tell me why the fuck you need to see me so urgently, or you don’t see me at all. Do you under--”

  The Bluetooth pieces falls from my ear as I hit the emergency stop button. As I squat down to pick it up, there’s a sound -- a sound of blasting, shattering glass. Something instinctively tells me to duck as I fall to my stomach. A blaze of orange, red, and black whooshes towards me, away from the spinning fans mounted to the walls. With a sharp crack, the fire spreads to my area of the gym and past the machine I’m hiding up against.

  It’s only five seconds, but it’s the closest I have ever been to death before. I let out a scream or a howl. It’s hard to tell with the strange noise of others crying out in pain, the fire alarms ringing, and the sprinkler system sputtering to life. I lay in place, replaying that fireball careening towards me at impossible speeds. It was almost as if my name was written on it, that this was hell’s way of coming to drag me down with it. But as I grasp at the raised texture of the corkboard floor, there’s only one thing keeping me present -- Alana’s voice.

  “I love you. I love you. I love you.” It repeats itself over and over again. For a second, as I will myself to look up and around, I think I feel the warmth of her hand on my jaw or the scent of her breath under my nose. But it’s a mirage. All that I can see is a blast of black and gray shadows cast on the wall. All I feel is the rain from the sprinklers soaking my shirt and pants to the skin. And all I can hear is the next shattering of glass as I again duck back down in a panic.

  Nothing happens this time. The window that has broken is right next to me -- next to the treadmill that looks as if it is slowly melting in some weird abstract painting. It’s the window where I was told there would be press camping out. But through the gray speckled window, I don’t see anyone with cameras, just the back end of a motorcycle speeding away from the scene.

  The person didn’t throw a bottle like the first attack, at least, that’s what I think he did. That’s a motorcycle club’s M.O. when they want to smoke out an enemy like this. I’ve done it a few times myself, and the destruction inside the gym is pretty compatible. I army crawl over to the broken red brick that’s landed between machines. My back is in so much pain that I can’t bare to stand up, but I am still strong enough to roll the stone over and grab the note tucked into the crevices.

  The paper is soaked wet, but I can just make out the black markered letters in all caps: “WE WARNED HER, LIAM. THIS IS WHAT HAPPENS WHEN YOU IGNORE ME.” Fuck! Whoever the damn fool it was who thought it was smart to attack the most dangerous man in Vegas knew what he was doing when he put my name on that brick. It meant that I had to keep my damn mouth shut when the cops come or risk drawing attention to the club.

  But what the hell did it mean? I stand slowly to my feet, brushing off the dirt from the floor. I know that I have to get out of here, but not without checking on the rest of the people inside. The gym only had a few users when I started, and most of them have already made their way outside the busted glass doors that are blowing closed in the wind. Still, I walk as quickly as I can towards the majority of the damage to the boxing rings.

  The explosion was so intense that the blue workout mats have melted into the ground. The foam insides are torn out as if they had been ripped and pulled. The ropes lining the three practice rings have broken and fallen to the ground. Thankfully, them not being there allows me to spot my sparring partner Bruno lying face down on the mat. He withers in pain as he tries to reach out an arm towards me.

  I spring into action, stepping up into the center and kneeling down beside me. “Liam,” he calls in a raspy, wheezing voice. “It’s my back. The fire hit my back.” I force myself to look down at him. His white t-shirt has been completely burnt off of him, exposing his leathered, blistering skin. The sight of it shocks me as I turn away. I have no idea what to do but to try to talk to him.

  “It’s going to be okay. Don’t move, Bruno. I can hear the police sirens now. They’re coming, and they’ll get you to the hospital.” I can just see their red, blue, and white lights flash and spin as they make the turn towards the parking lot. I should be getting out of here. I don’t have time to waste if there is someone out there actively hunting me down, willing to kill or hurt innocent people to get my attention.

  “Liam? Kid! Are you okay?” Ricky jumps into the ring beside me, not even noticing Bruno until he scoots in nearer to me. “Oh shit! Bruno! Damnit!”

  I grab hold of my coach’s shoulders, nearly slapping him to get him to focus on me. “I need to get out of here. Okay? I know you don’t want to know about what’s going on with my personal life, but I need you to cover for me. Say that I left a few minutes before whatever happened. I was not here. You get me?”

  “What?” Ricky looks down at Bruno and then back up at me. The sound of the police cars and ambulances grow even louder. “Shit, kid… ugh. Get the fuck out of here if you have to!” He leans back down to Bruno’s mouth, whose eyes have closed slowly, and listens for a pulse or some sign of life while I sprint towards the back of the club, past the saunas, locker rooms, and offices, and towards the private entrance where my Harley is parked.

  I head straight towards headquarters, not caring about stoplights or the few civilians walking home from work. My palms practically sweat against the handlebars as I get closer, anticipating what kind of attack may have happened there. But as I pull through the closed fence, I’m surprised to see nothing. The men are sitting against the wall of the building with their beers and cigarettes. Others come out with their schedules in hand and paychecks in another. They talk back and forth about the big raise they got from the diamond deal. None of them even register my presence.

  I park my bike the closest I can get it to the entrance before darting inside. The first person I see, I yell, “Where the hell is Jason?”

  “Boss?” The man studies me slowly. His eyes grow large as he spots the singed fabric of my workout shorts and the black soot stains against my chest. Little drops of blood continue to trickle down my forehead from the wound.

  I don’t bother explaining. I just shout at him again, “Get me Jason! Now!”

  “Whoa. What the fuck, Liam! I knew something happened to you when I heard that blast, but what the hell…” Jason peers at me from one of the doorways, motioning me over towards him. I spy behind him at the crowd of men in the room. Good. They’re already here.

  I pull the door behind me as the men shuffle in to take their seats. They stare back and forth at one another as I take over their meeting. I pull out the piece of tattered, wet paper as I exclaim, “We’re under attack. Someone or a group firebombed the gym tonight and then threw a brick with this note attached into a window near me. It’s addressed to me.”

  The note is passed around the room as I wait impatiently, pacing the front of the office. When it gets to Winston, the secretary, he places the paper down on his knees and then walks towards me. “This is why we wanted to see you earlier, Liam.”

  “Wait.” I hold my hands up towards my chest, “You fucking knew about this? You knew about this, but you didn’t tell me?”

  Jason jumps in, defending the rest of the men, “We didn’t know specifics, Liam. We all got an email today from some anon person that warned we were going to be next, and then it linked us to a website…”

  I watch as he walks over to a laptop sitting in the corner. He powers it on and then thrusts it into my arm. A bright and ch
eerful site with a cartoon woman doling out ice cream is at the very top. Graduate-Level Ice Cream is scrolled in fancy, cursive writing. My heart sinks to my shoes. It’s Alana’s site.

  I scroll quickly down to the most recent blog post. It’s only been up a couple hours based on the timestamp, but it looks completely different than the rest of the posts. Instead of the delicate purple font, it’s written in red and highlighted in yellow. The title reads: “THE BAD BOY CHRONICLES EXPOSED.”

  “What the fuck is this?” I mutter to myself.

  “It’s someone hacking your girlfriend’s site and publishing all of our info.” Winston stands up and points out a few lines. There are names -- all of our names -- published with addresses and numbers. “It’s a list of us with how much money we’re bringing in. Someone hacked into our data and pushed this list out on her site.”

  “But it’s just some stupid little blog. Who the fuck cares?” I say as I reach into my pocket. “I’ll call Alana and see if she can take it down. She’s in class right now. I doubt she knows she was even hacked.”

  “You don’t fucking understand, Liam,” Jason says, “Her site isn’t ‘little.’ We had André look it over, and it has nearly 50,000 views a DAY! She’s making bank with the advertising, and her site is listed all over the web right now for what she’s writing about you. Now that people know who you are and what you do outside the ring, you’re in deep shit.”