by M Never
I push through the back doors and step out into the alley. It’s a narrow strip of concrete sandwiched between two brick buildings that smells like garbage. The stench probably wouldn’t be so bad if the dumpster weren’t right next to the freakin’ door.
I light the cigarette, close my eyes, and let the smoke fill my lungs. It instantly relaxes me. I inhale another drag letting the nicotine work its magic. It’s twenty degrees out, I have no coat on, and I don’t even care that I’m starting to shiver. I’m too caught up in the moment, reveling in the few seconds I’m alone with my smoke.
“You know those things will kill you?” A figure appears out of the darkness. I immediately stiffen, trying as hard as I can not to show my trepidation.
“Nino.” I exhale, blowing smoke right in his face. He sneers waving a hand in front of him.
“Cute. Where have you been hiding?”
“I’m not hiding. I’m right here.”
He leers at me. “You’re right here . . . now.”
“Isn’t that what matters? The here and now?” I dance around his interrogation.
“No.” I see the change in his temperament instantly. He goes from tolerant to irate within a second.
“Tara?” Nino grabs my face and pins me against the brick wall. “Where the fuck were you?”
“Nowhere. Around.” I struggle against him.
“Bullshit. You weren’t answering your phone and you weren’t at your apartment. Where the fuck have you been?” He squeezes my cheeks harder.
“I don’t need to run my life by you! You don’t own me!” My words are muffled, but there’s no mistaking the fire behind them.
Nino flashes a sadistic smile. Even in the faint light of the alleyway, I can still make out his features. Strong jaw, high cheekbones, styled hair, and mouth of the devil himself. I used to think that mouth was sexy. I used to wish it would touch mine, devour it. Now, I regret ever getting close to it. It’s caused nothing but chaos.
“You are so wrong.” His voice vibrates with menace. “You’re my girl, Tara. I own that face and that ass and that pussy. Never forget that. I. Own. You. Until I decide otherwise.” He releases my cheeks roughly but keeps me pinned to the wall. “And if you ever disappear on me like that again, I’ll find you.” His threat chills me straight to the bone. “Got it, Tara?”
I loathe the way he says my name. Like he really does own me. I fight back the angry tears, completely silent.
“Tara?” He demands an answer.
“Yes,” I bite out, resisting the urge to spit on him.
“Good.” He hisses like the snake he is. “Remember, I know everything about you. Where your mother works, the bar your father hangs out at, even all about Ellie and her brand new husband. You wouldn’t want anything bad to happen to them because of you, would you?”
“You wouldn’t hurt them!” I erupt.
“If you force me to, I would,” he threatens.
I clench my jaw and battle back the tears.
“Don’t fuck with me, Tara. When I text you, you answer. Got it?”
I nod. The cigarette still smoking in my hand.
“Good.” He ogles me triumphantly. I begin to crumble at the thought of anyone I love being hurt because of me.
The door to the back room suddenly swings open while Nino still has me pinned against the wall. We both turn our heads to find Philly glaring at us.
“If you are going to hook up, can you at least wait until after your shift? We’re getting slammed in there.” He directs all his hostility at me, which hurts more than anything.
“Mmm . . .” Nino moans in my ear. “I love the idea of hooking up.” He slides his hand under my shirt and grabs my breast. Disgusted, I stab my cigarette into his neck, and he jerks back.
“Feisty tonight.” He snaps his jaw at me like a dog. “I like that.” He places his hand over the burn. “See ya around, sweetheart.” I inwardly cringe as he walks away.
I inhale a few quick, choppy breaths before I return inside, slipping by a glaring Philly without a word. I have gone from feeling light and airy to as heavy as a weathered stone. I feel the heat of Philly’s body radiating behind me, but he doesn’t say a word as we walk back into the busy café. Neither do I. Nothing needs to be said. I just pick up my tray and work the rest of the night as if nothing happened, counting down the minutes until I’m with CJ again.
I TEXT JETT TO LET him know I am staying.
Me: extending
Jett: no surprise
No surprise?
Arrogant prick thinks he can see through everyone.
I snicker to myself.
Arrogant prick can.
There’s a knock on my hotel room door. The room I previously had was already booked so they had to change me to a different suite. A bigger, nicer, and way more expensive suite. That’s what my dumbass gets for not thinking things through—or way overthinking things. I’m not exactly sure which got me into this situation—with the room and with Tara—but I’m here now and I’m going to ride it out.
“It’s open! Come in!” I yell from the very large living room. The panoramic windows in front of me have half of Manhattan on a showy display. “You’re a trusting man.” Slade walks in dressed casually in jeans, a thick sweatshirt, and black baseball cap pulled low.
“I knew it was you.” I put my phone down on the sleek, smoky coffee table. I like the luxury, but I don’t need it.
“Did my knock give me away?” He plops down on the maroon leather sofa. The shit’s so comfortable you could live on it.
“No, your cryptic text ‘Leave the door open’ is what gave you away.”
“That was pretty cryptic,” he says slickly as he makes himself at home, crossing his ankle over his knee.
“Are you tracking my cell phone or something?” I ask. “You seem to know where I am at all times.”
“You know I can’t share trade secrets.”
“I know better than anyone. Just don’t keep too close tabs. My bosses won’t like it.”
“Noted.” He nods, but he’s not intimidated one bit. Slade doesn’t care about my bosses. He doesn’t care about anyone really. He’s a Lone Ranger. Always has been. Even when we were serving, he was a rebel. Only fell in line because he was forced, not because he wanted to. But as much of a recluse as he is, there is no one else I would want fighting by my side. He’s smart, he’s cunning, and he has a bit of a bloodthirsty edge. In battle, that is an invaluable attribute. Especially when your helicopter goes down in the middle of the desert. He pulled me from the burning debris while I was unconscious. Dragged me two and a half miles in the blistering sun to a nearby Afghani town and kept me safe until a convoy arrived to scoop us up. I don’t remember much, but there were a series of moments when I was in and out of consciousness. When Slade had his gun drawn ready to kill anyone who came near us. Luckily, he was able to find us a hiding place with the help of some sympathetic locals.
A bond develops when you go through something like that. I owe him my life, and I’ll be indebted to him forever, even if he doesn’t see it that way. Even if he just thinks he was doing his job, he’s the reason I’m sitting here. He’s the reason I have a career I love and am able to indulge in a woman unparalleled to any other.
“So, now that your business trip has been extended, will I see you tomorrow night?” He cuts to the chase.
“Is that what this visit is about?”
“Partly.” He smiles shrewdly under the brim of his hat. “Partly because it’s been a long time since I’ve been in the company of someone I actually like.”
“Well, in that case . . .” I slap my knee and stand up to pour two drinks from the bar. “You get your drinking buddy for a few more days.”
“I’ll take what I can get.” I hear the uplift in his voice.
I hand him a hefty shot of scotch, and we clink glasses.
“Any break in your missing girl?”
“Nah, cold cases are a tougher nut to crack.”
Slade exhales. “It was a long shot, but I’m not giving up just yet.”
“I didn’t say I was, either.”
“Good.” He takes a swig of the brown liquid. “And now that you are extending your stay in the big apple, I expect to see you tomorrow night,” he stipulates.
“Giving me orders now? Have you been promoted?”
“I don’t need to be promoted to tell you what to do. Your ass will be there.”
“Spade, I don’t know. I only have—”
“Save it, Carmichael.” He cuts me off. “You can come willingly or by force. Either way, you and your hot little piece of ass are going.”
“You’re really not giving me much of a choice, huh?”
“Do I ever?”
“No.” I laugh. Jerkoff.
“See, things are so much easier my way.” His dark eyes sharpen.
I shoot him a pessimistic look. “Jury is still out on that, brother.”
Slade drains the contents of his glass and then hints for another.
“Help yourself.” I motion to the bar.
Slade does just that, filling his textured, crystal rocks glass with a hefty pour.
He then falls back onto the couch and smiles faintly over the rim of the glass. “I look forward to meeting your ray of sunshine formally.”
Formally? I look at him unexpectedly enlightened.
“What?” he asks. “I don’t think I like that look.”
“Formally?” I repeat scratching my chin, contemplating. Seriously, deviously, contemplating. “I think you’re going to more than look forward to it. I think you’re going to love it.”
I SMOOTH THE SILK OF the formal black dress in the mirror. It was waiting for me when I got to CJ’s this afternoon. Along with a pair of rhinestone stilettos and diamond drop earrings. Another ensemble courtesy of Jett. The man has some seriously good taste. It’s as if this dress was fitted specifically for me. It hugs every curve perfectly with a plunging neckline encrusted with crystals and a provocative slit up one side. I don’t know where we’re going, but dressed like this, I honestly don’t care. I feel like a princess, and I’m going to take advantage of every step in my five-inch designer heels.
“Whoa.” CJ stops dead in his tracks when he walks into the bedroom.
“You like?” I do a little spin, showing off the whole package. I pinned one side of my hair up to show off the earrings and applied some smoky purple eye shadow to accent my eyes.
“I . . .” He’s left speechless as he slides his hands around my waist. “I really fucking like.” He kisses my neck, causing goose bumps to erupt all over my skin.
“Good.” I smile as his lips tickle me.
“I can’t wait to show you off.”
“Show me off where exactly?” I probe.
CJ wags a finger at me. “You’ll find out soon enough. Now, let’s go before that dress ends up in a crinkled ball on the floor.” He grabs his tuxedo jacket off the bed and slips it on. I’ve seen CJ dressed formally before, and I can tell you it never gets old. A man in a well-tailored suit is like an aphrodisiac.
He’s right, we had better go, or my clothes aren’t going to be the only ones crinkled up in a ball.
Still in the dark about where we’re heading, I try to weasel out any information I can in the car. CJ doesn’t budge. He’s like a brick wall. I guess I didn’t have a prayer trying to crack an ex-special ops soldier. He’s no doubt trained in anti-interrogation tactics. As we drive, I notice we are heading straight into the heart of the Meatpacking district. This only makes my curiosity grow. Dressed like this, I was expecting to end up on the Upper East Side.
The car pulls into an underground garage and then parks. When we get out, CJ escorts me to a nearby elevator. The parking garage is completely deserted. There isn’t another vehicle or human being in sight. I’ll admit my imagination is now working overtime. We step into the elevator, and CJ pushes the number twenty-seven. As the elevator whisks us upwards, my anticipation grows. Where are we going? A gala? An elite private dinner? An auction maybe? I want to know so bad I could bust. When the elevator dings and the doors open, we are met with a loud rumble of a well-dressed crowd, bright lights, and vibrant atmosphere. CJ hands his invitation to a very large, intimidating black man who is guarding the elevator door. He takes the white card and scans it under a black light. It lights up with invisible letters. The man nods and then steps aside so CJ and I can enter the room. I am completely bewildered by now as CJ leads me through the bustling space to a set of doors. He throws an excited smile back at me, right before he opens them. As soon as they swing on their hinges, I hear the distinct sound of a bell. My jaw drops as we enter the room. In the dead center, surrounded by elegantly set tables, is a boxing ring. It’s a vast contradiction to what I know. There are two men throwing punches as a moderate crowd looks on. I stare up at CJ, completely confounded. He just grins, his playful brown eyes glittering in the spotlight.
“I’ll explain everything at our seats. Come on.” He jiggles my hand and walks to a table front and center, ringside. We’re served champagne the second we sit down by a white-gloved waiter. I take a sip, eagerly awaiting this explanation.
“Do you like boxing?” CJ asks as one of the fighters takes a jab straight to the nose.
“I do, actually. My father is a huge fan of the sport. We watch all the fights.”
“Who’s your favorite boxer?”
“David Lemieux.”
“Why him?”
“He’s hot.” I shrug.
“Oh, really?” CJ laughs.
“Yeah. Do I need a better reason?”
“I guess not.”
The round ends and the fighters go back to their corners.
“So are you going to explain all this to me, or what?”
CJ flashes me his signature rascally smile. “It’s a fundraiser of sorts. For wounded warriors. Once a year, a group of veterans called the Punch puts together an underground boxing match. Most of these guys are ex-military. It’s an honor to be asked to participate, but it’s no-holds-barred, bare knuckle fighting.
“Easier chance to get hurt?” I ask.
“Pretty much, but the bragging rights are for life.”
“I guess that’s worth the internal bleeding,” I quip as I take another sip of the dry champagne.
“It is,” he confirms confidently. The bell dings and the fighters return to the center of the ring. They dance around, throwing punches while the entire room yells for one of them to go down.
As we watch, a man approaches our table and CJ stands to greet him, shaking hands like old friends. He’s tall, with jet-black hair, a five o’clock shadow, and a huge scar slashed diagonally across his left eye. His presence actually makes my heart race. Even though he’s dressed in a formal tuxedo, you can feel his feral energy and see the rawness in his hazel eyes. I stand guardedly as CJ introduces me to one of his oldest friends.
The man named Slade extends his hand, and I take it tentatively as he looks me over like a ribeye steak ready to eat.
“It’s a pleasure to finally meet you.” His voice is kind, but his smile is cagey.
Finally?
“Nice to meet you, too.”
Slade and CJ exchange a few words while I stand huddled under CJ’s arm. He doesn’t like me to go far, and at this particular moment, I’m thankful for that.
With a polite good-bye, Slade walks off into the cluster of tables behind us just as we are served pasta. I don’t realize how hungry I am until I smell the fresh tomatoes and basil.
Throughout dinner, two things continuously happen. One, CJ never removes his hand from my thigh. It’s as if it is superglued there, and I don’t mind one bit. Two, people constantly stop by to say hello to him, like he’s a celebrity in the room. Everyone seems to know who he is. He introduces me to each person, never once making me feel invisible or forgotten. There are many veterans,
as well as active military, in attendance. I met one man who had two amputated legs but the most upbeat personality. He was absolutely an inspiration. After speaking with him, it felt like my insides were glowing. When I got dressed earlier this evening, I could have never prepared myself for the amazing people I was about to meet.
By the time dessert is served, it is nearly impossible to wipe the smile off my face. It’s an odd combination—gourmet food, boxing, and formal wear—but somehow, it works.
“Excuse me.” Someone taps the microphone in the middle of the ring. I’m sorry, not just someone. Slade.
“I want to thank everyone who came out to show their support to our veteran and wounded warrior program. Fight Night has been a long, outstanding tradition in the military community. It has raised hundreds of thousands of dollars over the last fifteen years, and tonight has only added to that running total.”
The room applauds.
“We have a special guest in the audience this evening,” Slade goes on, and CJ curses under his breath. “The legendary Christopher John Carmichael, four-time consecutive champion of Fight Night, has graced us with his presence.”
I look immediately at CJ. “He’s talking about you?”
CJ nods, notably embarrassed.
Slade turns his full attention on CJ. “What about it, champ? Wanna have a go in the ring? I know there are a lot of people who would love to see you fight.”
CJ actually turns red. I get a feeling he’s not one for the spotlight.
“No.” He shakes his head modestly, but Slade and the crowd don’t give up.
“C’mon, man. For old times’ sake!”
CJ still protests, but the demand of the audience becomes deafening.
“Okay! Okay!” he shouts as he stands up and the entire room claps. I’m completely floored. This night has taken an unexpected turn. CJ drops a kiss on my lips right before he takes off his tuxedo jacket.
“Don’t go anywhere,” he orders.
“I am glued to my seat,” I assure him.
“Good.” He kisses me one more time before he climbs into the ring. I think my heart is fluttering for him. I watch riveted as he discards his white shirt and tapes up his hands. By the time he’s done, his opponent is warming up in the opposite corner, shadowboxing the air. A younger man with ginger hair, pale skin, and bulging biceps.
