Grudge Match

by Jessica Gadziala

  Table of Contents

  TITLE

  Dedication

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  EPILOGUE

  DON'T FORGET

  ALSO BY JESSICA GADZIALA

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  STALK HER!

  Contents

  TITLE

  Dedication

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  EPILOGUE

  DON'T FORGET

  ALSO BY JESSICA GADZIALA

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  STALK HER!

  GRUDGE

  MATCH

  Copyright © 2017 Jessica Gadziala

  All rights reserved. In accordance with the U.S Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading, and electronic sharing of any part of this book without permission of the publisher is unlawful piracy and theft of the author's intellectual property. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author except for brief quotations used in a book review.

  "This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places and incidents are products of the writer's imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental."

  Cover image credit: Shutterstock .com/ Artem Furman

  Shutterstock .com/ Nejron Photo

  Cover Design: Chloe Sanossian

  DEDICATION

  To Tima Hall.

  #HashtagQueen.

  #TheOriginalMrsWard

  I know #MamaBeWaitingOnThatAss.

  Well, the wait is over.

  Here he is.

  I hope you love him even half as much as I do <3

  ONE

  Ward

  Another day, another ten-thousand dollars.

  Fight nights almost always demanded my attention until around sun-up. It went with the territory when you ran an underground fighting ring. There were no pesky rules about when I had to stop serving alcohol since no one knew I handed it out like water. It meant that people stayed milling around long after the blood was sopped up, and the fighters went home.

  I raked a hand down the scruff on my face, tapping the stack of bills together, and putting them into the safe under the desk.

  It was a good night.

  Most of them were these days.

  If there was one thing you could count on people paying for - back from the Colosseum days - it was brutality. Society wasn't getting more violent. The violence was just getting more televised.

  I guess it didn't say much for me that I sat there and capitalized on the bloodthirsty hoards like some Roman Emperor at arena-side.

  But business was business.

  And I took care of my men.

  So if they wanted to put their bodies on the line in the ring to make some extra cash, what should I care? We lined both our pockets.

  "Yo, boss," Igor said, stepping into the doorway of the office.

  I glanced up, checking the time on the wall.

  Five after four.

  "Yeah?"

  "We're all cleaned out. The bartenders are ready to head out."

  The female bartenders.

  That he was under orders to walk to their cars.

  And he likely wanted to leave as well.

  "Yeah, go ahead. I'm finishing up here too," I agreed, closing the safe. "Good fight," I added as he turned away.

  Igor was one of my best fighters. He was a giant, long-blond-haired solid mass of muscle. He might not have been the most wiry of my men, but what he lacked in speed, he made up for in brute strength.

  It won him his fight tonight against one of the newer, hungry fighters, Kenny.

  Win, lose, we all made bank.

  I heard the click of heels followed by the swish and click of the heavy metal doors closing as Igor led the girls upstairs and outside.

  I got up, grabbing my empty glass of bourbon, depositing it into the rack under the bar before making my rounds.

  Hex had taken a lot of work, it, after all, being the basement to an old, abandoned school with cinderblock walls, cement floors, and a perpetually musty smell. Walls went up, hardwood floors went down, a long dark bar was brought in toward one end with a fully stocked back bar and taps, tables and seating areas were set up. Truly, if not for the giant, raised, hexagonal fighting cage, it might have just looked like some sleek nightclub.

  I flicked off the lights, opening the heavy school doors that led right toward a staircase that went out into the school, or out into the parking lot.

  The school part itself was still empty, just classes reminiscent of a time gone by. I was still debating what my options for it were. Having a thriving, illegal business in the basement that got rowdy at all hours seemed to limit my options for the space.

  I would figure it out eventually.

  The lot was abandoned save for my lone, sleek black sports car.

  I bleeped the locks, climbing in, and turning on the engine.

  I was just starting to pull out when my headlights flashed onto something behind the dumpster, something that didn't belong there, something that looked suspiciously like a human foot.

  I put the car in park.

  "Just what I fucking need," I growled, moving to get out.

  Maybe that was insensitive, this person was currently - or had been - alive at some point. Human tragedy and all that shit.

  But this was Navesink Bank.

  Bodies happened.

  Bodies happened frequently.

  That was what happened in a hotbed of criminal activity, with syndicates that ranged from low-level gangs, gun-running MCs, and the local Italian mob.

  People got killed.

  There was no reason to get all heavy-hearted about that shit.

  I grabbed a flashlight out of the side-compartment in my door and made my way out toward the dumpster.

  The light flashed, catching what was, indeed, a human foot.

  "Oh, damnit," I growled, seeing the small, faux leather baby pink ballet flat beside the petite foot, toenails painted a robin's egg blue.

  A woman.

  It was one thing to take out some guy stepping on your turf, threatening your business, kicking dirt in your name. It was a complete other to put your hands on a woman.

  The light moved upward, taking in the kicked-up pale pink skirt of her dress, already short, so pushed up, it exposed not only all her thighs but the lacy magenta edge of her panties.

  I bit into my cheek as the light moved over her chest, sure it was going to be flat, sure this was a night where I'd have to call the cops and stand around answering questions for the few precious hours of sleep I would have normally gotten.

  But there, under the thin material, her chest was rising and falling.

  Thank fuck.

  The light moved higher, taking in the ends of her wavy medium-brown hair that was fanned outward around her face.

  Fuck.

  And what a face.

  Full, somewhat oversized lips, prominent cheekbones, a straight nose, somewhat natural
brows - which was refreshing. Actually, as a whole, she seemed to have almost no makeup on, save for a little pink to her lips.

  Gorgeous.

  Literally the only thing marring it was the deep purple and red bruise on her chin.

  And, well, when you worked in my business for long enough, you came to know all about strikes and knockouts.

  Some tried to be a hero and attempted the uppercut. But unless you were the kind of massive that Igor was, that was never going to happen.

  Fist to the side of the head worked if you applied enough force.

  But the easiest way to knock someone out? Use the button of their chin as a lever to snap it back.

  Instant knockout.

  She was out before she crumpled to the ground.

  But she would have woken right back up.

  Unless...

  I knelt down, turning her head slightly, running my hand behind it, coming back red and sticky, and reeking of copper.

  Blood.

  She slammed her head on the edge of the curb since she couldn't break her fall.

  Not the cops tonight, then.

  Just the hospital.

  Talk about not getting to bed.

  I reached down, sliding my hands under a body that seemed to weigh too little, then slowly pulled her upward, resting the side of her head against my shoulder, knowing she was getting blood all over the gray suit - then my car seat - as I lowered her in and belted her.

  I was just going to drop her off.

  That was the plan.

  If there was one phrase you had to keep in mind in my town, it was Not my business.

  Whatever had her behind a dumpster was not my business.

  Though I intended to access the cameras when I got some sleep since it was my goddamn property, and no one should have been causing problems on it. There were consequences for that shit. Likely involving some of my men darkening someone's door.

  But that was the extent of it.

  Then I was pulling up to the hospital, getting out, then lifting her up again, and she started to drift awake.

  Those unfocused, pained, light green eyes looked up at me.

  And it suddenly became my fucking business.

  TWO

  Adalind

  You know that time resting softly somewhere between sleep and wake where everything has smooth edges and light colors? The in-between time my mother would call it. That place you cling to in the morning when you wake up twenty minutes before your alarm, knowing you can comfortably drift into the slow sweetness of that state.

  I must have been in that.

  Except, possibly, a little more asleep than awake.

  Seeing as I was obviously dreaming.

  It was certainly not my real life where I was being carefully shuffled out of a warm car, then nestled against the smooth material of an expensive suit, the side of my face resting in a neck that smelled of man and a smooth, crisp aftershave, with arms under my knees and around my back, strong, but somehow holding me ever-so-gently.

  My eyes opened.

  Or, at least, it felt that way in the dream, angling my head up to look at my prince charming.

  Except he didn't exactly look like a prince charming.

  True, he was beautiful. In an extremely perfect, Roman way with his amazing jaw, great nose, strong brows, and thin, but not ungenerous lips. His hair was dark, as was the abundance of lashes he had framing his almost black eyes.

  He certainly had the raw materials to be a prince charming.

  Except, in those lovingly framed eyes, there was something that made a shiver course through my insides, made me feel just slightly less like I was dreaming.

  Then, like that thought triggered it, sleep pulled backward like a fog lifting, making the quiet numbness seem to wear off.

  The sudden onslaught of pain made my whole body jerk in his arms as he looked down at me. My chin was an aching thing. My neck had a strange shooting pain akin to sleeping weird and getting a crick when you turned it the wrong way. Except this was constant. There was a burning at the back of my skull, a sensation I couldn't quite place.

  Then, finally, maybe worst of all, there was a jackhammering in my temples and behind my eyes, something that must have been akin to the migraines I had - thus far - never been afflicted with.

  Feeling it, overwhelmed, and completely not understanding what was going on, I heard my own voice say in a very small, very raw way, "My head hurts."

  My dark prince seemed taken aback at either my words or my tone, his brows drawing together as he watched me for a long moment.

  "I figured. That's why we're at the hospital."

  "What happened to me?" I asked as I felt him start moving again, his dark eyes flicking between me and - I assumed - the hospital.

  "I don't know."

  There was finality in his tone, like the matter was closed. But the matter couldn't be closed. I had obviously been unconscious. He had been alert. He clearly knew more than I did.

  "Who are you?"

  "The man who is dropping you at the hospital."

  Why was he being so clipped?

  I just wanted some information, any information.

  Why was I hurting?

  Where had I been?

  Was I hurt anywhere else?

  Was I... oh, God.

  No.

  Okay.

  I couldn't go there.

  It was no good getting myself worked up when I had no reason to think that. Though, really, what story did you ever read about or see on the news where a girl was unconscious, woke up in pain, and wasn't assaulted?

  Ugly times my mother called it whenever she watched the news, often switching off after a story or two, her gentle heart not able to handle the dark.

  Indeed, ugly.

  How else did I wind up hurt in a stranger's arms, on my way in through the revolving emergency room doors?

  The scents hit me first, ones that reminded me of endless, soul-aching days at my grandmother's bedside just a year before. Fresh plastic and disinfectant. Clean, sure, but you knew that it only smelled that way to hide the putrid odors of death, decay, blood, and waste underneath.

  "I found her passed out," my dark prince declared as I forced my head to turn to find a young woman with a mass of red hair just barely contained by her braid, freckles, a very round face, and kind, yet keen eyes. "She hit the back of her head. She's bleeding."

  I was?

  Even as I thought that, my hand was moving to tentatively touch the area of the stinging on the back of my skull, realizing that a cut made a lot of sense. When my hand came back streaked in red, the whole limb - actually, my whole body - started shaking.

  This seemed to take the attention of my dark savior away from the nice, but professional, woman who had been asking him questions I was only half paying attention to.

  "It's clotting up," he told me in that same distant, unaffected tone again. As if the fact that it was not currently bleeding as badly as it had once been was somehow of any comfort to someone who had no idea how she came to be bleeding in the first place.

  "What's your name, honey?" the nurse asked, something very firm in her sweet voice - steel rod wrapped in wool - a combination that seemed to pull me out of my swirling thoughts for a precious moment.

  "Adalind," I supplied automatically.

  "Last name?"

  "Hollis."

  "Adalind, do you know what happened to you tonight?"

  "I, ah--" I was coming up blank. Even the earlier part of the day seemed shrouded in a heavy blanket of confusion I couldn't seem to think past. How did I fall? How did it get to be nighttime? In fact, how did I come to be in this light pink skater dress? Was it mine? I didn't remember it being mine. But maybe it was. Maybe my memory was on the fritz - a broken machine brought on by too hard a pounding.

  "Okay. That's fine. We are going to take you in the back and check you out, okay? Make sure you stop bleeding. Check for a concussion. The usual stuff." I swear she sile
ntly added Run a tox screen. Do a rape kit.

  But, hell, I wanted those things too, didn't I?

  It was the only way to get some answers.

  "Here, just go with Michael," she instructed as a man came by with a wheelchair.

  There was a small pause, the man holding me seeming to look between me and the chair, hesitating, before he finally lowered me down. With the same delicacy as an oversized man handling fine China, like he was afraid I might splinter apart at any moment.

  Somehow, starved from the contact, the small bit of comfort I was finding in it, it all seemed to start feeling far too real, far too fast.

  Then, just like that, the man turned on his heel, and went to walk away.

  "Wait!" I called, hearing the desperation in my tone, something he must have heard as well since he paused mid-stride to turn fully back, brow lifted. "What's your name?"

  Somehow, I felt like I urgently needed to know that fact.

  He looked taken aback for a moment, before shaking his head. "Can't imagine why that would matter."

  Then, with that, and not a thing more, he was gone.

  I didn't know who he was, where he found me, or if he had any idea what happened to me.

  I guess now I never would know.

  "Miss Hollis?" Michael asked, making me realize I had been craning my head over my shoulder watching the mysterious stranger walk out into the darkness. I could see him slip inside a car - black, sleek, and though I didn't know much about such things, seemingly expensive. It drove off with barely a purr.

  I turned my head back, having to slam my hands down on the armrests of the wheelchair because the motion blurred my vision, making my stomach lurch, and giving me the sensation of falling forward.

  "Whoa, you alright?"

  Michael was young, black, tall, slim, and - if voices and mannerisms could be believed - gay.

  His light blue scrubs, I imagined, were supposed to be calming - as the color blue often is - but I found them too rough, too crisp, too something to feel that way looking at them.

  "Yeah. Just a little lightheaded."