by Staci Hart
“You look like shit,” Owen said.
Dillon laughed. “I feel like I look like shit.” He dropped his bag by the stairs.
“How’d it go?”
“Long, but I won.”
“I figured as much. When was the last time you lost? Three years ago?”
“Four.”
“Such a bad motherfucker.” Owen snapped his book closed. “Want some help from the doctor?”
Dillon cocked a half.smile. “If you wouldn’t mind. But let’s put doctor in quotations. You haven’t graduated yet.”
“It’s not like I haven’t had plenty of practice in the craft, seeing as how you’ve been getting your ass kicked regularly since you were ten.”
Owen offered Dillon a sad smile that Dillon returned.
He set his book down and stood, pacing over with long strides, stopping in front of Dillon, leaning in to give his brother’s face a once-over. “You might need a stitch or two, but we’ve seen worse. Anything broken?”
“Not sure. I’m still amping.”
“Take a deep breath,” Owen said as he laid his hands on Dillon’s ribs, gently mashing them.
Dillon inhaled and let it out. “No pain.”
“Good.” Owen jerked his chin to the downstairs bathroom. “Come on, meathead.” He stepped around Dillon to lead the way. “Where’s the party?”
“MacLennan’s. I’m sure Brian is already there buying rounds on me,” Dillon said on a laugh as he followed.
“Don’t act like you mind.”
He chuckled in answer as he stepped into the bathroom, gazing into the wide mirror while Owen pulled out a box of medical supplies, lining up bottles, scissors, and bandages on the granite countertop.
Dillon’s blond hair was wild from sweat and the fight, and he turned his head, rubbing his bruised jaw. A deep cut under his eye was actively bleeding, though he hadn’t noticed, and his lip was cracked open and swollen. He yanked his shirt over his head and assessed his torso and back, his aching muscles rippling when he twisted from side to side.
Owen was right; they’d seen worse. Much worse.
He bent over the sink to rinse his face, wincing when the cold water hit his cuts, wincing even more when he gingerly dabbed it dry with a small towel.
“Sit,” Owen commanded.
Dillon did as he’d been told.
When Owen approached, he was armed with a cool, damp cotton pad that he used to clean the cut under Dillon’s eye. He followed that with a cotton swab dipped in Adrenaline Chloride, leaning in to dab the seeping cut.
“That should stop the bleeding.” He turned Dillon’s face, angling it toward the light. “No stitches after all.”
“Small miracles.”
Owen motioned for him to stand and circled him, applying pressure to his ribs and back. “Anything?”
Dillon winced when Owen pressed his left kidney. “Just tender.”
“All right,” he said, stopping in front of Dillon again. “Let’s see the moneymakers.”
Dillon held out his hands, palms down. His knuckles were split and bleeding, his hands swollen. Owen turned on the faucet and pulled Dillon’s hands under them to scrub them clean before patting them dry with a fresh towel. And then he inspected them one at a time, digit by digit.
“You are one lucky son of a bitch,” Owen said as he kneaded and wiggled Dillon’s index finger.
One corner of Dillon’s lips rose. “Luck’s got nothing to do with it.”
Owen laughed and turned to clean up. “Go put some ice on those before they get ugly.”
“Shower first, then ice.”
At that, Owen sniffed dramatically and smiled. “Good idea.”
Dillon wondered, as he did so often, just how he’d survived. No, he hadn’t just survived. He had thrived. Against all odds, he’d found a way to keep breathing.
He’d saved his brother and saved himself. And in the end, that was all that mattered.
Everything else was just noise.
The theater room was a buzz of discussion and bobbing heads, and Ares folded his arms, looking pleased.
Dita didn’t like it. Not one bit.
She unfolded herself from her seat and walked across the room, catching his eye, not stopping until she was close enough to feel the hum of his proximity all the way through her. She took the remote from him, and when her fingers brushed his palm, a zip of electricity shot up her arm.
But she focused instead on her plan, clean and crisp in her mind, hitting a button on the remote.
The screen flickered from Dillon’s back as he walked up his stairs to an olive-skinned, almond-eyed Japanese beauty in a gunmetal-gray 1969 Camaro. Her face was the picture of calm concentration as she gripped the steering wheel white-knuckle, her body tight and determined, set by confidence and certainty.
“I’d like you all to meet Kat,” Dita said, a little too sure of herself.
When she hit play, the low rumble of the engine filled the room.
Kat glanced at the red Corvette next to her and revved her engine, unable to suppress the smallest of smiles. The driver leered at her — his hair jetted out from his head in douchey spikes and his smile curled inside an overly manicured goatee.
When he saw she was looking, he licked his lips and flicked his tongue.
She rolled her eyes and pumped the accelerator with one foot on the clutch, turning her attention to her tachometer as it redlined.
The light was red, bathing her in menacing light, throwing everything else into shadow, and her heart banged, Camaro rumbling under her, waiting, anticipating. With one hand, she squeezed the wheel, her stick shift gripped in the other, and she stared at that red light with her breath still in her tingling lungs.
Green.
She let her foot off the clutch and floored the accelerator in synchronicity, sending her wheels smoking before they caught pavement and shot her off the line. The force kicked her body back into the seat.
The Goatee slipped behind.
Her engine climbed, and Kat shifted the second her engine hit the note she knew so well. But The Goatee nosed up in her sideview, a threat she wasn’t likely to let gain. She leaned forward, eyes narrowed, objective in her sights.
When she slammed it into third, he had inched up — close enough that when she glanced over, she caught sight of him glowering at her through the window.
She glared right back, though her lips smiled, a sardonic curve that was as natural to her as breathing.
There was nothing so sweet as proving people wrong.
Her engine hit the sweet spot, and when she shifted gears again, she pulled away from him, speeding under the light just as she redlined.
A whoop filled the cabin as her heart pumped like a piston, her hands numb as she downshifted and then again before pulling over at the meeting spot — a block down from the finish line. Kat killed the engine and sat back in her black leather seat, running her hands over the steering wheel, feeling the relief of having raced again for the first time in a month — one very, very long month.
She popped open her door and stepped out of the car, trailing her fingertips down the length of shiny metal as she walked toward the group gathered around the Corvette.
The Goatee stepped out of his car, slammed the door, and marched toward her, red -aced. “No way. No fucking way you beat me, you little cunt,” he spat, stopping in front of her with a jab of his finger. “You’ve got no business being here.”
He took a step closer, arching over her, and a couple of guys moved to intervene.
She held them off with a hand.
“No,” he said, licking his lips. “You belong somewhere else. On your knees. With a cock in your mou—”
He’d been so busy sucking his own dick, he hadn’t even registered her winding up to pop him in the nose.
The Goatee doubled over, swearing, but Kat just smiled and folded her arms across her chest with that cynical smile on her lips. Same bullshit, different track. “Aw, what’s the
matter? Is your ego hurt? What can I do for you, pumpkin? Give you an apology?” The question was saccharine, and her smile slipped away, her hips shifting, setting her long legs in a brazen V. “I’m sorry you’re a misogynistic fuckface who wildly underestimated my skills and equipment, both of which are clearly superior to your own.”
He spat on the ground. “Fuck you, bitch.”
“In your dreams, asshole. You can go fuck yourself. It’ll be just like a regular Saturday night for you.”
She patted him on the shoulder as she walked past him, and the small crowd broke out laughing. The promoter, Charlie, met her halfway and offered her an envelope.
“Damn, girl. I knew you were good, but I have to admit, I didn’t expect that.” He rubbed the back of his neck.
Kat’s eyes darted to The Goatee.
“Don’t mind him. Thinks he’s hot shit, is all.”
“Nothing I’m not used to.” She chuckled and took the envelope stacked with her winnings. “Thanks, Charlie. Keep me in the loop, okay?”
“You got it, Kat.”
The Goatee shouted insults at her as she headed back to her car, making a point to look back at him only once, twiddling her fingers before closing the door. He went berserk.
When she fired the ignition, her car roared hello.
Oh, Sheila, she thought, trailing her fingers over the dash before throwing it into reverse.
Her car was her baby, a gift from her father at sixteen, one of the constants in her upside-down life.
Kat sped away, and as her heart slowed down, it flashed with guilt. She shouldn’t have raced. It was a stupid thing to do — stupid and dangerous.
But I’m so glad I did.
She’d covered her ass here and in Vegas. No one would find out where she was. We’re still safe.
The words ran on a loop in her mind enough times, she almost believed they were true.
Dillon pulled up to the curb outside MacLennan’s and cut the engine. The sign was a cheap shot at a stereotype — golden letters, a green clover, a leprechaun leaning on the M with his eyes flinty and brows angled in such a way that he seemed to say, Oy, boyo. Fancy a fight?
That sign was a familiar sight. When Dillon had first started fighting for money, this was the place they came to most often, though they hadn’t been to the bar in months. Brian liked to move the party after every fight, usually Irish pubs, citing the want to capitalize on Diamond Dillon’s heritage — not that the word meant overmuch to him. His parents had emigrated from Ireland before he was born. America was all he knew, and what his father displayed in regard to his heritage left him with less pride than Brian made him out to possess.
He stepped out of his car, the sound of his door closing loud over the muffled music floating to him from the pub. With his hands shoved in the pockets of his leather jacket, gray hoodie hanging out of the neck, collar flipped again the cold, he walked up to the door with Owen in his wake.
The night would be more punishment than party — that much, he knew. It was the same every time. He would show up hours after the fight, exhausted and nerves worn. Maybe if he were a drinker, it’d be easier to endure, but that was his father’s pastime. He’d inherited enough horrible traits without adding dirty fucking drunk to the list.
He would have much preferred to be at home, passed out, resting his body after all he’d put it through, but there was no way around the fact. The more he won, the bigger he got, the more people expected to see him outside the ring. Brian had said it was all about Dillon’s brand or some shit — if the people who bet on him got to actually hang out with him afterward, they’d be more likely to bet on him again.
But the attention was too much. As surprised and humbled as he was that people gave enough of a fuck about him to wish him well, the whole ordeal was a nightmare.
He didn’t do people. He didn’t do crowds. He didn’t do chitchat and idle conversation.
He did, however, do alone like a pro.
Dillon grabbed the brass handle and pulled open the door, sharing a fortifying look with his brother before stepping inside.
The sound of music and people hit him like a brick wall, and once the crowd saw him, they exploded into cheers. He tried to smile and ran a hand through his hair, wishing he could disappear, and the crowd before him parted.
Brian stepped through to greet him with a smile. “Took you long enough. Come on, this way.”
He turned, and Dillon followed him to the bar as people called his name. A few tried to hand him drinks, which he graciously declined. When they reached the long counter — all mahogany and brass — the three took seats just as a small pack of girls led by a bleached blonde pushed their way between him and his brother. It was Jessica, a groupie and general pain in his ass.
“Hey, Dillon. You were so good tonight,” she said salaciously, her glossy lips turning up in a smile as she batted her lashes at him. She squeezed in closer and laid a hand on his forearm.
“Thanks.” He moved his arm, angling away from her.
Her bottom lip popped out for a split second before she fixed her smile back on to try again, with feeling.
She leaned over the bar, cradling her breasts between her arms. “So, you gonna buy a girl a drink or what?”
Dillon’s gaze swept over the cleavage she’d so graciously placed on display with absolute indifference. “Brian’s in charge of rounds.”
Jessica’s cheeks flushed, her brows dropping with disappointment. One of her friends gave her a nudge, whispering something, and her smile found its way back, more determined than ever.
She rested her hand on his thigh and inched it up. “Aw, come on, Dillon. For old time’s sake?”
His jaw set. “What old times?” he asked before spinning away from her on his stool to jerk his chin at Brian. “Hey, Jessica wants a drink. Can you help her out with that?”
Brian snickered and rose, draping an arm over her shoulders to steer her away. “Yeah, come on, Jess. The bartender’s this way. What are you drinking?”
“But—”
Brian laughed as he kept her moving. “He’s not going anywhere.”
She didn’t argue. She did look over her shoulder at Dillon, blowing him up with her eyes, cronies on her heel.
Owen shook his head. “God, she never quits.”
“If I’d known she was crazy, I never would have hooked up with her.”
“Girl’s not just crazy. She’s queen of the asylum.” Owen leaned over the bar, glancing toward the bartenders, flagging a hand. “Damn, what’s it take to get a drink around here?”
Dillon turned to look in the direction Owen was, and when he saw her, he knew immediately — distantly but immediately — that he was in trouble.
She was leaning into a big metal cooler, her face hidden by a sheet of long inky-black hair, and when she stood, beers in hand, she flipped her hair over her shoulder with a snap.
He couldn’t look away any easier than he could speak Portuguese.
She met his eyes like she’d known he was there, like she’d been waiting for him forever, right there in a crowded dive bar in Brooklyn. Her eyes were almond-shaped and angled like a cat, intense and gray-green, lined with thick black lashes. He scanned her face, over the bridge of her long nose sprinkled with freckles that spread across the flushed apples of her cheeks. Her lips were full, rosy and parted, and his gaze lingered there for a heartbeat before snapping to her eyes again.
The noise in the bar was almost deafening, but they were still and quiet, two unmoving points in an ocean of people.
Someone bumped into him, and he blinked as the clock started again with a tick, breaking the connection. She seemed to shake herself before walking over.
Her eyes were on him the whole way, and his were fixed on her.
She tossed a couple of coasters in front of the brothers. “What can I get you?”
Owen cocked a smile with his eyes glued on Dillon. “Glenlivet, neat. Thanks.”
“And for you?” Her voic
e was smoke and fire; he could feel the heat from feet away.
“Just water,” he answered.
“Sure.” She turned to walk to the taps, glancing at him only once.
He didn’t miss it.
Owen laughed.
Dillon’s head swiveled to give his brother a look. “What?”
“Nothing. Nothing at all.” Owen smirked and turned back to the bartender as she approached with their drinks, setting them in front of their owners.
When Owen pulled out his wallet, she put her hands up.
“It all goes on Brian’s tab.”
Owen snorted. “Brian’s tab.”
She smiled and turned to leave, but Owen stopped her with a question.
“Hey, what’s your name?”
Confidence rolled off her in waves, and Dillon wondered what her story was, where she had come from, if she was human or goddess or mirage.
Her eyes were on Dillon as she answered his brother. “I’m Kat.”
“Hi, Kat. I’m Owen, and this here,” he slapped Dillon on the shoulder, “is Dillon, my big brother.”
She smiled again, lips together, eyes sharp and soft all at once. Dillon’s heart beat a little faster.
“Yeah, I heard,” she said. “Brian’s been talking you up for the last hour.”
Someone shouted to her from the other end of the bar.
“Let me know if you need anything,” she said casually, just another line of waitress script, before turning to the mob.
And Dillon watched her walk away without an honest clue what had hit him.
Kat blinked as she walked away, stunned.
The moment she’d turned to find Dillon looking at her with eyes crisp and cold and blue, she’d been so connected to him that she couldn’t look away. He’d held her captive like a snake charmer, drawing her in with power stronger than her will. He exuded control, strength, confidence that commanded her; she’d found herself helpless.
As much as she wanted to fall into the feeling, she found herself unnerved. The exchange set her on edge, noted most aggressively by a tingle that climbed up her spine. It was a warning.
