SICK HEART

by Huss, JA

  Rainer brings up the rear. His bulky body outgrew the fights long before they got too serious. He was lucky in a way. All that muscle made him far too slow for anyone to take much notice of his strengths. But he’s a damn good fighter. God help you if you find yourself this man’s target. He’s pushing people out of our way like the Hulk, shoving this way and that. People stumble backwards and then decide they don’t want to push him and stay where they land.

  We walk forward towards the Bull of Light command center and I look up, expecting to see my father pointing me out to his friends on the bridge.

  He’s there. And he does point.

  But my attention goes up one floor higher where a blonde girl stands in the window.

  She takes a step back when she realizes I’ve noticed her, but reappears a few seconds later just before Evard and I pass through the door out of sight.

  The stairs leading up are crammed with workers, but they press themselves against the open railings so we can pass. None of them look me in the eye.

  Who was that girl?

  Evard reaches for my hand, but I shake him off and shoot him a stern look.

  “Sorry.” His voice is low, just a mumble. “But I don’t like this.”

  “Shut up.” Maart’s words are harsh and curt. He’s not in the mood for whining. This is a fight day. First one in over a year.

  First one Evard has ever been to, as well. Which explains his fear.

  “Don’t be a dick, Maart.” Rainer grabs Evard and holds him in place as I keep moving. They stay several steps behind me after that. I can hear Rainer whispering something to the kid, but he’s being discreet, so I don’t catch the pep talk. I can imagine it though.

  He’s gonna win, don’t worry. He always wins.

  Which is true.

  If you’re still alive at the end, you win.

  And I’m still here.

  Pavo Vervonal is no slacker, but I am going to win. He will lose. We trained together when we were small and he was good. But we went our separate ways a long, long time ago for a reason.

  Only boys like me end up where I am.

  He is no me.

  Suddenly Maart stops and when I look up, I realize there’s a crowd of people on the landing just below the command deck.

  “We just want an interview.” It’s an older woman making this demand. She’s still pretty. Was probably someone important twenty years ago. But she wears too much makeup and her clingy, revealing red dress is far too much for this sticky day.

  Her cameraman stands behind her, his equipment perched on his shoulder, his eyes only on me. There is a flashing red light indicating that he’s already recording.

  “You know press time isn’t for another three hours.” She’s not going to get anywhere with Maart. He has one job—keep all the no-brain fucks away from me. And he’s pissed about the ambush. You don’t have to know him to hear the anger in his voice.

  “Just a word.” The reporter pushes her hands in the air, one clenched into a fist and holding a mic. “Just one question. It’s for Ring of Fire. One question!” Then her gaze lands on me. “Cort, do you think the prize is fair?”

  She only wants me to answer one question and that’s the one she asks?

  Like I give any fucks at all about the prize.

  Nothing about this fight is about me.

  Not one moment of it is about me.

  Maart is beyond pissed now. “He doesn’t do interviews.” He shoves her out of the way, then stands in front of her so I can pass. Rainer and Evard come up behind me, but Maart hangs back to insult the washed-up reporter.

  The mercs take over at the bridge and the door opens as I approach. When I walk through I’m hit with a rush of cold, conditioned air.

  That feels good. I suck in a breath and smile internally when I hear Evard do the same behind me.

  Then my father is walking towards us with Pavo’s sponsor. A little girl—blonde, striking blue-green eyes, pigtails, striped, sailor-suit dress—grabs the sponsor’s hand and giggles excitedly as they stop in front of me.

  My father grabs my upper arm and squeezes. Then he pulls me in and kisses me on both cheeks before letting me go to turn towards his guest. “You remember Cort, right, Lazar?”

  Lazar is pushing the little girl away, telling her in Hungarian to go upstairs and find someone called Anya. I take a moment to pause and wonder if Anya was the blonde girl I saw in the window.

  The little girl pouts, but doesn’t argue.

  Lazar has a Mediterranean look about him, like he spends a lot of time in Greece. Very tall, very tan—almost ludicrously tan. And his white linen shirt highlights this. His hair is blondish. Dyed. Or maybe it’s truly sun-bleached, but somehow, I doubt it.

  Lazar offers me his hand.

  I stare at it for a moment. Normally, Maart would run interference for me in this type of situation, but he’s still back near the door with Rainer and Evard.

  I look back up, meet his gaze and narrow my eyes.

  Lazar laughs. “Sick. Heart.” He says the words in two separate sentences, the way they are supposed to be said when spoken out loud, but something about it rubs me the wrong way. So when he takes a step forward and claps me on the shoulder—

  Well, that’s it.

  The next thing I know my knuckles are stinging, his nose is bloody, and several of the soulless mercenaries are pulling me off him and holding me by the arms.

  Lazar wipes his hand across his upper lip as the mercs push me away. But then his tongue darts out to taste the blood and he chuckles. “Boy,” he says, meaning me—I am ‘the boy’—“you turned out well.” His accent isn’t thick, but it’s there.

  My father does not apologize. But he does shoot me a look. “Go clean up, Cort. Grab a drink, for fuck’s sake. Calm down a little. The fight won’t start for seven more hours.”

  “I have brought tribute.” Lazar’s teeth are stained with blood when he smiles at me. “It’s upstairs in the bar. You may have it early, boy. If you are man enough to take it.”

  I shoot a dangerous, sideways glance at Lazar and find him smirking at me.

  I suddenly want to kill this man. Not sure why. Not sure I need a reason why. I just want to kill this man.

  My father spins me around, points his finger in my face. “Do not drink it, Cort. Do you hear me? Do not.” His eyes shoot to Maart. “Give him a whiskey.”

  “Why not?” Lazar is laughing. I really hate that laugh. “Pavo will be on the Lectra when he fights. It’s only fair for your boy here.”

  “You will not.” My father is deadly fucking serious as he looks me in the eyes. “Do you understand me, Cort?”

  I sneer at him and he smiles. Then he squeezes my shoulder again and leans in. “Don’t look at me that way. It’s my job to keep you in line tonight. It’s an important night for you as well as me. Tonight, we are a team and we don’t want anything to go wrong.”

  Tonight, we are a team. Interesting way to put it.

  “Yes,” Lazar says. Fuck. Why can’t that man just shut up? Every time I hear his voice, I get the urge to throttle him. “The stakes are high tonight.”

  “Not now, Lazar,” my father cautions him.

  “Why not now? Surely your son would like to know what he’s fighting for?”

  I know what I’m fighting for. It was explained to me in the contract. Keeping our family’s controlling interest in this ship.

  It doesn’t sound like much, but this is no ordinary ship. A heavy-lift construction vessel, it’s a floating city—and presently the only one of its size. When it’s in international waters—and it almost always is—it’s practically a nation state. Impervious to the laws of others. Not even the Americans can stop the business we do on this ship.

  And my father owns most of it. Not all of it—the network would never allow one man to hold that much power. But most of it is practically the same thing.

  It generates an obscene amount of legitimate money each year installing topsides onto oi
l rig substructures. Tens of billions of dollars. But the illegitimate money is just as precious.

  These fights, for instance. This night is just one of dozens each year. But they host more than fights on this ship.

  “We will talk about this later.”

  I nod at my father. I don’t care about the prize. The winning lost its shine more than a decade ago now. I fight because they make me.

  I turn and walk towards the door. The mercenaries open it and I slip through first, then Maart, then Rainer and Evard in the rear.

  “We’re going this way,” Maart says, heading down.

  But I go up.

  “Guess we’re not.” Rainer laughs.

  “Wait here,” Maart orders them. Then he races up the steps ahead of me. “Cort.” He pauses in front of the door. “You do not want that bottle. Do you understand me?”

  I push him out of the way, but he’s not afraid of me and pushes me right back.

  I will hit him. Any fucking time I want. But I’m not going to kill him and Maart is no pussy. He will retaliate and he and I are well enough matched that I will probably come out ahead, but just barely.

  He knows I’m not going to hit him today. Not on a fight day. I will have enough bruises when I step off the platform tonight. I don’t need any extras going in.

  “You do not want that bottle. Do you hear me?”

  I want that bottle. And he knows it. That’s why he feels the need to repeat himself.

  “Fuck.” He sighs, then opens the door with a bang. “Oh, hey!”

  I am not in the mood for one of his charismatic long-winded speeches to explain my actions, so I just push him out of the way and enter the reception hall.

  My eyes take in the massive room and… well, well, well. There she is. The girl from the window.

  Anya, Lazar called her.

  She is young. Much younger than me. Maybe eighteen. But probably not.

  I know how these people work. I know their sick hearts better than I know my own.

  But she is very pretty. Slender and willowly, like a ballerina. But on the small side. Fragile and strong in the same breath. Her hair is light blonde, very straight at the moment, and long. Her fair skin and soft features tell me she is not actually related to Lazar. There is no resemblance whatsoever. He calls her ‘daughter’ in the most derogatory way possible. Same way my father calls me ‘son.’

  The other little girl is missing. They look enough alike that they might be real sisters, but again, I doubt it.

  Anya. I say her name in my head. Memorizing the way it feels. Enjoying the hate it conjures up.

  Not for her. I do not give a single fuck about her.

  Lazar. He’s familiar in an unfamiliar way. And everything about that is ugly.

  My gaze wanders over to the bar and I stride towards it with purpose. Everyone is silent as I reach for an electric-blue bottle on the top shelf.

  “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

  I look at Pavo, then down at the bottle of Lectra in my hand, taking a moment to appreciate the almost-glowing light-blue color of the drug inside. It doesn’t look like water. You don’t need to be smart to know this is not colored water. It’s too thick. Viscous. Like an oil. But it’s not oily going down. It’s cold. Ice cold. It burns your throat, then your stomach, then—just a few minutes later—you float.

  You float through worlds. You feel like Superman. You want to kill people and save the world in the same instant.

  It’s indescribably seductive.

  And addictive.

  I look up and study Pavo for a moment, looking for the tell-tale signs of Lectra addiction, but he’s too far away to see the blue ring around the iris.

  I’ll be close enough tonight to solve that little mystery.

  “You can’t take that.” Pavo is still moaning. “It’s Bokori.”

  It’s fucking tribute, is what it is. And we both know I will win this fight tonight, so even if Lazar didn’t say I could have it early, I could take it anyway.

  “Did you hear what I just fucking said?” Pavo is crossing the room. “You can’t fucking take that!”

  “Listen.” Maart says this word calmly, still standing by the door. “You can argue with him all you want, but he’s taking the fuckin’ bottle. If you want to have your fight, right here, right now, well, I’m pretty sure that’s not gonna go over well with the hundred and fifty VIP’s currently placing bets in the topside mess hall. So you should maybe shut the fuck up and back off before he and I kill you and put an end to this night before it starts.”

  Anya’s laugh almost startles me. It’s so… I dunno. So out of place here. So musical and happy that I almost ask her to do it again.

  What?

  I have to shake my head at that last thought.

  Her veins might not have Lazar’s blood running through them, but she is the enemy’s daughter.

  I lock eyes with her as I cross the room. She lets out a breath like she’s about to piss herself with fear. Good. You should fear me, little girl. Everyone should fear me.

  Because inside my chest beats the sickest heart on this whole ship.

  And if I win, none of the guests will rest tonight.

  I don’t care how many fights they’ve been to—I don’t care how many ways they’ve seen it end—I will give them a show they will never forget.

  I will haunt their sleep like a monster.

  I will fill their hearts with terror.

  I will ruin them… with the memory of me.

  One floor down Rainer and Evard are waiting for us. Evard’s eyes go wide when he sees the bottle of bright blue liquid in my hand. I shove it into his chest and he wordlessly clutches it. I catch the mercs standing guard at the command room door eyeing the kid, probably imagining ten or twelve different ways they might steal that bottle from him.

  But then one of them—the leader, I think—locks eyes with me. He looks away real quick.

  Forget the fact that my “father” is Udulf van Hauten, the man who controls this ship. I might not have an arsenal strapped to my body the way this merc does, but I’m not a guy you fuck with on a whim. It would be a very stupid move to steal that bottle of Lectra from my boy, and that merc gets it.

  I go down the stairs and my team follows. This ship is only four years old, but there are others. Older ones, smaller ones that I spent far more time on. Hell, I practically grew up on the Deep Sea Galaxy. But I know my way around the Bull of Light. My last four fights have been hosted here.

  My team and I have dedicated quarters on the deck below the command center. I push through a door, take us out onto a catwalk, and then enter the port side structure where my family compartments are.

  This is Evard’s first time here, so when I step into the main room and wave everyone forward, it’s his face I concentrate on.

  I really like to make the stupid kid happy for some reason. Maybe because I remember all too well what it was like for me when I was his age.

  He doesn’t disappoint. His smile is broad and real as he crosses the room and stands in front of the window, looking out at the work happening down below us.

  We have a perfect view of the massive crane on the port side. It’s not busy right now, but it’s still something impressive. There are dozens of men down on the deck. It’s actually quite a nice place to people-watch, if you’re into that sort of thing.

  “Wow.” Evard is properly impressed.

  Rainer walks over and takes the bottle from him, holds it up. “What the fuck are you gonna do with this?”

  I grab it, walk into the head, pop the cork, and start pouring out a hundred thousand dollars’ worth of Lectra.

  “Jesus Christ.” Maart is behind me, crowding me, grabbing the bottle before I can waste any more. “You don’t pour it out, dickface. We’re gonna drink this later after you win!”

  I laugh a little. And that reminds me of the girl. She laughed a little too and I liked the sound of that laugh.

  Who is she? />
  Lazar’s daughter—for lack of a better word—obviously.

  But her presence here is a little bit disturbing.

  I suddenly crave some alone time so I can think about her a little more. There are two sleeping compartments on either side of the main room with bunk beds. I share with Maart and Evard and Rainer will take the other one. So that’s where I head next.

  Maart doesn’t follow. He knows my fight-day routine. Actually, it’s not just a fight-day routine. It’s more like an every-day routine.

  At least when I can get it.

  There are interviews scheduled in a few hours. I will have to attend so they can get photos of me before the fight, but Maart will do all the talking. So I don’t need to worry about that and I can empty out my head and let my thoughts drift.

  I like being alone. If I never had to be around another person, I’d be OK with it.

  I slide the pocket door closed and my crew immediately begins chatting. This used to bother me—the idea that they would hold things in when I was around, but talk freely when I wasn’t.

  I hate it. I really do. But I’ve learned to live with it. I can’t change who I am.

  Maybe I could’ve. Twenty-two years ago, I might’ve been able to change, if things had gone differently.

  But that chance slipped out of my control a long way back. And anyway, even if I could change, no one would stop seeing me as the killer they know me to be. So whatever.

  I strip out of my traveling clothes and lie down on the bottom bunk naked. Then I close my eyes and think about that girl as my hand drifts down the hard muscles of my stomach. I pause, then reach for my already stiffening cock and start to tug on it.

  I liked the way she looked in that window. She was a mystery.

  I liked the way her face was lit up with the late-day sunshine.

  I liked her pouty lips and I picture what it would feel like to have them wrapped around my shaft.

  I breathe a little harder as the fantasy takes hold. My cock grows stiffer as the dream takes shape.

  I liked her silence, too. I could hear it immediately. It’s just like mine.

  She is just like me. Damaged and broken. Hurt and sore. Used and discarded.