by Freya Barker
“It looks like a well-organized outfit,” Radar adds. “And the chat room where I found information on the fights boasts over sixty-thousand members nationwide.”
“Jesus,” Bree mutters.
“Yeah. It’s a thriving business. From what Radar uncovered, they have a roster of fighters who can be challenged by any enthusiast,” I expand. “Buy-in is two grand. It’s a simple elimination structure, and with eight scheduled fights to start off, there’s a potential for fifteen bouts to decide an overall winner. Aside from the total sixteen grand buy-in proceeds, it’s gonna generate a whack of betting income with each bout.”
“You’re not a trained fighter,” Jake observes dryly. Radar makes a choking sound, catching his attention. “Wait, that was Dimas?” he asks, indicating the sorry state of Radar’s face.
“He may not be trained, but he’s got a hell of a punch.”
“What about your leg?” Bree wants to know.
“What about it? As long as I can keep to my feet, I’ll be fine.”
“Anything on the T-shirt they found? If it wasn’t him, someone went through a lot of trouble to make it look like it was,” she observes and it’s Radar who answers.
“Easy to nab one of his shirts. They do common laundry at the shelter.”
“Implying it would’ve been someone with access to shelter laundry taking it.”
“Probably. I’m checking into all the other residents, but short of someone coming out and claiming responsibility, it’s gonna be hard to pin on one person,” Radar admits.
It’s quiet for a few moments when Jake speaks up.
“I’m in.”
He looks at Bree, who rolls her eyes dramatically as she sighs audibly.
“Fine. Count me in too.”
Willa
“A girl? Oh my God!”
I get up and round my desk to give Rosie a hug.
She’s beaming: a high blush on her cheeks and her eyes shiny with happy tears.
“I can finally pick out the right paint color,” she says, making me laugh.
From what I understand, this will be the third time the nursery will be repainted. She’d tried for gender neutral colors—soft green, butter yellow, and finally a periwinkle gray—but apparently still not to her satisfaction.
“Does Jake know?” I tease her and her face goes soft.
“He says he doesn’t care if he has to paint the damn room a different color every week, since I’m giving him a little princess,” she answers quietly.
Okay, I’m not one for easy tears but that makes my eyes sting. I wouldn’t have thought Jake could be so sweet. Rosie is a lucky woman, and from the expression on her face, it’s clear she knows it too.
“What color are you thinking?”
“A cream base with lilac diamonds.”
Not being particularly fashion or color coordinated, I’m having a hard time picturing it, but I tell her, “I love it,” anyway.
“Me too,” she says dreamily. “I’d love to turn her room into something out of Arabian Nights, with lots of rich fabrics and textures. Maybe a canopy bed when she gets older. I already saw this perfect light fixture at Wayfair.” She smiles to herself. “I used to wish for a room like that growing up, but there just wasn’t enough space in our trailer house.”
“How lovely you get to create it for your own little girl.”
Kids have never been on my radar in any serious way. Don’t get me wrong, I love my niece, I love kids in general. It’s just that I’ve never seen myself as a mother. Of course I never considered myself relationship material either, and look at me now. This thing with Dimas is sure starting to look like one.
“We should celebrate,” I blurt out, in an attempt to distract myself from the direction my thoughts were taking. “We can’t do cocktails, but have you had lunch?”
“Not yet.” She smiles. “What did you have in mind?”
“I think we should hit up Be Sweet for some of their champagne cupcakes.”
Her mouth falls open and her eyes light up.
“I would love that…but I have to be back here at one thirty.”
I check the clock on my desk and then grin at her.
“How many cupcakes can you put away in an hour?”
“Let’s go find out.”
An hour later, we stumble back into the shelter, sugar-drunk and giggling like a couple of schoolgirls. Be Sweet cupcakes are the bomb, but I may be a tad nauseated after downing four with the latte I ordered.
Coming down the hall, I find Rupert waiting outside my office. Rupert is our oldest resident at seventy-two, a sweetheart, and more than a little confused most of the time. He occasionally pops in for a chat.
“Have you been waiting long?”
“It’s all good,” he mumbles when I open the door for him and let him lead the way inside.
Usually Rupert will talk about his wife, who passed away twelve years ago. He’d looked after her for the years she battled cancer and was by her side when she died. Without children to support him, he disappeared into the bottle and ended up losing everything he and his wife had spent a lifetime building. The night after the first time I heard Rupert’s story, I cried myself to sleep.
Sadly his is not an uncommon story. He served in Vietnam, came home at twenty-seven, married his Cora, and led a relatively normal life until she got ill. She was the love of his life.
“How are you, Rupert?” I ask when he sits down in one of the club chairs across from my desk.
“Doin’ all right. Hear anything about Brad? He ain’t gonna last in there.”
“I actually heard from a friend yesterday, he’s hanging in.”
“He the guy droppin’ off food here for you yesterday?”
“Dimas, yes. Brad and he are—”
“Friends, I know. He your boyfriend?”
There’s no confusion whatsoever in Rupert’s eyes this time.
“I’m seeing him, yes.”
“Could do worse ’n that boy,” he concludes. “He’ll look after ya.”
I grin at him. “You know I’ve been looking after myself most of my life, right?”
“Never hurts to have an extra pair ‘a eyes on ya. Especially these days.”
I lean forward with my elbows on my desk.
“These days?” I probe, and he shakes his head.
“Gotta watch your back, girlie. Everybody ain’t what they look to be. They got Brad, didn’t they?”
The hair on my arms stands on end.
“Who are you talking about, Rupert?”
“They think I don’t know nothin’…I don’t see what they’re up to. I ain’t stupid, though. I see plenty.”
His voice gets louder and his eyes are darting around the room, never quite focusing on me anymore.
“What do you see, Rupert?” I ask, keeping my voice as calm and level as I can.
Behind him I see the door open and Ron sticks his head in.
“They’re everywhere,” he yells agitatedly, as he gets to his feet. “Waiting, watching. They got Artie, but they’re not gonna get me!”
He starts moving to the door but stops in his tracks when he sees Ron and Rosie in the doorway. Then he turns his head around to me and hisses, “Watch your back.”
As Ron leads him down the hall, I notice Dave stepping out of their way. His eyes are on me.
Chapter Fourteen
Willa
I have nothing to wear.
I mostly dress myself blindly in the morning since seventy-five percent of my wardrobe consists of jeans and tees. Tonight I’m at a loss.
The day started off well enough, waking up to a very warm, very firm body pressed against me. It turns out Dimas likes to take his time when he doesn’t have to get up at some ungodly hour. By the time he was done with me my body was Jell-O, and I almost ended up late for work.
At the shelter is where nerves started plaguing me, when I slip into the dining room for a coffee and spot Rupert sitting by the window, watching m
e.
Last night Ron had gently guided him out of my office while Rosie slipped in to make sure I was okay. I won’t lie; the incident had shaken me. I know the old man has episodes where his mind leaves him, but his passionate ramblings last night felt more rooted in reality than fantasy.
The clear eyes that were staring at me from across the room this morning seemed to confirm it.
He showed up for this afternoon’s group session but didn’t say much. Normally, he’s the most vocal resident and as a result of his silence, it had been a struggle to keep the group going for the allotted hour. Could be just my anxiety, but it felt like all the guys were kind of subdued today.
Then Rosie dropped in after, asking if I wanted to go shopping for the baby tonight since Jake was working late. She wasn’t quite able to hide her disappointment when I told her I couldn’t because I had things to do. So by the time I got home, I was anxious and felt guilty.
Now I’m standing in front of my closet, trying to figure out what one should wear when planning to spy on an illegal fighting ring. I have yet another moment filled with second thoughts, but then I snatch a pair of dark jeans and a navy Henley shirt off their respective hangers.
I quickly change, shove my feet in a pair of dark blue Skechers and pull my hair into a ponytail, when my phone rings.
“Hi, Mom,” I answer, when I see my parents’ number on the screen.
“How are you, honey?”
The endearment puts me on alert. Mom uses it on rare occasions when something is expected of me or to precede bad news of some kind.
“I’m fine, Mom. Is everything okay there?”
“Your father and I are fine, dear,” she assures me, but then she clears her throat and I know there’s more coming. “We have Brittany with us this week.”
I’m a little confused. My sister is a stay-at-home mom, so why would Britt be with my parents?
“You do? Is something wrong with Connie?” When she doesn’t answer right away I prompt her, “Mom?”
“Well, Connie and Jim need some time alone.”
“Are they on vacation?”
“No…”
“Mom, what’s going on?”
I’m getting annoyed having to pull teeth to get whatever the story is out of her, so my tone is a little sharp.
“No need to get snippy with me, Wilhelmina.”
When the full name comes out, it’s usually followed by a lecture and I don’t really have time to sit through one.
“Mom, I’m meeting someone and I’m going to be late. Can you maybe get to the point?”
“Oh? You’re seeing someone?”
I roll my eyes to the ceiling. Of course she would focus on that.
“I said I’m meeting someone, Mom. Can we get to the point, please?”
“Your sister and her husband have hit a little bump in the road. That’s all. They just wanted a little time to sort things out.”
I would love to know what that little bump is, but I won’t get it from Mom. Connie and Jim are the perfect couple in my parents’ world, and she’d protect that image at any cost.
“So they dropped Brittany off with you.”
“Yes, and she’s fine here until the weekend, but after that…”
“What happens after that?”
“Well, you know your father always plays golf in Southern Pines the first two weeks of July, dear.”
My father has had a golf schedule since he retired from the armed forces. Summer is North Carolina, where he golfs with one of his army buddies—always the same two weeks—and he doesn’t go anywhere without Mom to cater to him like some personal assistant.
I’m starting to get the picture.
“You want to drop her off here?”
“Well, her last day of camp is Friday and your father wants to leave on Sunday.”
Of course. Nothing can come between my father and his all-important golf game. Familiar anger bubbles up, not just at my father for being a narcissistic asshole, but also at my mother for continuing to facilitate him, and blowing off her only grandchild to do it. Worst of all, my poor niece is being shuffled around like an inconvenience from household to household.
As much as I’d like to stand firm, I know the only person who’d get hurt in all of this would be her, and she doesn’t deserve that.
“Of course she’s always welcome here, but I have to work, Mom. I can’t take time off, I just started a few months ago.”
“She’s twelve, she can stay by herself during the day.”
This from the mother who hovered like the proverbial helicopter parent over my sister and me until we moved out of the house. I bite back a sharp comment and instead take a deep breath in before I respond.
“I’ll have a look to see what summer programs are out there. She needs something to do during the day.”
I hope it’s not too late. I’m sure most summer camps have been long booked up.
“Has Connie said anything about how long?”
“Not really.”
I’m pissed. At my parents whose lives are so regimented they can’t even stop to deal with a crisis, and at my sister and her dick of a husband, who ship off their daughter like she’s a piece of furniture in the way.
“What time were you thinking of dropping her off?”
“We’ll be there at noon and, Willa? Thank you.”
The last is delivered in a soft voice that pulls at my heart. I know she means it, and I’m aware my father was behind the call in the first place, but I wish Mom had a little backbone.
“Mom? I’ve gotta run, but tell Britt I can’t wait for her to get her cute butt over here.”
My mind is going a mile a minute, trying to think of things to do for a twelve-year-old in Grand Junction on my drive out to Loma. At least it keeps me distracted from the anxiety around what I’m doing.
I had the presence of mind to grab a few bottles of water, some granola bars, and a portable charger for my phone, in case I run out of juice. The plan is to stay at a distance, get a peek at who enters.
Nerves win again when I turn right on 14 Road. Loma isn’t particularly densely populated and I’m heading into farmland now. I should probably have looked at Google satellite before I came out here. Somehow I had it in my mind I’d have a parking lot to hang out in, or some buildings to hide behind, but that may not be the case.
It’s already dark out and other than from the odd farmhouse, the road has no lighting. My eyes are squinting under the bill of my ball cap as I lean over my steering wheel to see where I’m going. Then I spot something flashing in the sky.
Clever, they’re using laser to pinpoint the location.
The closer I get, the more cars I see on the road. There’s a steady stream turning onto a dirt road running between two cornfields to a large equipment barn set back from the road. Cars are parked on one side in the field where the corn is partially cleared.
This is not exactly what I envisioned. I’d stand out like a sore thumb, just surveilling from my RAV. I briefly contemplate giving up altogether and turning right back around, but the dirt road is barely more than one set of tracks currently used by vehicles coming this way.
The other option is to go in. Go with the flow of people. Blend in.
Shit.
Dimas
“You sure about this?”
I glance over at Bree in the passenger seat. Radar and Jake are in the vehicle behind us. Bree is going to mask as my girlfriend—which may give her a different behind-the-scenes perspective—while the guys are going to mingle with the crowd. The objective is to gather as much intel as we can between us.
“Positive,” I confirm, even though the prospect of getting obliterated by someone nicknamed Bone Crusher—the fighter challenged by Radar on my behalf—isn’t something I’m looking forward to.
She’d suggested earlier we could all simply go as observers, and I didn’t need to get the snot kicked out of me, but we both know the best way to avoid suspicion is to jump in
with both feet. Let them think I’m like the other idiots paying prime dollar to be used as punching bags. I’m pretty sure that’s what this is going to amount to.
“Your funeral,” she mumbles beside me. I hope it doesn’t get that far.
We’re out in the boonies here, nothing but farm fields and the odd building on either side. Law enforcement in Loma is provided by the Mesa County Sheriff’s Office and Colorado State Patrol, but it’s unlikely they’d be patrolling through farmland unless out on a specific call. Besides, you can’t even see the cars parked from the road.
There’s no room close to the dirt road leading in, but I find a spot at the far edge and pull right up to the cornfield. If for some reason we have to bail out of here, at least we’re not stuck behind other cars and can just plow through the field.
I drape my arm around Bree as we walk toward the large barn and she leans into me, settling in our roles. There is no one guarding the large doors we walk through. There’s a decent crowd gathered around the raised cage, where two guys are already fighting. Yelling and cheering go up with every impact of fists or feet. Bloodthirsty bunch.
I don’t waste time looking for Jake and Radar, I know they’re in here somewhere, scoping out the betting. Bree points at a sign that says Challengers, and we follow it to the back of the barn where we’re stopped by a large guy. His shirt says STAFF and he’s wearing a large semi-automatic on his hip.
“Fighters only,” he grunts.
I hand him the ticket Radar printed off for me and try to move through, but he holds me back with a hand on my chest.
“Fighters only,” he repeats.
I look at the makeshift locker room behind him and notice several females milling about.
“She’s comin’ with me,” I challenge him. “She’ll get eaten alive if I leave her alone out here. Look at her.”
Bree’s innocent looks and short stature work to our advantage, because he takes one glance at her and steps out of our way. He has no idea the set of lethal skills he’s just invited in. Bree may come in a small package but she’s not one to mess with.
