by Chloe Plume
“Yeah, except who the hell’s gonna get through this?” Chris shouted, punching the side of my arm. “Shit! It’s like hitting a brick wall. You could block everything with your damn arms, Dean… What, do you work out pipes every day?”
I smiled a little. These guys were clowns. It was funny sometimes. “Yeah, right. I have other stuff to do.”
Like drinking.
“Yeah, no one ever sees you doing anything but work and working out my man,” John shouted above the cacophonous din of people exiting the basement. The noisy exodus was an equal and unsettling mix of those proclaiming the joy of winning and those growling the outrage of loss. “Speaking of which,” he continued, “are you coming out with us or not? Your drinks are on me. Least I could do.”
“Yeah, that’s for sure,” I noted. “But you guys go ahead. I got other plans.”
As I walked over to the locker room with John, Chris, and Evan, some guy in an expensive looking suit pushed a box into my hands. He looked like one of Ace’s minions. Probably the new guy, since I hadn’t seen him before.
Ace ran Roman’s gambling operation and I headed up the “security” team that made sure Roman got all his money and things went smoothly. Anyone working on the administrative side with Ace dressed just like him, probably because he forced them to. This guy was decked out in some Hugo Boss shit and shiny cufflinks, the fit of his thin suit so close to his body that you could see where he had his gun holstered under his left armpit. The whole uniform was pretty much a red flag for the Feds. Best-case scenario, Ace’s guys would get mistaken for Russian Mafia goons.
Stupid. Just like Ace.
“Roman wanted me to give you this when you won,” the man said. Though he was really more of a kid—couldn’t have been more than 22 years old—and probably related to someone high up in the organization, maybe even Roman. Nepotism was alive and well in the criminal world; hell, I’d say it was the bread and butter. It’s how things got done, relationships were bolstered, alliances forged. It reminded me of how lucky I was to get the job I did. Even if I did have 8 years of elite training versus the 4 years of dicking off in college that this guy had.
“How did he know I’d win?” I asked, realizing this guy was probably sitting there through the whole match, clutching this—I looked down at the box—23-year-old Pappy Van Winkle Bourbon.
Not too shabby.
“I was instructed to give it to you after you won, that’s all.”
I nodded. “Well, it’s a good thing I didn’t lose.”
Especially now… It’s pretty obvious Roman’s putting big money on me.
“Looks like you’re all set with the booze there,” John said, eyeing the bottle jealously.
“Yeah, I’ll see you guys later.”
“You sure?” Chris attempted. “We’re heading to Headlights.”
Headlights was an aptly named strip club off the highway, less than five minutes from the warehouse.
“Yeah, and you know Lexie will be there tonight,” John added. “She was asking about you last week. Said she’d be up for another round.”
“Wait. Who’s Lexie again?” I asked. I’d been out two weeks ago, got hammered…again… I didn’t really remember which girl I brought home with me that night.
Evan stepped in front of John and Chris, cupping his hands far out in front of his chest.
Oh yeah.
“Lexie. Right.”
The way I hammered her, I’m surprised she only needed two weeks of recovery.
“She’ll have to wait, guys,” I said, throwing on my white tank top. “Right now I’m just looking forward to a shower and this bottle of expensive bourbon.”
They left me alone in the locker room as the lights went out over the arena. The place had calmed down and it was whisper quiet. But every time I turned my head to look out the open door and into the cage, I heard the clamor of the crowd, the roar of mad voices, and the excitement that coursed through me like electricity. To me, this place was never really quiet. And thank god it wasn’t. Truthfully, I couldn’t wait to get back in the ring. I needed it.
I felt kind of bad when the guys left though. I’d been going out less and less with them, and they were really the only friends I had. I was getting tired of the routine though.
Cheap beer, cheap women, a cheap life.
Had to admit it was fun though. Fun, but too easy. Just like in the ring, I had no real competition. The girls at these clubs—from the professionals to the fast booty calls—they were impressed by an ex-marine who never lost a fight, worked with the most dangerous and powerful men around, and last but not least, kept himself in fighting shape.
I had to stay in good physical condition to survive in the cage. But I went far beyond that. I lifted six days a week in addition to my training workouts. I savored the feeling of every muscle in my body burning in sweet anguish. I basked in the deliverance of utter exhaustion, the freedom and calm when my mind went blank after a solid lift.
Same thing with sex. These girls would throw themselves at me, and not a man around here was bold enough to offer a challenge. I would grind into them, fucking with wild abandon until the all-consuming sensations of my body left my mind numb. But once that was over, I didn’t want any of them in my life. That is, until the next time I got hammered and needed someone to get me out of my head for a while.
Tonight, I had no interest in the usual routine. What I needed was to be left alone. Just me and a good bottle.
Fuck, now I sound like my dad.
I shook my head. The old bastard was dead. It was the liquor that eventually got him. Maybe we were both miserable assholes who drank, but that’s where the similarities ended. He’d been a weak man who felt powerful preying on the easiest targets. He’d lived for his power trips, hurting people to feel some kind of control over his life.
But there was some irony there. After going off to fight for my country, putting in eight years of service, and keeping my distance from people I might otherwise hurt, here I was—same as my dad—alone and with my bottle in hand. I’d go home and after a few hours I’d pass out drunk. I’d get up, hit the gym, go to work, train—but all that discipline was futile. What, did I think I could escape the inevitable?
Chapter 2
Ace grabbed my shoulder. I knew it was him because his hands were cold. His hands were always cold. I turned around.
“Where the hell were you?”
Ace’s real name was Ronald. No one was allowed to call him Ronald. He wore expensive designer suits and some kind of shiny hair cream that smelled like pine trees. He was in charge of my stepfather’s gambling operations and thought very highly of himself.
“Nowhere,” I answered. “Just walking around outside, exploring.”
Ace snorted. He had an obnoxious way of expressing disapproval. And it seemed like I was always doing something wrong. It hadn’t always been like that. When I started dating him, he showered me with gifts and attention. But things changed. It wasn’t so much that he took me for granted; it was that he ordered me around, took control of every part of my life, and then, as I went through the stupid routines, he treated me with disdain. It was like he was trying to turn me into something he could feel contempt for.
“What the hell were you exploring around here?” Ace asked. “It’s a shithole warehouse in the middle of nowhere.”
I shrugged. “Just the stars. It’s a nice, warm night.”
Ace was over six feet tall and heavily muscled from when he started out in the organization as one of my stepfather’s closest bodyguards. Of course that was before my mom even met Roman. I only knew Ace as he was now, with his slicked back brown hair, expensive taste, and overbearing demeanor. But he was still big. And these days, I was scared of him.
“Fuck that!” Ace snapped. “You know what this shit looks like right?”
There he goes again.
“It looks like I’m not in control,” he shouted. “It looks like I can’t even keep my girl in line.”
“I’m sure the only one drawing that conclusion is you.”
“What’d you say?!” Ace put one hand on my shoulder and pointed with the other one.
He looked like a teacher giving a scolding, if teachers wore $5000 Italian made-to-measure suits and had dark, inky green tattoos running from their chests and up over their necks. Ace had sophisticated tastes, but he was a thug through and through. It certainly wasn’t the first time he’d stood aggressively in front of me with his hand gripping the uncomfortable place where my neck meets my shoulder, squeezing as he reprimanded me like a child.
“Listen to me,” he said, leaning in so close that the cedar and clove smell of his cologne became unbearable. “I’m single-handedly making your modeling career. The least you could do is show some damn respect.”
Ace was always looking for ways to make more money. A year ago, he’d suggested I get some headshots and he landed me a decent paying shoot through one of his connections. Of course, I never saw a dime past the little spending money he gave me. He said he was my manager and it was his responsibility to watch over my money. Meanwhile, it was apparently my responsibility to make sure his shirts were perfectly pressed every morning and his breakfast was warm and waiting.
One time, we went out with some of his friends and he noticed a tiny wrinkle in his shirt. He smiled in a sarcastic sort of way and excused us both. He led me by the arm all the way outside the club and into the parking lot where he full on screamed at me for being a “lazy, incompetent, bitch.” The next morning he surprised me with a white gold bracelet and told me I had to be on a plane in three hours.
I pulled his arm off my shoulder. “Ace, you know I don’t like the fights. I’m not interested in watching two guys beating each other bloody for amusement. It’s ridiculous.”
Ace smirked. “Yeah, well, shit like that pays for you to lounge around all day doing nothing.” He straightened up and readjusted his suit jacket. “Now, let’s get home so you can rest up. You’re heading to New York tomorrow.”
I shook my head. “Ace, I told you I have that thing sometime this weekend. I can’t go.”
“What thing?” He squeezed his eyebrows and the corners of his mouth together in a look of disgust. “What the fuck do you have to do that’s so important?”
“The Wildlife Resources Commission says the sea turtles are going to hatch any day now. You know that I volunteer for that every year. I told you last week.”
Ace laughed. “Are you kidding me?”
I stepped to the side so I could get some space between us. “I told you this was important to me. I’m not going.”
Chapter 3
So that’s Ace’s girl.
The warehouse was closed for the night and the main entrance was locked, so I’d slipped out the back near the dumpsters and the bull shit “Danger! Keep Out” signs that Roman’s guys had hung all around the gated perimeter. Ace was there having a heated conversation with a girl I could only assume was his better half.
Shit. No wonder he keeps her locked away.
There was a silent rule in the organization, something everyone knew not to mess with: You don’t touch Ace’s girl. There used to be a guy we all played poker with—a real wiseass. He made some joke about taking Saylor out for spin if he won the hand. Ace cracked his skull. I had to bury that guy out in these woods. That was when I just started in the gambling division, the low guy on the totem pole. I got higher up on that same totem pole by not fucking up. That’s it. Ace was a crazy bastard. The last thing I needed was trouble.
But right alongside the silent rule, there were rumors and there was talk. Now, I’d never seen her. The guys referred to her as Saylor, “Saylor with a ‘y,’” which always seemed like a strange name. They said she was the sweetest piece of ass they’d ever laid eyes on, but they were scared shitless to get caught looking. So it all became a big game, with guys bragging about how they’d undressed her with their eyes right under Ace’s nose.
It was a rare thing to actually see her, since Ace never brought her by at work. Maybe if Roman and his wife came by, she’d be with them. And that was the other half of the danger. Not only was her boyfriend crazy motherfucking Ace, but her stepfather was none other than the biggest criminal kingpin in the South—Roman Carmichael. So people talked about her quietly, with a wary eye and the absolute knowledge that she was off limits.
But they talked. They described her sweet little body and her golden, sun kissed skin. They talked about her light hair and her full lips, and how hard they got thinking about grabbing a fist of those white blonde locks and stuffing their dicks inside that soft looking mouth. I’d heard about a thousand reasons why she was the most wanted fuck in the entire state of North Carolina.
And looking at her for the first time, I’d say there were about a million more. If anything, the guys were holding back and their descriptions were like trying to communicate the colors of the sunset with just the words “black” and “white.”
Holy fucking shit.
She’d stepped out from Ace’s shadow and finally I could really get a look at her. I shook my head in disbelief. Part of me figured I must have been imagining things, because she was like a mix between an angel and some goddess from mythology. I mean, what the fuck was someone like that doing in a place like this? And even more vexing—something that really got my goat—how the fuck was a beauty like that with that ugly son-of-a-bitch Ace?
Fuck me.
I mean, shit, her hair was so light and tousled perfectly, like she was made to fuck on the beach. The moonlight reflected off her head like a halo and her skin beamed so golden bright it glowed from within. She was shining.
And I was hard. Hard as a rock. The blood rushed from my brain and pumped right into my rigid cock. All from just looking at her.
Holy fuck.
I’d never seen a girl like that. She got my heart racing and my dick throbbing at a whole new level of agonizing intensity. This was worlds beyond the usual skanks at Headlights. Loads better. And speaking of loads, there was nothing more thrilling than the thought of burying myself balls deep between those alluring, exquisite legs of hers and…
Easy does it…
I kept my distance but I couldn’t help but trace the contours of her delicious body. She was wearing some kind of flowing top that exposed just a bit of her smooth, tan stomach above her hip hugging jeans. And boy did they hug. Talk about lucky jeans. I wanted to get my hands on that ass so badly…
Keep moving.
Finally, the voice of reason made its way into my lust-filled mind. Last thing I needed was Ace turning around and catching sight of me checking out his girlfriend—and sporting a boner. I reached down and flipped it up and to the side so things were less obvious.
Time to go.
Things were getting a little heated between them, and I had no interest in becoming involved in some domestic dispute bull crap. As I slung my pack over my shoulder, careful not to bang up the high-end bottle of bourbon inside, I overheard some loud words. Well, they were shouting at this point. Something about sea turtles.
Suddenly Ace went apeshit, which he did all the time at work. The guy had a nasty temper. He turned red and did impulsive, stupid shit all the time. Lucky for him, he was usually in charge. Which just meant that my security team and I cleaned up the mess and things went back to normal.
I heard Saylor yell something like “I have to be there. I’m staying.”
And then Ace just exploded. “You’re going to New York.” His voice split the still night air. “Why? Because I SAID SO,” he spat violently, enunciating each word.
I kept moving. I had a great night of drinking ahead of me. But somehow, I wasn’t able to shake this image from my mind—a girl like that with that poor excuse for a man, that slimeball Ace. Shit, more often than not, the world just didn’t make sense.
And then I heard a loud thump and the crash and metallic clang of something hitting the dumpster. And I already knew, because it happ
ened all the time. I already knew he threw her against the dumpster. And I knew that I should keep going, that nothing in the world was worth that kind of trouble. But the problem was that once I saw her, I couldn’t get her out of my mind. And then, I had this one rule. I’d look the other way with all kinds of messed up shit, but in my book, you just didn’t hit a woman.
I saw red. The rage took over. I saw flashes of my father standing over my mother slumped on the kitchen floor. I dropped my pack and I marched right up to where Ace stood by the dumpster yelling at the beautiful girl he’d just slammed into the side of a rusty metal container.
He didn’t even notice me until it was too late. I grabbed his shoulder and pulled him back. The look of surprise on his face quickly turned to annoyance and outrage.
“What the hell, Dean?!”
I didn’t say anything. I grabbed his shiny suit by the shoulders and heard it rip. He went right into the side of the dumpster, much harder, and left a big dent. But I wasn’t done.
He kicked up at me and caught the side of my arm with the sharp heel of his shoe. Just some blood. A fucking scrape.
He’s going to get much worse.
I kicked the side of his ribs and his hands rushed to his flank, leaving him open. My right fist crushed into his jaw, and he let out a sharp howl from the pain. I’d dislocated his jaw. I wasn’t going to stop. I lifted him by the shirt with my left arm, raised my right again—
“Stop.”
Her hand was on my shoulder.
Chapter 4
I’d never seen a man like that. He tossed Ace around like he was ragdoll. His arms were bursting with muscle, each of them bigger than my whole body and covered in dark ink. His eyes were dark but they pierced through the night, gleaming with rage as he punched Ace’s jaw so hard I thought it’d come right off. He might’ve killed him, but he stopped. I didn’t think he would, just from me putting my hand over his heavy, tense shoulder—but he stopped.
When he turned around, I could have sworn I was looking at a Greek Statue. His white tank top was sweaty and pulled tight against the deep ridges and thick cuts of his muscular abdomen. His pecs were huge, tugging the straps of his tank top tight against his broad shoulders.
