Fearless For Love (Lovelly #3)

by Clara Stone

  I look around as everyone takes a step back.

  “Five to one,” the announcer says, raising the stakes.

  Not a single person bats an eye.

  I smirk, studying the fear in each profile. But I need to wait, let the stakes get a little higher . . .

  “Ten to one. Who wants to test their luck tonight?”

  “Or go to the morgue in a body bag?” someone else yells.

  “Going once. Twice—”

  That’s my cue. I step forward. All eyes fall to me, and the room goes silent.

  “The real question is . . .” I use my arms to push up and over the short concrete wall of the ring and step into the fighting area. “How lucky do you feel?” I take out a handful of hundreds and throw them on the table to the right of the ring, where the guy curating the entrance fees sits. Given the way the previous fights have ended, he’s guarding quite the purse. Too bad he’s about to lose it.

  For a full ten seconds, the room goes silent, filling with tension thicker than my opponent’s head. I stare at him, unblinking, as he does the same.

  Intimidation tactics.

  His fingers curl and uncurl, like he’s trying to control his need to strangle the living daylights out of me.

  Either way, I only have one thing to say: Game on, bitch.

  “Well, well, well.” The MC breaks the silence. “Ladies and gentlemen, looks like we have another fight tonight. Place your bets.”

  And just like that, my challenge has been accepted. It’s the unspoken procedure: guy challenges for new fighters, dude jumps into the ring and throws money into the pile, MC makes an announcement.

  Wham, bam, time to get slamming.

  The dude’s fist comes right at my face, giving me half a second’s warning to duck under his arm. For a big guy, he sure as hell moves fast. He grabs a hold of my shirt, literally ripping the sleeve off my left arm.

  “Aw, come on, man,” I say. “This is my favorite shirt.”

  He grunts, punching his right fist into his left hand.

  I motion in a “come and get it” gesture, adding a cocky grin for good measure. He roars as he run at me, his face turning red.

  I sidestep, kneeing him in the gut. He doubles over, breathing loud. His face scrunches up like he ate something sour, and then he straightens to his full height. He rolls his shoulders and clenches his fists. I wait, perfectly content to play defense. He comes at me, throwing a right punch, then a left; I block each with a swipe. But I don’t see the sweep of his leg and before I know it, I’m on my back, staring at the white light above us. I see his leg start to come down and roll to the side, jumping to my feet and bouncing back on the balls of my feet.

  “Is that all you got?” I taunt, wiping the sweat from my chin.

  “You talk too much,” he grunts, and with that, he’s coming at me once more. We dance around each other, throwing punches and kicks, each trying to take the other down. I make the mistake of getting too close when I go for what should have been the final blow, and he wraps his arms around my midsection. He lifts me over his head and flings me across the ring. My back hits the concrete wall and I double over, my arm wrapping around my ribs as I wheeze. Yep, that hurt.

  The room gets louder, people chanting at us to end the fight. End me. New bets are drawn—higher bets, bets in favor of the other guy.

  “Fuck.” I spit blood to the side. “Okay.”

  I run the back of my hand over my mouth. A streak of red paints over my light skin and I wipe it off on my shirt.

  “Now . . .” I say, pushing up to my feet, using the wall behind me as support. “It’s my turn.”

  I can feel the greed and lust for blood coming off the people around us in waves, and I use it to drive my strength. This time, when Colossus comes at me, I don’t move until the last second. He rams into the dusty wall, groaning. Before he can recover, I jump up and back kick him just above his hips, knocking him forward so his head slams against the concrete.

  He groans in pain, falling to his knees. Dust from the floor puffs into the air around him. A red bruise has formed over his forehead, but I’m not done yet.

  “You know, I’m not very good at forgiveness.” I run my thumb over my bottom lip and flick more blood to the side. “But I’ve been told that I’m very generous.”

  His eyes widen as I open my arms, walking forward like I’m going to hug him. I stop just in front of him and with a smirk, I bring my hands together over his ears and bring his face forward to meet my knee, ending the fight with one fluid motion.

  I let my opponent fall to the ground as blood gushes from his nose and mouth. Wiping the sweat and blood off my own face, I slowly look up. The room falls silent as I make a three hundred and sixty degree turn, studying the surprised looks on the audience’s faces. Some are in the middle of exchanging bet money. Others just look dumbfounded. And still others are obviously pissed.

  I throw my fists in the air and the room bursts into a mixture of cheers and disappointed yells. A chant starts, and I slowly realize it’s directed toward me.

  “Killshot. Killshot. Killshot.” The chanting gets louder and louder. I turn around, greeting my admirers with a fist pump and a roared “Yeah!” from time to time.

  “Ladies and gentlemen.” The announcer grabs my arm and jerks it up. “Killshot! Tonight’s big winner, walking away with fifteen thousand, six-hundred dollars.”

  “Hell yeah!” I yell, before taking the load of cash he hands over. I take the bills and raise them to the ceiling, letting my admirers take part in my winnings. But as I do, I scan the crowd once more, wishing and hoping for that one person I’ve put so much of my life on hold for.

  I catch the gaze of a guy in the upper level, off in the corner. There’s something about him that makes me believe I’ve found my mark, that he might be the person to help me get where I need to be. He pulls out a phone and dials, talking into it, his eyes on me the entire time.

  I take my attention off him and continue to sweep the crowd, enjoying the adoration. Once I’ve made a full circle, I look again to the guy in the upper corner. He nods, finally hanging up the phone. He walks forward into the light and smiles.

  I raise my hand with the money into the air and yell, goading the crowd on.

  Finally, the easy part of the plan has come to an end.

  Now it’s time to meet Constantine Stamos. Drug dealer and master of all things illegal in Florida. And then, hopefully, Fisher.

  CALLING WILSON THIS early might not be the best of ideas, since he doesn’t get in until nine or ten most days. But at least this way, he’ll get the message first thing. When his voicemail picks up, I leave a short message: “Something major has come up. We should talk.”

  I end the call and shove the phone back into my pocket. This could go either way, I realize, as I imagine the various earfuls I’m likely to receive once Wilson hears my news. Lost in thought, I lazily flick a straw between my fingers while I wait at the counter for my coffee.

  “I like you, Jessica, but why are we up at this ungodly hour?” some girl to my right whines.

  My ears perk up at the name and I tilt my head to the side, trying to catch a glimpse of the girl in question. Is it . . . ? I can’t tell. She’s hidden behind her friend, the one who’s clearly taking her vampire obsession a bit too seriously. I always thought hair white as snow was a myth. But this girl has it, and lots of it. In dreads. Black ink runs along the columns of her neck, dripping down the curve of her shoulders, and light reflects off something at the corner of her eyebrow. I squint, taking a closer look.

  Finally, she moves and I catch a glimpse of the girl behind her; she’s got her back to me now. And unlike her friend, this girl has black hair with rainbow colors running through it, and she’s dressed in sweats.

  It’s her.

  It has to be.

  My thoughts are confirmed when the rainbow-haired girl looks over her shoulder. I know the moment she recognizes me, because her eyes turn huge. She looks to her
friend and tells her something before making her way toward me.

  A mix of curiosity and concern flickers in her gaze as her eyes lock on my left cheek. I give a quick glance to her friend, who sips from her mug, her eyes never leaving mine. I hear the barista calling my order, but I can’t seem to look away as Jessica comes to a stop before me.

  “Fancy seeing you here,” I say, the corners of my mouth curving up.

  “Well, it is my favorite coffeehouse,” she says with a smirk. “But I don’t recall ever seeing you here before.”

  I shrug. “Not my usual thing. But I woke up this morning with a craving for something bitter that doesn’t involve alcohol.”

  She laughs. “How can you not love coffee? It’s like the best thing in the world.” She looks over my shoulder and jerks her chin at something behind me. “Is that yours?”

  I turn around and notice that the barista conveniently set my order on the counter. I grab it and take a sip. I notice Jessica’s friend is still eying me with a blend of curiosity and protectiveness.

  “You in a hurry?” I ask, turning my attention back to Jess.

  She shakes her head. “Not really. I just came here for my usual coffee run.”

  “Your friend doesn’t look very happy.”

  Jess throws a quick glance toward the white-haired girl and shrugs. “She’s not a morning person. But she has an early shift today, and I figured what better way to wake up your mind than with the fresh smell of coffee?” She takes a deep breath and sighs happily. “What about you? Headed somewhere?”

  I shrug. “Nope, nowhere. You want to sit?”

  She rocks on her feet and gives me a wide smile. “Sure.”

  I gesture for her to lead the way and let her walk before me. When she takes a seat at a corner table, I follow and sit across from her. “So you love the smell of coffee? Ten bucks says you can’t guess what kind I have just by the smell.”

  She quirks an eyebrow. “Easiest ten bucks I’ve ever made.” She extends her hand and I place my cup in her waiting fingers, covering the scribble so she can’t cheat. “Hmm . . .” She takes a deep breath. “Roasted . . . no . . . European roasted . . . black, no cream or sugar, four shots of espresso. You weren’t kidding about wanting something bitter.”

  I arch a brow. “And you weren’t kidding about knowing your shit.”

  She shrugs and hands me back my cup. “Coffee addict.”

  “Impressive,” I compliment her.

  It doesn’t go unnoticed that the tips of her ears turn pink and she looks away. Hmm, she doesn’t know how to take a compliment.

  I pull out a ten and slide it toward her. “You won it square and fair.”

  She scoffs, but snatchs the money and shoves it into her pocket. “Like I said, easiest ten bucks ever.”

  I take another sip and look around the diner. A guy in the corner—dressed in a jean jacket, his long black hair tied back in a ponytail—is keeping an eye on me while pretending to read his newspaper. He hasn’t turned a page since I walked in. Two booths down to my left, another guy—bulky and in a leather jacket—repeatedly glances between Jess and me. He must have missed the memo about not looking so obvious.

  I make a quick note of the exits—one behind me, another on the other side of the room, by the front. There’s also the bathroom at the back. I remember seeing a window in there the last time I used it.

  “So, um . . .” Jess’s fingers drum on the table, bringing my attention back to her. She looks nervous, though probably not for the same reasons I am. “Do you live close by?”

  I look at her, surprised by her brazenness, and she quickly adds, “You said coffee isn’t your thing, so I’m just curious why you chose this place? Figured you must live close by.”

  I raise my cup to my lips, my gaze on Tweedledee and Tweedledum. I don’t like the way they’re watching her.

  “You—” Jess starts, again, but I cut her off.

  “I suppose.” My words are short and cold.

  Uninterested.

  Her eyebrows pinch together. I notice the guy two booths down get up and place a twenty on the table. Light reflects off the inside of his jacket. Is that a knife or a gun? As he turns toward us, my fist tightens under the table. I take a deep breath, counting the seconds as he walks this way.

  “What happened to your face?” Jess reaches for it.

  I move back and away from her touch, grabbing the knife and fork, ready to strike if necessary.

  She flinches. But I’m not watching her. My eyes are glued on the guy as he walks past me. He turns and looks at Jess, then gives me a smirk before disappearing out the door behind me.

  Shit.

  Everything freezes in me as I realize what just happened. Jess has been marked by Stamos’s men. I should have known he’d have me followed, vetted. God, how could I have been so stupid?

  Shit. Shit. Shit.

  By the time my focus is back on Jess, she’s scooting out of the booth.

  “Wait.” I shouldn’t stop her. Not if I want her safe. But that same pull I felt before overrides my rationalization. I don’t want her to leave, to be the reason her face wears that look of complete and utter disappointment.

  “It’s fine. You’re distracted. I should—”

  “I got beat up.” My eyes dart to the corner, where Stamos’s other guy is. “So I’m a bit edgy.”

  “Oh.” Her hands relax, and she settles back into the booth. At least for now. “I’m sorry.”

  “It’s not your fault.” I shrug.

  “I know.” She looks down at her hands, then back up. “How bad does it hurt?”

  “Well, it feels like someone rammed their fists into my face and tenderized it.”

  “Always the smartass.” The corner of her mouth curves up slightly.

  And I finally give up the asshole persona enough to let my own smile escape. I scoot back, throwing my arm over the support by the window. “You should see the other guy.”

  She fidgets in her seat, looking uncomfortable all of a sudden.

  I crinkle my nose, pinching it between my forefinger and thumb. “You really didn’t think I’d lost the fight . . . did you?”

  She presses her lips together and reaches for something under her sweatshirt that must be hanging around her neck. “Do you get into fights often?”

  Her question throws me off. “Never without a good reason.” Which is mostly true. Even last night, I had a reason. One that could save Fisher’s life.

  She lets go of whatever is around her neck but doesn’t meet my gaze. Do I scare her? That wouldn’t be a first, I suppose. Of course, most of the people I scare tend to be male, rather than female. But Jess isn’t like other girls.

  I look up to make sure Goon #2 is still pretending to read his newspaper and notice Jessica’s friend moving toward us. I guess her curiosity finally got the better of her.

  “So . . .” she says as she stands at the edge of the table. “You going to introduce me to your new friend?” She’s grinning wide, a bit of mischief in the way she’s looking at Jess.

  “Oh, yes, Cat, this is—”

  “Killshot . . .” I extend my hand, ignoring Jess’s questioning glance. I’m not about to risk giving my real name, not when Stamos has his pests watching me.

  Cat’s eyebrows shoot up. “Killshot? What, did your mother name you while taking shots?”

  I wink. “My dad says I took after her ability to put down alcohol like a pirate.”

  “Well, Mr. Killshot. I’m Cat, as Jessica mentioned. Best friend extraordinaire and roommate.” She then looks at Jess, who finally directs her attention toward something other than her lap. “I need to get some snoozers before my shift in a few hours. You okay here?”

  My phone buzzes in my pocket and I pull it out, hoping it’s Wilson calling me back. But it’s not. It’s a text from an unknown number.

  “Yes,” I hear Jess say. “I’ll see you tonight.”

  “You have fun, chica. ” I hear them exchange a quick hug a
s I read the text.

  “What’s wrong?” Jess asks, turning back to me as Cat leaves.

  I look up. “Do you know where the Blue Tango is?”

  She nods, curious. “Yeah. It’s about a twenty-five minute drive from here. Why?”

  “I’m supposed to meet someone there. On Friday.”

  I HUFF, ADJUSTING my barely there top. Friday nights at Blue Tango are different than most night clubs. In the spirit of Friday being “fun,” the owner decided to add themes. So in order to get in, you have to be dressed according to the theme. And tonight, it’s a burlesque themed party. Lots of ruffles, lots of skin, and not enough space. I look like I could star in Moulin Rouge, treading the almost non-existent thin line between being a stripper and being tastefully sexy. But who am I to judge? At least the ruffles and feathers are helpful, covering just a tiny bit more than the fabric itself does.

  “You nervous, Jessica?” John asks from across the bar.

  I snort. “You wish.”

  “She’s got this,” Cat says, placing a hand on my shoulder. “And stop trying to psych her out every week. If it didn’t work the first eight times, I doubt it’s going to do anything now.”

  I laugh. The truth is, the first night I worked here was a Friday, and I totally freaked out. Completely, utterly freaked out, so much so that I ended up sleeping until three p.m. the following day. Later, I had called Vincent to chew him out for setting me up with the most impossible job ever, working for a person who’s dead set on seeing me squirm. It’s all in good fun of course, but still.

  That first night had left me with serious doubts about whether my best friend had been supporting me or trying to sabotage me so I’d come back home.

  John points at me, bringing my attention back to the present, and says, “She’s still a newbie. Which means, as the senior in this trio, I get to give her shit.”

  Cat pulls out three shot glasses and fills each with tequila. “Back off, Skittles.”

  “Or what?” he says as he wipes down the bar and starts filling a container with red, high heel-shaped toothpicks.

  “I mean it, Johnny-boy. Unless you want to get kicked in the nuts, you don’t mess with my roomie. ” She pushes one of the tequila-filled shot glasses toward him, then another toward me. “Bottoms up.” She slams her glass down a second later, shaking her head. John follows suit.