Fearless For Love (Lovelly #3)

by Clara Stone

  “Stay down,” I tell him. Then I walk to the door, past the guy holding his nose and step outside, only to realize I have blood on my hands.

  “Damn it,” I say, flicking my hand, the burning sting of cracked knuckles making itself known. I grab a used bar towel out of the busing tray sitting on a nearby table, wipe off most of the blood, and then wrap the damp cloth around my knuckles. Some guy walks past me, heading toward the bathroom.

  “I wouldn’t go in if I were you.” When he quirks his eyebrow at me, I add, “Maintenance.” Ignoring my advice, he shoves open the door and yelps.

  “What the hell?”

  “Don’t say I didn’t warn you, man,” I say, nursing the wet towel against my throbbing hand.

  He hurriedly walks right back the way he came, just as Jess rounds the corner. She smiles warmly at the guy, who all but ignores her. Confused, she shakes her head, watching him for a moment before she turns back and comes to an abrupt stop.

  She looks at me. Then at my hand.

  Her lips part, her eyes widen, and she suddenly goes pale. It’s like watching the blood drain out of her. I hate that. It’s the night at the fight all over again. I reach for her and call her name. “Jess . . .”

  She shakes her head and takes a step back. Her hands come up, like she wants to push me further away, but we’re too far apart for her to actually touch me.

  “Jess. Wait—”

  She turns around and makes a beeline back toward the bar. And I let her. Because this is what’s best for her. She was right. I am Killshot. And she made her position on that abundantly clear.

  “What was that about?” Fisher asks, throwing a thumb over his shoulder as he comes down the hallway toward me.

  I shrug. “It doesn’t matter.” I wait until he reaches me, and then lean in close so only he can hear me. “Neil gave me a name to check out.”

  “Yeah?” His eyes spark with interest.

  “Roberto Gomez.”

  “No shit.”

  The way his nose crinkles, his mouth crunching in disgust, instantly tells me that he knows this asshole. “You know how to find him?”

  “That’s the problem. You can’t. Last I heard, he’d gone off to Jamaica or something. He’s Stamos’s enforcer, the guy who orders hits for Stamos, and he doesn’t really come here unless something big is happening. I missed my chance to bust his balls the last time he was here. I don’t know if he recognized me, but I sure as hell will never forget that face, with his Hitler-like mustache and three pink teardrops on his cheek. He’s the one that ordered a hit on my parents, man.”

  “Shit.”

  “Yeah. And to think he’s off living the good life somewhere on an island . . .”

  I squeeze his shoulder. “We’ll nail the bastard,” I promise. “We’ll nail him and anyone else he’s associated with.”

  I SPEED WALK back to the bar, getting as far away from Harrington as possible. I place my hand over my chest, feeling the way my heart races. I thought I was going to throw up right there in the hallway when I saw the blood caking his hand and knuckles.

  I couldn’t tell if it was his blood, or if it belonged to whomever he just beat up, but either way, I needed to get out of there. It was too similar to the last time I saw him battered and bloody and staring at me without a trace of remorse through the bars of a cage.

  And yet, even as I feel the fear and horror running wild in my blood, part of me screams that I’m wrong. That this time had been different. And I can’t deny that there’s something about him, something in the way he looks at me, something that flares every time our eyes connect, something that says maybe, just maybe, he’s not the bad guy I want to believe he is.

  Something that wants to believe in that flicker of pain and sadness I thought I saw in his eyes right before I turned and fled.

  “What’s going on, baby girl? You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” Cat says, concern coating her features.

  “I’m fine . . . I just . . .” I look over my shoulder and see two of our bouncers heading toward the restrooms, shoving their way through the crowded dance floor. Cat follows my gaze.

  “What happened back there? Don’t tell me you killed Killshot. Because that’d be both funny and tragic.”

  I shake my head.

  “Ladies!” John yells. “Serve first, chit-chat later.”

  Cat gives him the finger. “We’ll talk soon,” she whispers, before going to her station.

  “The customers want their alcohol,” John says, running around and putting drinks together. He grabs a handful of finished cocktails and places them on a tray. “Next time, hit me over the head when I volunteer to host a bridal party, okay?”

  And then he’s running back out toward the VIP section.

  “Where are all the waitresses?” I ask Cat.

  “We have like six VIP parties tonight. They’re out running around, trying to get all the orders served.”

  I sigh and indicate the tray John left behind. “Where does this need to go?”

  She looks at the receipt. “Table fifty-nine.”

  “Okay. I’ll take it. You’re faster at filling drinks than me.” Grabbing the tray, I head out around the bar and walk through the crowd. I deliver the drinks to the specified table and then pick up others. When I get back to the bar, someone bumps into my side and I stumble into someone else. The glasses I held scatter all over the floor and the crowd parts like food-coloring dropped into milk.

  “Ohmigod. I’m so sorry!” I hurry to get it cleaned.

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” the guy asks, his tone a bit too bitchy for my taste, especially given the kind of night I’ve been having. When the largest of the broken glass pieces are picked up, I place the tray on my palm and stand, turning to face him.

  It’s Tony.

  I’ve seen him once or twice at practice. But most of the time, I see him hanging around our shows, getting high with Jarod backstage. Jarod gets a lot creepier when Tony’s around too, not that he’s ever truly not creepy.

  “Who’s going to clean up my shoes?” He sneers, stepping into my space.

  Cat comes to my side, a cloth in hand.

  “Here,” she says, exchanging the towel for the tray. In turn, I hand it to Tony.

  “Na ah.” He steps in even closer, crowding me. The air in here isn’t exactly easy to breath as is, with the heat of too many bodies compressed into a small space bordering on stifling, but to have someone’s alcohol-breath surround me like a tornado is too much. “You make the mess, you clean it up,” he says, grabbing my hand, his grip tight.

  “Let go of me, Tony.” I twist my wrist, trying to break free without much luck. “Let go!”

  He pulls me tight against him and wraps his arm around my waist, holding me to him. His smell engulfs me, suffocating. Cat’s calling for Ben, our bouncer at the front door.

  “I don’t take lightly to whores like you messing with my thousand-dollar shoes.” He shoves his hand into my hair and pulls back painfully. His other hand wraps around my neck. “Now be a good little bitch. Get on your knees and clean it up.”

  I yelp and stifle a cry at the same time. Fear pounds through me as my past collides with my present.

  “Don’t pretend like you don’t like being handled rough,” he says into my ear. “Why ever else would you be eye-fucking Killshot?”

  I open my mouth to protest, but gag on the bile rising in the back of my throat as he runs one finger down my jaw and toward my low-cut crop top.

  He nips at my neck, and something in the way he does it nearly breaks me down. Images of my past abusers bubble to the surface, and it’s all I can do to keep from shutting down completely, from curling into a tiny ball right there in the broken glass and spilled liquor.

  “I bet he has fun with this body of yours, doesn’t he?” His breath is hot on my skin. “I’d love to get my hands on you. Show you how a real man treats a woman with your . . . curves.”

  My body shakes with anger. He
’s nothing like Harrington. Harrington may be a lot of things, but I know in my core that he would never treat a woman this way.

  “He’s ten times the man you’ll ever be,” I snarl.

  He jerks me back and I yelp in pain, my hand flailing to the side. My head hurts so bad tears threaten to roll down my cheeks. I bite down on my tongue, refusing to cry. Pressing my lips together, I squeeze my eyes shut, expecting the worst to happen.

  Then, suddenly, his grip loosens and his stench disappears.

  “I’ve got you,” Harrington says softly, his voice gentle, comforting.

  His arms wrap around me and I turn into him, burying my nose in his t-shirt. There’s something familiar and even safe about the feel of his arms around me, the smell of his skin, his cologne.

  “You’re safe, Jess.” Harrington runs his hand down the length of my hair and pulls me closer. “I have you.”

  “What the hell is going on?” Rick’s voice is filled with anger and concern. “First the two men fucking bleeding in my bathroom and now this?”

  I tighten my grip on Harrington. Rick’s words erode the edges of the secure little bubble I’d retreated into. It was almost enough to make me forget about what I saw in the hallway. Almost.

  “Some asshole just assaulted her,” Harrington answers, as he points at something over my back. “And I’m taking her home.”

  “No,” I yell, shoving Harrington from me. I’m not stupid; I see how I practically clung to him when I needed soothing. But I also know what I saw in the hallway, what I saw at the cage fight . . . and . . . hell, I don’t know. I just . . . “I just need a minute.”

  “Jess—”

  I put my finger up. “I-I just need a minute.” I turn around and walk away.

  “Jess,” Cat’s voice follows behind me, and she catches up just as I make it to the break room.

  I stop and turn around as she reaches for me, pulling me into a hug. “It’s okay. You’ll be fine. You’re fine.”

  She comforts me. But it doesn’t feel the same as when Harrington did it.

  “Everything will be okay.” Cat runs her hand over my hair, continuing to soothe my trembling heart. “You’ll be okay. Rick’s trying to get it all worked out.”

  “Trying?” I say, pulling up and away from her. I don’t understand.

  She nods and looks almost . . . sheepish? “Tony’s with Stamos, so no matter how much Rick wants to protect us, he can’t really do jack-squat except apologize on our behalf so they don’t put him out of business.”

  I cup my forehead with both of my hands. Shit.

  I crumple and fall into the nearest chair. Everything’s falling apart.

  Cat sits next to me. I pull my legs up and put my elbows on top of my knees, my hands hiding my face.

  “Maybe you should take that offer from Killshot and go home. You don’t look so good, girl,” she says.

  The back of my head still throbs. “Yeah. Maybe I should. But I’m not going to go with him. I’ll take the bus.”

  “Nonsense.” She gets to her feet. “I’ll get Fisher to take you home.”

  I raise a questioning eyebrow.

  “Shut it. There’s nothing going on between us.”

  “Except hot make-up sex?”

  She ignores my statement. “It’ll make me feel better if someone I know takes you home. And John is never getting out of his bridal party job.” She stretches her hand out toward me.

  I swallow, placing my hand in hers as she pulls me up. “Yeah. Okay. Thanks.”

  “IS THAT THE best you got?” Fisher taunts me. “I don’t know, dude. You’re getting a little slow in your old age.”

  I dance around him, not letting his words get to me. It’s been two days since the fight at Blue Tango, and I still haven’t seen or heard from Jessica. It hurt that she refused to let me take her home, choosing to go with Fisher instead, but I’m trying not to dwell on it.

  Unsuccessfully, it seems.

  That’s part of why Fisher and I started sparring to begin with, to help me clear my head. And right now, all I want is to lose myself in the moment and kick Fisher’s ass. He comes at me, swinging his arm a little too high and giving me the opening I need. I duck under his punch and swing around so I’m right behind him. I put him in a head lock and kick the back of his knees, dropping him to a kneeling position.

  Fisher’s hand is latched onto my forearm as he struggles to breathe, while the other flails against his thigh in the universal sign for tapping out. “Give,” he chokes.

  Chuckling, I let him go. He falls back on his butt, propping himself up with one hand and throwing the other over his bent leg, his breathing heavy.

  “What were you saying about me being old?”

  “Sorry, man. I didn’t mean old. I meant fat, chunky. When did you go and become a whale?”

  “Aw. Now my heart’s broken. How ever will I survive?” I swat at the back of his head and he ducks in the nick of time, laughing.

  “See what I mean? Maybe you’re just getting slow because what’s-her-name has your balls in a twist.”

  I scowl at him, ready to protest, but he doesn’t give me the chance, talking over me so I can’t cut him off. “You’re so slow that—”

  Both of us freeze as the front door opens and a burst of evening air rolls in. Lincoln comes running toward us, out of breath. He comes to a stop at the base of the ring and doubles over, gasping for air. I help Fisher to his feet and we both duck out of the ring, joining him in no time.

  “What’s going on?” Fisher asks.

  Lincoln wheezes something indecipherable. Then he stands to his full height, puts his hands on his head, and takes a couple deep breaths through his nose. “Krish. Tony’s . . .” He takes a deep breath again, waving his hand in the general direction of outside. “Tony’s challenging him at . . . at Ninth and Coral.”

  That’s all I need to hear before I take off running. Ninth and Coral is a well-known spot for petty throw-downs. It likely has nothing to do with Stamos, but if Tony’s involved, then I need to be there. I’m not about to let him beat up my friend. Especially after he assaulted Jess the way he did.

  It takes me less than three minutes to get to the corner of Ninth and Coral. I turn right down Ninth and sprint a few more feet to the ally wedged between a taqueria and a liquor store. I can hear shouts being thrown even before I turn into the alley and see the gathered crowd. I shove my way through the bodies, trying to get to where Tony and Krish stand in the center. I can see them, but I’m too far away to do anything when Tony throws a punch at Krish, clocking him hard in the jaw.

  Tony sneers, his arms wide as Krish stumbles back and falls to the ground. “This is what happens to guys who double-cross Stamos.”

  Krish pushes up to his hands and knees and spits blood to the side. “I didn’t cross him,” he says. “I just wanted out.”

  Tony laughs maliciously and signals two of his goons; they step forward and pull Krish’s arms behind his back. Tony crouches down to Krish’s height and grabs his chin, pulling it up. “Silly, Krish. There’s no getting out once you’re in.” He jerks him to the side, holding him in place as he pulls something from his pocket—a knife. It glints in the weak light of the streetlamps filtering through the alley as he flicks it open, holding it in front of Krish’s face. “I bet you wish you never volunteered to take care of your family’s debt, now don’t you?”

  Krish struggles on the ground, trying to get up, his eyes wide with fear. But he doesn’t get the chance. Before I can stop it, Tony rams the blade into Krish’s ribs, then again, and again.

  “No!” I scream, finally breaking free of the crowd. I ram my shoulder into Tony’s side, making him stumble over. The knife clatters against the asphalt and I kick it away, out of reach.

  His eyes are wide with surprise as he gets to his feet. His face turns red and he literally snarls at me. “You are so fucking done.”

  Before I know what I’m doing, I lunge forward and ram the base of my palm into
his nose, feeling it crunch under the impact. He stumbles back, clutching at his face and swearing loudly, but I’m not done. First Jess, now Krish. King-pin’s child or not, he’s gone too far. Rage clouds my vision and I unleash everything I’ve got on him, landing blow after blow to his head, his torso, anywhere I can hit. He’s a human punching bag, and I don’t let up until he finally falls to the ground and I feel someone grab my arm to pull me back.

  “Enough, man! That’s enough,” Fisher says in my ear. I turn to him and the barely concealed shock I see on his face breaks the spell. The blinding rage disintegrates around me as the gravity of what I’ve done starts to set in.

  Shit.

  I jerk my arm free and Fisher lets me, eyeing me with a wary look, clearly ready to grab me again if I make a move.

  Tony’s henchmen descend upon him, pulling him back and trying to help him up. Sirens fill the night air, faint but getting closer. Everyone disperses like a bunch of flies. I watch as Tony’s men get him to his feet. Blood covers most of his face and clothes, and one eye is already starting to swell. Even still, he throws a threat over his shoulder at me as his men help him hobble away. “This isn’t over.”

  My hands curl into fists as the rage flares. But before I can move, Fisher calls my name, drawing my attention to where he and Lincoln are helping Krish to his feet.

  “We need to go, man,” he says, grunting under the weight of our semi-conscious friend. Blood coats Krish’s side and his head lolls. He needs medical attention. Now.

  I nod and step forward, taking over for Fisher as support. He willingly lets go of his friend, leaving Lincoln and I to shoulder Krish’s weight as he pulls out his phone and makes a quick call.

  I hear him ask a few questions, but he’s moved too far away for me to make out who he’s talking to. I shoot Lincoln a glance. “What the fuck happened?”

  “They wanted to ship Krish and me off to another country, and Krish didn’t want to go. I told him we’d figure something out, but he went and mouthed off in front of Tony like a dumbass, and word got back to Stamos. This is so fucked up. They know that all Krish has is his grandmother, and she’s not going to last much longer. They could have waited until she kicked the bucket to send him overseas, but no. They want us to know they own us, that there’s no way out for any of us.” He shudders. “I tried to help him, man, but there were too many of them and I just couldn’t.”