Rafe

by Jo Raven

  So I’m sitting in the office of Damage Control, pretending to study the computer screen. I try to force my mind on the numbers scrolling in front of me, but it’s no use. I run my hands through my hair, tug on it.

  Awesome. Here I am, rocking in my corner, muttering to myself. At least I keep my damn breakdowns private, but hell, life keeps fucking me over, and there is a breaking point in everyone. Feels like I’m nearing mine.

  My thoughts keep returning to Megan, the one girl I want and can’t have. To the anniversary that’s coming up, sending an ache in my bones. To the shop I’m about to lose.

  Dammit, the shop. This morning I got another call from my uncle. He’s desperate to sell it, and he wants me to look at some papers, but is being vague about them. What the hell does he want from me?

  Uncle Armin, my mother’s brother, the executor of my parents’ will. He also administers what was left to me by my parents until the day I turn twenty-one.

  After my family was killed, I was one hot mess. I was fifteen at the time. Armin and his wife took me in, but could barely handle me. Still, Aunt Marnie believed I could survive, something I wasn’t so sure of at the time. Still healing from the physical wounds, not to mention the mental ones, I’d withdrawn into myself and lived on pills, booze and occasionally hard drugs I got on the street.

  She got me talking one day, and I said my dream was to open a tattoo shop and have Zane work there. It would be a place to bring in artists who had no families to help them.

  My aunt made it happen. She bought for me a tattoo shop that had gone bankrupt, and Damage Control was born. Together with Zane, we built Damage, piece by piece. Doing that saved me from going completely off the edge, helped me lay off the drugs and alcohol. Kept me alive.

  Now she’s dead, after a long battle with cancer. She left the shop to her husband, and he wants to sell it. Without my part of the inheritance left to me by my parents, money I won’t see until I turn twenty-one, I can’t buy it from him.

  Sell Damage Control.

  I bang my fist on the desk and push my chair back with a screech. The fuck he will. I pace the cramped space, resist the urge to punch more walls. I rub the crusted blood on my knuckles.

  Motherfucking Armin. A drinker and gambler, he ran out of money to feed his addiction, so he wants to sell me out to pay his debts. If Damage Control is sold...

  No, can’t stand thinking about it. This is where Zane and Tyler work, where the Damage Boyz have found a home. Where I found a family. This shop is the one good thing that’s come out of the tragedy. The one good thing I’ve given the world in exchange for my worthless life. Giving, to erase what was taken from me. To make up for surviving when I should be dead.

  I definitely need to talk to Zane and Tyler about this—and the Damage Boyz. After all, their jobs are on the line. It’s not only about me.

  No, not about me. I know that, even if I feel as if I’m sinking through the floor. Fuck. I have to do it, and do it now, before I lose my nerve.

  Grabbing my jacket, I stride to the office door and throw it open. A deep breath, and I square my shoulders, then walk over to where Tyler is standing behind the reception desk and prepare to tell him everything. That the shop will be sold. That he’ll have to look for another job. Another place to hang out.

  He’s grinning at something. When he notices me, he lifts his cell and shows me a pic of his four-year-old son, face and hands covered in chocolate. At least I hope it’s chocolate.

  “Hey man, I was gonna invite you to Jax’s birthday party…” His eyes narrow. “You okay?”

  Fuck me. “Yeah, fine. I just…” The bad news I’m about to deliver freezes on my damn tongue. Shit.

  “Did you wanna talk to me?”

  “No. No, it’s nothing.”

  “Man, listen.” Tyler puts down his cell. “Once when I had no hope left, you told me I shouldn’t give up, that I should let my friends help me. So let us help you now, buddy.”

  “I’m fine.” Dammit. I turn around. “Where’s Zane?”

  “Outside.”

  “Thanks.” Without a backward glance at Tyler, I hurry out into the cold, hoping to catch Z-man on his cigarette break.

  Instead I find him talking to Shane, one of our apprentices, a long-haired, brooding guy we took in a year ago. Zane’s patting the guy on the back, telling him everything’s gonna be okay. That he’s not going back to the streets. That the shop is his home now, and we are looking out for him.

  I want to howl. Fucked-up timing. My resolve shatters. How do I take away their peace and happiness now they’ve finally found it?

  No, dammit. This isn’t okay. I have to solve the issue, find a way to keep the shop. Keep my friends safe and happy.

  “Rafe?” Zane’s noticed me. He’s looking right through me, that sucker.

  “Not now.” My head pounding, I turn the other way and start walking. Fuck it, I need a smoke. I’ve been smoking more lately, and if that isn’t a bad sign, I don’t know what is. I had supposedly cut that crap out.

  I pull a pack and a lighter from my pocket and light up as I go.

  “People depend on me.” That’s what Zane said last summer, when all the shit with his sister went down. He’d refused to talk to me about it, or let me help.

  Well, people depend on me, too. Responsibility weighs on my shoulders, a boulder the size of the fucking state. Hunched over, I hurry away from the shop and people I’ve let down.

  What am I supposed to do? I throw my cigarette to the gutter and weave my way through familiar streets, not really taking notice of where I’m heading. How can I fix this? I feel as if I’ve broken a promise, an oath, and it doesn’t matter that it wasn’t really like that. It’s close enough.

  This is on me.

  Feels like everything’s on me—the pain of the whole damn world, all the death and blood and tears. All my fault. No matter how often people tell me it isn’t true, how often Zane has yelled at me to quit thinking like this, how much I’ve willed myself to believe it, I feel guilty as fuck.

  Guilty for everything gone bad, as if I’ve inflicted the pain and death myself.

  The faces of my parents and Carla, my sister, flash in front of my eyes, and I have to slow down and try to suck a deeper breath, because black dots are dancing in my vision. I remember the tattoo on the murderer’s arm, and my chest feels crushed.

  Motherfucker is still out there.

  Fury blinds me. My steps lead me true, though, even if my brain is fuzzy. Soon enough I find myself in front of the building where Ash used to fight. I blink at the filthy steps leading down to the basement Ash pointed out to me once.

  Okay, I’m here. Now what? Something tells me getting caught staring at the entrance of an illegal fight club won’t go unnoticed and, what’s more, won’t help. I want to see the fucker, not be seen by him.

  If he’s here. If I didn’t imagine seeing that tattoo. If I’ve not lost it completely.

  And if he is? If he’s right here, in the basement? Maybe staying is the final proof I’ve gone batshit, but returning to Damage Control is an even worse prospect.

  So I look around for a hideout. I spot a nearby building entrance and melt into its shadows to wait.

  ***

  Huddling in my jacket, I shift legs numb from the cold, trying to restart my circulation. I shove my hands deeper into my pockets, blow out a breath, when I notice two guys standing at the entrance I’ve been watching.

  Leaning forward, I study them as much as the swirling snowflakes and the fading afternoon light allow. Something about one of them sends a shiver down my spine.

  Is it him? It’s hard to tell from this distance, and even if I were close, I realize with a sinking feeling, I wouldn’t be able to see the tattoo on his arm. It’s not summer. He won’t be wearing a short-sleeved T-shirt, or anything.

  What the hell am I doing?

  Slipping back into the shadows, I hold by breath and watch until the two guys go down the steps and vanish inside
the building.

  Christ. I breathe out and rub my hands over my face. And if it’s him? What then? How do I find him, prove it’s him? Do I just go down the steps, ask if anyone knows him?

  Hi, I’m looking for my family’s murderer. Thought he might be hiding here, in the underworld of the Russian mafia, in your illegal fight club.

  Shit.

  Stepping out of my protected spot, I almost do it, almost follow him. But the world conspires against my plans, or lack thereof. As I trudge down the sidewalk, the wind howls, turning into a gale. Snowfall turns into a snowstorm. The ice crystals blind me, and I lift my arm to shield my face. Blinking my ice-encrusted lashes, I take another step—

  —and almost crash into a huge guy who’s dragging someone by the hair in the snow.

  Goddammit.

  “Nobody fucking comes in here without an invitation,” the giant growls, throwing down the man he’s been dragging like a sack of potatoes. “Keep the fuck away from this place or you’ll regret it, got it?”

  And I’m standing just a few feet away, gaping like an idiot. My feet have taken root in the slush.

  Move it.

  I shake myself and resume walking. Keeping my head down, pretending to be fascinated by my boots, I hurry past the two of them and don’t look back until I reach the end of the street and turn the corner.

  Then I break into a run.

  Holy motherfucking shit. That was close. I run and run, my heartbeat thundering in my ears, and I’m shaking with delayed reaction.

  “Nobody comes in here without an invitation.”

  How the fuck did Ash get in?

  Connections, I think, still running like mad. His dad was a boxer. Probably knew people. I need a way in.

  This is crazy. If I make it into the club, I’ll be chasing phantoms. I’ll get involved in illegal business, get the shit beaten out of me, and that’s assuming I will be let in and not end up as an anonymous corpse somewhere.

  But what if he is my guy? I need this. Need to aim my anger at something concrete, use up this antsy energy, or I’ll turn it on myself. I know how my sick mind works.

  I need a direction.

  Yeah, a direction, I think. Slowing down, frozen to the bone and desperate for an answer, I decide I’ll do it. I’ll ask Ash if he can get me into the fight club.

  With this decision, the weight of guilt that’s been resting on my shoulders for so long lifts a little, and my breath catches.

  Revenge. Give pain for the pain he caused. And maybe, finally, after all these years, find out the truth. Why my family was targeted. Why that asshole did what he did, why… why I was left alive. Alone. This thin hope that there was a reason for all that happened, that it wasn’t just a random hit. That there is an explanation.

  When I finally come to a complete stop, it takes me a moment to orientate myself. The lights in the coffee shop across the street flicker in my eyes.

  Grind and Brew reads the sign over the door.

  Isn’t that the coffee shop where Megan works? My heart does a weird double take, and I hesitate for a second, knowing this is a fucking bad idea, especially with where my mind is at now.

  But the pull is too strong—the promise of rest, warmth, and above all seeing Megan—and my defenses are low, crumbling and crashing.

  I need. Something. A reprieve, a scrap of pleasure. Anything.

  And more than anything, I need her. Just the thought of her turns my cock to rock and my mind to mud. Turns my evening to gold.

  So I clench my jaw, jog across the street and push the door open.

  ***

  The door swings shut behind me, and I’m enveloped in the hubbub of low voices. The warm air washes over me, burning my frozen skin, making it ache. The tables are full. Can’t see a single empty chair.

  I spot a bar at the back and make my way to it, winding between tables. The lighting is low. Waiters and waitresses are dressed in white shirts and black pants, overlaid with long gray aprons. I scan their faces as I reach the bar, but Megan isn’t among them.

  Disappointment hits me like a punch.

  Why the hell am I so drawn to her? I’ve never been pussy-whipped. Never followed a chick around like a puppy, and I’m not gonna start now. Those crumbling walls… I have to rebuild them fast, before I follow them to the ground.

  There’s a reason I keep apart from the others. Subtly, of course, always on call when my friends needed me, always around—and yet not there. My defenses are low, and I can’t let anyone see how weak I am inside.

  Don’t let them see.

  I lean back against the bar, think about ordering a hot coffee, but hesitate. Coming in here was a bad idea. The cold outside is preferable to the ice spreading inside me, and I push off the bar before anyone gets a chance to ask me what I want.

  That was my mistake. I want nothing. Need nothing, even though I feel a size too big for my skin. I’m not allowed to want and need, not when I survived where my family didn’t, not when I’m about to let everyone down. I don’t deserve to need, dammit. Not her.

  Even less if she’s with someone else.

  Besides, I have to remember this isn’t about me. Have to figure out a solution about Damage Control, make sure the others are okay, and…

  I walk faster between the tables, my chest so compressed I can’t breathe right. My eyes ache. Don’t know what’s wrong with me, but I’ll figure it out, as soon as I’m out of here, someplace where nobody can see me.

  Someone knocks into me, and I shove them out of my way.

  “What the hell are you doing?” the guy I pushed snarls and comes at me.

  “That’s a bad idea,” I tell him and hope he sees it on my face, because I itch to punch him, pound him into the ground, hit until I feel something other than the cold. “Don’t.”

  But the motherfucker seems primed for a fight as much as I am. “You wanna fuck with me? Is that it?” Fists clenched and held high, he gets into my face.

  That’s it, that’s exactly it, I want to say, but keep the words inside. My nostrils flare as adrenaline pumps through me. My legs tense and my knuckles crack as I curl my fingers in tight.

  I’d fight anything right now to stop fighting myself. And I keep fighting, though I can never win. I’m in my own private circle of hell, caught inside my mind, going through the same struggle, day in and day out.

  So come on. Hit me. Give it to me.

  Unfortunately, the guy’s girlfriend, or sister, or what the fuck ever, pulls on his arm, snapping at him to stop.

  No, don’t stop. I growl deep in my throat, like a wild animal. That’s how I feel—barely tethered. Losing control.

  A touch on my back makes me jerk and spin around, muscles locked and trembling, my heart racing.

  “Rafe?” she whispers, her voice low and soft. “It’s all right.”

  Megan. It’s Megan.

  She holds out her hand, almost touching me, almost, and her eyes are all velvet darkness. Her long hair is pulled back in a ponytail, black strands framing her small face and the smooth curve of her neck. Her white shirt is open in the front, and the shadowed valley between her breasts draws my gaze like a magnet.

  I stare and stare, unable to look away. Somehow she’s tying me to the present, to this moment. She’s the anchor I was looking for. Hoping for. And she’s made of fire.

  Her fingers trail on my arm, all the way down to my wrist, slide over my balled hand. She taps on my knuckles and I unclench my fingers, unfold them slowly, one by one.

  She places her hand in mine, just like on Saturday night, and something releases inside me. Tension leaches out of my shoulders until I bow forward, toward her. A groan forms deep in my throat.

  I barely notice the other guy being hauled away by his friends, their angry voices, and the commotion. My nerve endings are focused on her hand in mine, so small and precious. I don’t want to breathe, in case she pulls away.

  But she doesn’t. Her hand curves around mine, and I close my fingers over hers, h
olding on. Her dark lashes fan over her eyes, and her mouth tips up in a faint smile.

  Time and space cease to exist. She is time and space, pure warmth, her touch closing around me, keeping my pieces together until I can breathe again. Nothing exists beyond her.

  Until she tugs on me and starts walking. Leading me toward the back of the coffee shop, and I follow, keeping my strides short to match her pace. Accepting anything she might want to give me.

  Right now, even if it’s just her hand in mine, I’ll fucking take it.

  Feels as if it’s all I have left in the world.

  Chapter Five

  Megan

  In a daze, I walk toward the back of the coffee shop, my hand in Rafe’s, pulling him along. He’s offering no resistance, his grip so tight around my fingers it hurts, but I don’t care. It feels good, feels right.

  His presence, like always, zips down my nerve endings like electricity, raising goosebumps on my skin, making my breasts feel heavy and tight. Lighting an ache inside me, creating a void I don’t know how to fill.

  I try to ignore it, and focus instead on placing one foot in front of the other. When I saw him standing there, caught between rage, fear, and a sadness so deep it cut like a blade, I didn’t know how to help.

  Not sure how one person can hold so much inside and not come apart. I’d give anything to take that darkness from his gaze, and isn’t that the weirdest thing? For someone I have barely exchanged two words with in the past months?

  But I know what it is. It’s that pain, that anger and fear I glimpse behind the façade that keep me coming back.

  And the façade sure is beautiful. As soon as we reach the back wall and I turn to face him, I’m struck speechless again. That square jaw, those pretty long-lashed golden eyes, that soft mouth… Throw in the tall, strong body, and I’m just about drooling with lust.

  Dammit, Megan. Stop. I glance back at the crowded tables, then down at my long apron. Stop it.

  I’m doing by best not to look at him, but it’s a lost battle. I’m painfully aware of the heat of his body, so close to mine. Of how good his strong hand feels wrapped around mine. He’s all I can think of.