Rafe

by Jo Raven

  It’s half past eight when I drive to the fight club, go past and park the Mustang in a side street. I sit inside the car, waiting for the guys, my duffel bag with my shit by my side.

  Holy fuck, I’m here. I’m about to enter the club, fight in the cage. Face the man with the hand tattoo, and maybe find out the truth.

  If I survive the fight. If I survive the mafia. If it’s really him. And if he confesses.

  Too many ifs.

  Megan was right. It is dangerous, and my side does hurt like a bitch. I’m not in my best form, and I’ve never fought in such a place. But I have to do it, I have to try. For my sanity, I have to try and put my ghosts to rest, so that I can be the man she deserves, not someone who needs pain to cope.

  Need to do this.

  The guys arrive ten minutes later. Only Zane and Dylan step out of the pick-up. I climb out of the Mustang and we clap each other on the back.

  “Tyler?” I look around in case I missed him. I mean, he’s only six foot two or so. “I thought he was coming, too.”

  “Change of plans. Audrey went into labor and Tyler and Erin are staying at the hospital with them.” Zane jabs his thumb at Dylan. “We’re more than enough for this job, huh, fucker?”

  “Is Audrey okay?”

  “Yeah. Well, no clue, to be honest.” Zane grimaces. “But she’s in good hands. It’s a damn good hospital, and her family’s there. Her mom is on her way, too. She’ll be fine. You focus on the fight, getting this motherfucker to confess, and getting out of it all alive, you hear me?”

  “I hear you,” I mutter, more grateful than words can say that my brothers are here, as close as possible without actually entering the club, having my back. “I’ll be fine.”

  “Make sure you got your cell on you,” Zane goes on, waving a hand in the air. “If anything happens, anything at all, you call us. We’ll be right outside.”

  “Got it.”

  “Rafe.” Dylan stops me as I turn toward the entrance to the club with a hand on my shoulder. He looks worried. “You sure that’s your guy? That you’re not putting your life in danger for something that isn’t real?”

  I’ve asked myself that so many times. If I’d dreamed up that tattoo, that face, that voice. I’d been pinned to the door and bleeding like a stuck pig, for chrissakes. But I saw the tattoo, saw the face of this man.

  “It’s real. This is the asshole. I know it.”

  “And this guy who got you in? Colt something or other? Has he told you what he wants in return?”

  “Yeah, he did.” Fucked up timing, with Audrey in labor. Then again, Colt never said he needs the info tonight. “He wants Asher to ask for some info from Johnny Cooper, the boss of the fight club, friend of Ash’s dad.”

  Dylan lifts a skeptical brow. “Sounds easy.”

  “Sure as hell hope so. You think Ash will say no?”

  “Fucker, Ash would jump into the fire for you. We’ll ask him after the baby comes.” Zane rubs the shaved sides of his head, a frown on his face. “What about Meg? Did you tell her about this?”

  “I did.”

  “And?”

  “And what?” I kick at a discarded, torn shoe on the street. “What did you think she’d do?”

  Zane looks pained. “What did she say?”

  “She asked me not to do it. I said I had to. Then she walked out. As she should.” I heft my duffel on my shoulder and start walking. “We gonna stand here talking all night? I have a goddamn fight to prepare for.”

  “Damn.” Zane falls in step next to me, hands in his pockets. “Does she know the fight’s tonight?”

  I blink. “Not sure.” Never told her it was tonight, did I? Fuck.

  “She’ll come around, fucker. Meg’s a strong girl, and she really likes you.”

  “Doesn’t matter now.”

  I know I sound bitter, and I swallow the rest of the words down. That she left me when I needed her the most. That she said I deserve the best in life, and she’s the best, but she’s gone. That everyone leaves me, sooner or later, because I fuck up.

  Because that’s what I do: I fuck up people’s lives, get them hurt. Get them killed.

  She was right to go. But she was wrong about me deserving anything. I don’t deserve shit. Deep inside I know that all I was kept alive for was to find who murdered my family and get justice for my ghosts.

  After that… There’s nothing. There was nothing, for a very long time. Then I had my friends, and Damage Control, and the Deathmoth group…and her. Megan.

  I’ve never had more to lose than I do now.

  ***

  My escort is a bald guy with a tattooed head and arms like tree trunks. He waddles, as if he can’t quite carry the bulk of his upper body, leading the way deeper into hell.

  The bowels of the building are dark and stinky. Mold, rancid sweat, blood and god knows what else. Dank, dimly lit corridors with rooms opening on either side.

  “Changing rooms are in here,” the guy tells me, pointing to an open metal door. “Go get ready. Johnny wants to see you before you enter the cage.”

  Cold fingers of apprehension tap-dance up my spine. Holy fuck, I’m here and about to be locked up in a cage with a crazy-ass motherfucker who wants to splatter my brains all over the floor.

  Shit.

  A guy with a buzz cut and army tats on his chest is already in the changing rooms, taping his fingers. He sneers at me but says nothing when I put down my duffel and pull out my clothes and shit.

  Where the hell’s Colt?

  I change into my shorts, pull on my running shoes, and when I look up, I find the guy staring at my ink.

  “Pretty,” he spits. “Dragons and scorpions. Bet you’re a good momma’s boy out looking for adventure.” He stands up, and he’s an impressive six foot three or four, even taller than Tyler. “Take my advice and get out while you still can.”

  “Can’t.” I lace up my shoes. “Do you know Colt?”

  He lets out a bark of laughter. “Colt Manson? Owe the sucker a favor, do you?”

  “Something like that.” I get up, uneasy. “So you know him, then?”

  He winks. “Not yet. I’m fighting against him tonight, though. Getting up close and personal.”

  Hell. Where’s Colt, and where the fuck’s Johnny? “You know who I’m fighting?”

  “You replacing Snake, right?”

  Snake. “I guess.”

  He laughs again, an ugly, grating sound, like a smoker’s cough. “You guess. Well then, they got a treat for you.”

  “A treat.” I keep my voice flat. “Meaning?”

  “Meaning, Snake got his leg and arm broken on purpose so he wouldn’t have to fight this guy. Bricks, they call him. Built like a brick house.” He snickers. Yeah, very funny. “I hope you had a good life, Colt’s friend, because I don’t think you’ll live to see tomorrow.”

  The cold crawling up my spine has turned to ice. Fucking hell.

  Before I can think of a reply, a middle-aged guy walks inside, dressed in a black suit, his curly hair gray.

  “Well, well. You’re Rafaele Vestri, am I right?”

  “Johnny Cooper,” I say, because I just know from looking at him that he’s the boss.

  “In the flesh.” He grins and shoves his hands in his pants pockets. “Colt said good things about you, boy. You in form tonight?”

  “Yeah.” I shake myself, throw back my shoulders. “The best.”

  “Good. Don’t let this asshole here scare you.” He glares in army-guy’s direction. “Bricks is a mountain of a man, but if you fight right, you can beat just about anyone. It’s all in the technique, in the timing, in the balance.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  He chuckles, dark eyes twinkling with mirth. “A boy with manners. As I live and breathe. Was your dad military?”

  I shake my head.

  “Ah well.” He pats his stomach and leans out of the door. “Colt! Get in here. Help him get ready.” Then he gives me one long, flat stare. “Snake is a d
amn coward. Just about pissed himself when he found out who his opponent was gonna be. So far you’re holding up better than him. You can do this.”

  “Yeah. Thanks for the pep talk.”

  Johnny leaves and I bend over, trying to calm my racing heartbeat. Sweat is drenching my back, and I haven’t even left the changing rooms yet. Can’t believe Asher came here to fight when he was just eighteen. That took guts.

  I can do this.

  “Rafe.” Colt walks into the changing rooms, dressed like me in sports shorts and running shoes, his bare torso covered in tats. His dark hair’s shorn almost to the scalp and a couple days’ worth of stubble darkens his jaw. “We meet again.”

  “Colt.” I straighten.

  “Sit down, let me tape your hands.” He motions at a bench and I do as I’m told, grateful for the small respite.

  “Have you seen him? The guy with the hand tattoo?”

  “I have.” He kneels down and tapes my fingers expertly. “He’s here tonight. Placed big bets on your opponent.”

  Fuck. “This Bricks… He’s gonna mow me down, isn’t he?”

  Colt chuckles. “Chin up, pal. He’ll only mow you down if you let him.” He taps my knee and gets up. “Bricks is huge, but he’s also stupid as a brick. Trip him up, jab him where it hurts, and he’ll go down. Remember to play dirty. Always play dirty when you’re rolling in the filth. It’s the only way to make it out of here alive.”

  I draw a deep breath, let it out. “Right.”

  “You can’t talk to hand-tattoo guy before the fight. His name’s Nino, by the way. Nino Gaspari.” He frowns. “Finish the fight, get out of the cage quickly, and go after him before he leaves. I hear he’s addicted to betting and owes fuckloads of money. If you win, he’ll run out of here. Run after him.”

  If I win. Yeah right.

  “Got it.” I nod. “Thanks, Colt.”

  “Sure thing.” He scratches his head. “Hey, have you asked Asher Devlin what I told you?”

  “Will do tomorrow, man. His girlfriend is having their baby right now.”

  Dammit. And I’m not there, by their side. Tyler is, though, and Erin, and that makes me feel marginally better. They’ll be okay. They have to be, even if I’m not there to look after them.

  “Didn’t know. You will, though?”

  A shadow of despair flits over his face, gone so fast I wonder if I imagined it. “I said I will. Swore it. Told my friends to give him the message if something happens to me. I won’t let you down.”

  “Okay.” He turns his face away, hiding it from me, and I wonder what his story is and who this woman is he’s searching for. “Now get your ass out there and beat Bricks. Remember: play dirty, hit him where it hurts. If we’re both breathing after our fights, I’ll see you later.”

  “You sure know how to cheer a guy up,” I grumble, curling my hands into fists, testing the tape.

  He pauses at the door. “Who are you fighting for?”

  “Come again?”

  “Who, pal? Who’s waiting for you when you leave the cage? Many men die here because nobody awaits them on the other side. They have nothing to keep living for. So is there a pretty chick waiting to wrap her arms around you when you get out? Because I fight for Mara, and I won’t die here. I’ll win, get out and find her.”

  I watch him leave, my fists clenching.

  “I fight for Megan,” I whisper. “For Megan.” I shake my head, stunned. I thought her gentleness broke me, but in fact she made me strong. Gave me hope. Gave me a purpose, a reason to survive. “Good luck to both of us.”

  ***

  Bricks likes to roar as he attacks. Stupid move, just like Colt said. I’ve taken quite a few hits, and my head is buzzing like a beehive, but now I know. Warned, I twist to the side and under his swinging fist.

  Not that there’s much space inside the cage, and I crash into the thick iron bars, banging up my bruised ribs real good before I manage to push off and stalk around to face Bricks again.

  “You die!” he bellows, the words slurred, and I wonder if he hit his head one too many times tonight. Or during his lifetime.

  “Fuck you,” I hiss and wait for his next move.

  Music starts in my mind. “You” by Bad Religion, a fast beat that matches my racing pulse. The crowd roars for blood and bangs on the bars.

  Fuck them, too. I keep trying to catch sight of Nino, but Bricks roars again and despite the mess I’m in, I almost roll my eyes.

  Idiot.

  He charges, and making a split-second decision, I stay put. Duck to the left in the last moment, kick at his shins, fall.

  Crack my head on the floor.

  Who knew? You really do see stars when you bang your skull like that. A cheer goes up from the crowd, and I have a vision of Bricks beating me to bloody pulp.

  No way. Meg. I need to find Meg, talk to her, hold her, kiss her. Convince her not to go.

  I roll to the side as he kicks at me, and gasp when the kick connects with my back. Fuck. I keep rolling, dizzy, and scramble to my knees.

  I shake my head to clear it, and that’s a motherfucking bad idea, because bile rises in my throat. Swallowing hard, I get to my feet, and barely make it there when Bricks is on me, punching me with huge, meaty fists.

  The impact throws me backward, but I center myself, keep my balance, raise my guard. I block one, two, three punches, fall back, brace myself.

  He’s crowding me into a corner. Need to move out.

  I lift my fists, block yet another punch, step in and deliver a solid one to his solar plexus. I hear the breath going out of him as I turn and kick at his knee.

  He stumbles backward, cursing, and I’m out of the corner. My only goal is to survive the fight and go after Nino. Bricks will win, I’m sure. He’s a seasoned veteran of the cage, and stupid or not, he’s got bulk and strength and skills.

  Let me survive to find Meg.

  Her face fills my mind as I consider my strategy. Her words ring in my ears, something about finding a balance between the past and the present.

  “I love you…”

  I dodge Brick’s right hook, block an uppercut and manage to get a kick in to his other knee. He barely falters, comes back delivering a flurry of punches. One catches me on the jaw, snapping my head around. Blood fills my mouth and I spit.

  Christ.

  Can’t stand and take hits without fighting back. I don’t think Bricks will stop hitting once I’m down. He’s solid, but he’s a bit slower than me, and his legs aren’t as strong as his upper body. I’ve always worked on getting my legs strong and my center of balance low so that I’m steady.

  A matter of balance…

  Block, block¸ turn and kick, fall back, advance and throw a right hook that never connects. Press on with an uppercut and a roundhouse kick that throws Bricks a step back.

  Okay, think.

  Has to be the legs. Go for the legs.

  Only problem is getting through his guard. Hitting low is harder, though, so he’s not protecting them as much as his chest.

  Footwork. Got it.

  I shift from foot to foot, step backward, then sideways. Dancing just out of his reach. He grunts, turns to face me—and I jump out of his way again.

  The crowd boos.

  Be quiet, losers. This is about the past and the present. Wait, no, this isn’t right. This is about the future. There is a future, I can see it, almost touch it, and I’ll fight for it.

  Bricks growls. “Get here, boy. Stop running from me.”

  Soon, fucker. Soon.

  He stomps toward me and I duck under his fists to land two solid punches to his stomach. He stumbles back two steps, then returns, and I spring back.

  I wipe blood from my lips, and spit again. My tongue feels swollen and burns.

  The legs. The hits to his torso only tickle him. Kicking it is.

  “Come back here!” he roars.

  “Miss me?” I sprint to his side and land a hard kick to his shin that has him yelping in surpri
se. “Here I am, asshole.”

  I follow through with a hook kick to the side of the knee, turn and drive my heel into the back of the knee—and watch him stumble forward.

  Not down yet, though, and I jump back when he turns around, a murderous look on his face. He charges like a bull, head lowered, fists held in front of him, ready to strike. His knee is giving him trouble, but not enough to keep him back.

  Shit.

  Next thing I know, he’s battering me down. A solid hit to my stomach makes me gag, then an uppercut catches me in my bruised ribs and I weave on my feet.

  Son of a bitch. Black spots swim in my vision. I can’t draw breath. Hurts like fire.

  Bricks sends another punch to the side of my face and I go down like a sack of potatoes. I roll on my uninjured side, groaning. Blood dribbles from my mouth to the floor, spreading in a puddle.

  Blood. Walls dripping with blood, the floors soaked with it.

  “Tired, boy?” Bricks yells, bringing me back to the now.

  I blink and the walls vanish. Reality returns: the cage. The fight club. Bricks.

  As I lie there, gasping for breath, I realize two things.

  One, fucker’s standing right here, over me. He’ll kill me if I don’t move, and getting up is out of the question right about now.

  Two, we’re supposed to play dirty, and I’m looking straight at his legs. My target. His boxing boots are at eye level. All I have to do is reach out to touch them.

  So I do. I reach out, grab his boot and wrench it toward me, until he’s stepping in my pooling blood.

  A groan rises in my throat, because I’m also wrenching ribs whose status has probably gone from cracked to broken by now, but I don’t give a fuck. Now I have him right where I want him, standing in slippery blood.

  Another wrench and he’s sliding, falling backward, arms windmilling. He crashes on his back with a boom that shakes the cage. And stays down.

  I blink, hardly believing I did it.

  For Meg, motherfucker. For a chance to do what I need to do.

  The crowd falls silent. So silent I hear my wheezing breaths, hear the blood rushing in my ears. The men behind the bars, dressed in their elegant suits and ties, their polished shoes, stare with eyes wide as saucers.

  Swallowing blood, gagging on it, I stare at Bricks’s fallen mass, just feet away from me. Like a mountain, indeed, I think randomly. A felled giant.