by Maria Luis
I’d enjoyed the shower we’d taken together. The way she’d begged for me to take her against the shower wall, with her leg looped around my hips as I powered into her.
My phone starts up again, and with a heavy sigh, I roll over to snatch it off the bedside table. If it’s Beaumont or Harrison calling to ask how the “banging” went, they’re about to become dead men walking.
Voice rusty with sleep, I mutter, “Hunt.”
“Bro.”
Fuck me. Pushing the covers off, I cast a glance at Gwen sleeping peacefully in my bed. I’ve dreamt of this moment over and over again, and having Dave call me in the middle of the night is not how I envisioned it ending. Nope, I was totally hoping for another round before she left for work in the morning. Maybe some breakfast—pancakes, eggs, the whole nine yards.
With one hand, I grab my sweats off the floor and pull them up my legs. I don’t speak until I’ve shut the door behind me. “What do you want, Dave?”
“I’m in trouble, bro. Big fucking trouble.”
Fan-fucking-tastic.
Taking the stairs down to the kitchen, I flip the lights and sit my ass down on one of my stools. “How much money we talkin’?”
“More than I’ve got handy,” he mutters. “I need you here, man. I need my family.”
I won’t lie, not even to myself. I want to believe my brother. I want to believe that he actually needs me for something more than a Benjamin Franklin whenever it suits him. Call it the little brother syndrome; hell if I know.
“It’s late,” I say instead because even if I want to feel needed, I don’t trust Dave. I haven’t trusted him in years. “I’ve got practice in the morning and if I show up looking like shit, that’s my ass on the line.”
I don’t mention the fact that if I bomb on the ice that means Dave’s money supplier could end up traded or, worse, jobless. I figure he can read between the—
“You really going to put fucking hockey above your own blood, bro?” I hear him spit, literally, just before he adds, “I knew I couldn’t rely on you. My own fucking flesh and blood. What’d they do to you in foster care, bro? Did they teach you to turn your back on the only person who’s watched out for you all these years?”
My hands ball into fists. I know where he’s going with this—it’s where he always goes. It’s the one thing he’s got over my head and he knows it.
Feeling as though I might crack, I tip my face to the ceiling and count to five. Swallow down my helpless rage and then bite out, “Where are you?”
“Brockton.”
I let out a merciless laugh. Of course. Because where else would my brother be than at an illegal fighting ring?
“You want directions, bro?” Dave asks in a clear attempt to push me to the edge and watch me teeter to my death.
“Fuck you.”
I hear his chuckle just before I hang up the phone. It’s time like these when I wish we still used old telephone receivers. The kind you could hang up with a semblance of violence. If I do that shit now, I’ll be shattering my screen and be even more pissed than I already am.
I force myself to breathe, slowly allowing my curled fist to unfurl. The thought of driving to Brockton right now has me wanting to throw something. But as always, the guilt is there waiting, just waiting, for me to remember that without Dave I’m completely alone.
Are you, though?
My focus drifts to Gwen. She may have a fucked-up mother, from what she told me earlier and from what I recall from her dad, but the truth of my existence would horrify her. Tempting as it is to climb those stairs and tell her everything, Dave isn’t her problem—he’s exclusively mine, and there’s not a chance in hell that I want him tainting her with his negativity.
I tap my phone against my leg, then push off the stool to yank open one of the kitchen drawers.
Fifteen minutes later, I’m on the highway heading south to Brockton. I left a note on top of Gwen’s phone, letting her know I’d hit the gym for my regular, early morning workout, and that our night together meant everything to me.
I’m banking on the fact she won’t see it until later in the morning so the note will ring true. Mentioning an emergency of any kind would invite questions, and that’s just not what I need right now. Gwen’s a whole lot better off without getting on Dave’s radar. I can only imagine what sort of shit he’d pull, and just the thought alone has my blood boiling.
By the time I pull off at the Brockton exit, I’m torn between wanting to nail Dave in the face at my first opportunity and worrying that this time he really screwed up. Sometimes, there’s only so much money can do.
I flick on my high beams as I pull onto a back road. Dave’s been on this track for a while—but he’s been coming to the same place for years now and I know exactly where to direct my truck. When he first started, I’d been in middle school and still filled with hope that my big brother wanted to watch out for me.
I squirreled away money for months, doing odd and end jobs until I could afford the cab ride down here from Southie. That night, I watched from the blacked-out bleachers as my brother pummeled opponent after opponent.
He’d been dead-ass drunk on his feet, and it’s a miracle no one popped him in such a way that his neck didn’t snap. I’d sat there idolizing Dave like an idiot, but it wasn’t until he’d stepped off the makeshift stage and traded in his winnings for a baggie of coke that I realized Dave only looked out for himself.
Jail or not, criminal or not, Dave Hunt was a bastard.
I pull in next to a Ford-150, my eyes already locked onto the warehouse before me. Without looking away, I pop open the center console for my checkbook—because I sure as hell don’t have plans to carry cash into a place like that. I don’t make a point of carrying thousands of dollars on me. When I left the house, I also brought my gun. I hesitate over it now.
The guys Dave fights aren’t exactly Boston’s classiest men. What they want is money. What Dave wants is money. And money I’ll give him.
I slam the center console shut and climb out of my truck.
As I close the distance to the warehouse’s side door—the one the fighters enter through—I decide no more. If Dave fucks up after this? He’s on his own. I refuse to be strung along by my dick of a brother for the rest of my life just because our mother gave birth to us both.
My teammates—guys like Beaumont and Harrison and Henri Bordeaux—those men are my brothers. Sometimes, blood literally means shit.
Since this is the side entrance, there’s no bouncer at the door collecting covers. I try the handle, half-expecting it to be locked, and then pull it wide. Duck my head as I enter the warehouse.
Come to a dead halt when I realize that there isn’t any music playing or announcers talking smack. I swing my gaze to the left and then to the right but come up blank. The warehouse is empty.
Fingers itching for the gun I left in my truck, I focus on keeping my body loose. Nothing Dave does is ever an accident, and if he called me here . . . well, the worst thing I can do is whirl around and beat feet back to the door.
Time to go for casual, laid-back Marshall Hunt.
Despite the tension tightening my muscles, I call out, “You guys jacking off back there or something?”
There’s no response, not that I expected there to be.
I stroll toward the corded-off fighting ring. “People always say that hockey is a gay-ass sport, but wrestling? Boxing? You guys are way worse. I bet you all get hard-ons the minute you nail someone’s ass to the ground.”
Growing up, I had no one to watch over me. Southie was brutal back then—brutal and deadly. I learned to watch my own six, just as I learned how to use a gun at the age of eleven. It was partly due to survival . . . and a little bit because I refused to be the only kid who didn’t know how to protect himself.
Mark James taught me differently. He convinced me that street hockey would get me nowhere, and each time I jammed up the sewers and cracked the fire hydrants open in the middle of wint
er, I was striking up another point toward landing my ass in jail.
“Take these, kid,” he’d muttered when I first met him, throwing me a pair of hockey gloves. “I’m running practice for the high schoolers today. Get your ass there and I might let you collect their towels afterward.”
No matter how many years it’s been since my Southie days, it’s hard to forget the need for survival. I pull it on now like a cloak, waiting for Dave to pop up, preparing for the worst.
Seconds bleed into the next, minutes seeping together, until I accept the fact that Dave ghosted.
At least my wallet won’t be going on a diet tonight.
I move back toward the side entrance, full-on ready to get back to Gwen, and yank on the door.
It doesn’t budge.
The fuckers locked it from the outside and there’s not even a deadbolt to flick open.
Dammit.
“Stay fucking calm,” I order myself, trying to pull on my memory for another exit. It’s been years since I took the cab here, and I don’t know the warehouse well enough to get myself out.
I twist around, searching the dark space for a red, blinking exit sign. It occurs to me that operators of an illegal fighting ring wouldn’t be concerned with proper safety precautions.
When I find Dave, I’m going to pummel his face in so hard, he’s not going to be able to eat right for months.
Adrenaline hammers at me as I slip away from the side door. Even if I have to break a window, I’m getting the hell out of here and heading home to Gwen.
One glance upward proves that plan is total crap—the warehouse does have windows. Problem is, they’re a good twenty feet up. I’m big, but not that big.
I turn the corner toward what I think might be the front of the building. My hands coast along the wall, keeping myself oriented in the pitch-black room.
I hear the running of footsteps before I see their shadowed silhouettes on the opposite wall.
It’s not enough time, no matter how skilled I am or fast.
One second I’m bringing my fists up, ready to glance off a blow, and in the next I’m on the ground thanks to an unseen trip wire.
22
Hunt
Like the sadistic bastards they are, they strap me to a chair in the ring.
Dave waltzes around me, high as a fucking kite. “So glad you could join us, bro,” he says now, pointing to his four conspirators. “We’re so glad you could make it.”
I don’t say a word, not even to snidely point out that he’s repeating himself. It’d probably go right over his head.
Quietly, I watch as my silence sends my brother into a small flounder. He cuts a quick glance to his buddies, and for the first time I have to wonder if he’s not the top dude around here. From the reports I’ve picked up over the years, I’d always been under the impression that Dave ran shit.
He wins, always.
Now, I’m not too sure about the dynamics in the group.
“Did you bring the cash?” Dave prods as he approaches. A tick comes to life in his forehead, and he does a quick swipe of his forearm just under his nostrils. “I told the guys you were bringing cash.”
“How much cash?” asks the bald guy in the corner. I size him up: six foot, two-hundred, thick around the middle. I’m a bigger match, but the fact that my wrists are tied is proving a difficult thing to manage.
I think of the knife strapped to my calf—utterly useless while my wrists are tied.
My notorious slow-growing temper spikes. “Is this how you guys celebrate the holidays?” I raise my brows, daring them to do something besides stand there. “Do you idiots get your rocks off on tying people up so you can, what, fuck them?”
The bald one mutters something under his breath. “It’s not going to work.”
I hold my breath, waiting.
Dave sighs like I’ve personally done him wrong. “You’ve lost your touch, bro. You can’t best us. You know that, right? You can’t trick us into untying you just like you can’t fool us into thinking you didn’t come here armed.” He drops to his haunches and yanks up the hem of my pants. A tsk-tsk sound escapes him as he removes the knife and tosses it to the side, where it slides across the smooth flooring and nose-dives off the ledge into the arena area below. “You went into your big fucking world with hockey and you left this all behind.”
At that, my brother widens his arms as though demanding I take notice of our surroundings.
Then he leans in. “You don’t know how to survive here anymore, bro.”
His arm reels back and I know what’s coming just before it does—my brother’s fist hand-delivers a right-hook that whips my head to the side. Stars burst like mini-fireworks in my vision and I taste the distinct tinny flavor of blood on my tongue.
“Untie him.”
Dave steps back as the bald man sweeps in close. The rope-ties around my wrists tighten before loosening, and then he’s forcing me upward, regardless of the fact that my ankles have been tied too.
I catch myself before I stumble, ignoring the pain in my face and focusing instead on staying on my feet. I have no doubt I could get off the remaining ties in seconds, but—
“Zip-ties,” Dave cuts in with a nasty grin. “The rope was just for your wrists.” He points to his head. “Survival, right?”
Just like that, my temper snaps. “Fuck you, Dave. If you think for a goddamned second that I’m going to give you a dime after pulling this shit, you’re delusional.”
Dave only snaps his fingers.
A second later, a bright light flashes in front of my face.
Jesus, did they take a photo of me?
“Thanks, Evan,” Dave says.
“No problem, boss,” one of the other guys says. He holds up his phone with a victorious wave.
I’m not so dumb that I don’t understand why they did it.
“Delete the photo, Dave.” My heart ramps up speed, and I take a step toward him—only to fall to my hands and knees, thanks to the zip-ties.
My older brother steps up next to me, giving a little kick to my right elbow so it gives in. “I don’t think I will, bro.” His voice takes on an almost whimsical quality. “Thing is, Marshall, that photo is pretty good evidence. And it’s worth way more than you’ll ever give me. What do you think the press will say about the Blades’ star forward?” He sinks down so we’re face to face. “You think they’ll want you after knowing you’ve been doing some underground fighting of your own? Add some drugs into the mix, and you can kiss your career good-bye.”
A ringing starts in my ears, loud and oppressive.
I’ll take my lick where I can—I snap his jaw back with an uppercut he’s not expecting. Dave falls to his side, cupping his jaw and laughing like he’s just seen the funniest thing ever.
“You’re fucking dead to me, Dave.”
My brother pushes himself to his feet. “You’re wrong, bro. I’ve been dead since I got locked in jail after you tried to kill Dad.” He opens his arms wide. “Welcome to the club, Marshall. Enjoy your last few days of being the celebrity everyone loves before your new secret life hits the tabloids.”
Memories of that night assault me, blurred by my youth and all the years that have separated me from the moment I picked up that kitchen knife and struck my father in the upper thigh. An eight-year-old kid doesn’t have the strength to do any lasting damage, let alone cause enough blood loss for my old man to end up in ICU.
“You can’t pass the blame all onto me.” My knees scrabble on the padded flooring as I try to haul my body upward. “I was protecting Mom,” I grind out, mouth dry, head pounding, “and I remember—”
“That I tried to finish what you failed to do? Yeah, I did that. But you struck first, and I got slammed with the charge.” His bleary blue eyes twinkle with masochistic humor. “You’ll get what’s coming to you though. I’ll make sure of it.”
With a finger wave at his cronies, Dave and his band of douchebags climb under the ringside ropes and then jum
p down to the arena area. He swoops down and picks up my knife, giving it a side-to-side wiggle that has me seeing red.
“I’ll leave this by the side door for you, bro, although I hate to think I’ll miss you crawling your ass toward it. Consider it my token of goodwill.”
23
Gwen
Of all my clients at Golden Lights Media, Holly Carter might be my favorite.
The blonde sports photographer is Texan to her very core, despite being born in Louisiana, and having an appointment with her is as close as I get to breaking open the champagne and having a girls’ day at work.
“How are you liking the new office?” I ask her as I pour us two rounds of lemonade—sans alcohol. “Did the renovations work out the way you wanted them to?”
Holly’s red-painted lips widen in a strained smile. “Girl, you have no idea. Working out of my house has been . . . rough.”
I don’t want to prod but I get the feeling she wants to unload. Setting my desktop computer to sleep mode, I take a sip of my lemonade and then place the glass back on my desk. “Things aren’t getting any better with Jackson?”
Holly’s husband is Jackson Carter, the captain for the Boston Blades. I’ve met him on a few occasions—Golden Lights represents him but he’s assigned to one of the other publicists—and he’s always been nice from what I’ve seen.
My client shrugs and then sinks a little lower in her seat. “God, I don’t know, Gwen. It’s not like he did anything wrong and I know I haven’t either. It’s just . . . sometimes people grow apart. That’s us.”
Her accent thickens as she speaks and it’s clear she’s getting upset. If I had booze in this office, I’d pour her more than just the lemonade. All I can do is push my glass across the desk and offer it to her with a nod. “Pretend there’s vodka in it.”
This time, her grin is all the way genuine. “You’re the best, you know that?”
I don’t think that’s true but I certainly try to be the best at anything I take on. “I know you don’t have much family here,” I say, wondering if I’m overstepping boundaries, “but if you wanted to just get away for a little, you’re more than welcome to hang out with me for Christmas. It’ll just be me, myself, and I.”
