by Olivia Chase
There’s a soft chuckle behind me. He knows he’s rattled me, the jerk.
The rest of the day, I stay hidden as much as I can. I don’t know if Hale stuck around to watch the other fighters. And I don’t want to chance running into him. The man is a real threat to me, to the steadiness I’ve managed to establish in my life and career.
When the last fight is done, and the finalists for the tournament have been chosen, the crowd leaves, and I finally get to go home. My feet are sore, my lower back aches, and I’m tired and stressed.
Today was overwhelming. I didn’t expect that. I’ll have to be better prepared, stronger, because this will be my life for the next two weeks. And all signs are pointing to it including Hale. As long as he keeps winning his matches, he’ll keep progressing up the line. Maybe to the very top.
When I enter my apartment, I immediately kick off my heels, groaning in relief as I stretch my aching soles. I pad into the kitchen and pour a glass of pinot grigio. I earned it. My phone vibrates, and I check it, spotting a text from my best friend Ramona.
How was The Monster today?
I laugh. Ramona met Diane once and took an instant dislike to the woman. “The Monster” is one of the nicer names she’s called my boss. Not too bad, I write back. I take my wine glass and settle on to the couch.
You’re gonna get me tix to see some matches, right?
Ramona is all of 5’1, a hundred pounds soaking wet, and she’s a huge boxing fan. In fact, she’s helped me with my crash course on the sport. While I don’t love it, I at least can respect it, partly because of how reverently she speaks of it. The skills involved—it isn’t just punching, Ramona always tells me. It’s more about your mindset. A boxer is a thinker, not just a fighter.
I find that hard to believe, but she believes it, and she’s passionate.
Of course, I type. You’re gonna love it. Looks like a good selection for the tournament—you’ll have fun. I’ll even hook you up with tix for the final.
OMG NOW WAY. TY!!! BTW I heard O’Reilly got his ass knocked out on the first punch. How’s that Beckett guy looking? He’s pretty hot. ;-)
I bite my lower lip as I read her words. “Hot” doesn’t even begin to describe Hale Beckett. He’s potent. He’ll be a strong fighter, I write generically.
I’m stoked. TY AGAIN!!!! IOU bigtime. <3
Despite my anxiety over Hale, I smile. Ramona and I have been friends since high school, even rooming together in college. She’ll enjoy and appreciate the tournament more than I will. In the meantime, I’ve got to keep my focus on what I’m supposed to be doing—advancing my career. Not getting involved with men who aren’t any good for me.
Hale
I sit in my car, gripping the steering wheel. I’m still riding high on what just happened a half hour ago. I fucking knocked that uppity asshole O’Reilly out with one shot.
At the weigh-ins, he tried to stare me down, muttered shit under his breath about the ass-whooping he was about to give me come fight time.
But I kept my cool, waited to let my fists do the talking like always.
And boy did they ever.
Best of all, no one expected it. Me, a nobody, some Joe Jackoff from a bad neighborhood, walked in there and clinched a spot in the tournament in mere seconds.
And then, still raging with endorphins and adrenaline, I kissed that Phoebe chick. The girl who screams innocence from head to toe. The girl who’s clearly scared of me, despite the fact that I’d never fucking touch a woman in anger. Ever.
Never have, never would.
In fact, I take care of assholes who do shit like that to the women in our neighborhood. They don’t ever lift a finger again towards a woman after I’ve had a few minutes to talk to them.
I start the car and shake off my maelstrom of thoughts of Phoebe.
What was it about her anyhow? She was just some girl.
I can’t focus on women right now. I did what I needed to do today—got in the tournament. But I have to hustle it to the prison; can’t make my old man wait too long for me to pick him up.
Butch is out of the joint.
Years of our old man being gone, years of me and my brothers getting used to running things on our own. So many fucking changes since he got locked up. How is he going to acclimate? Hell, I’m still trying to.
It’s just me and Axel in the house now. The only support system left in this crazy fucked up family.
The drive to the prison takes a while. My mind is racing with what I need to do next career-wise. What I do in the ring. How I get those wins. I’m going to take that title and get in with that promoter.
It’s past time I start going after what I’ve wanted for years and years now—to be a professional boxer. Every other fucking person in my family seems to have no problem focusing on their own needs. Our family’s bar, Fugitives, is doing well enough that I can stop worrying about it being successful. We’re set.
This is the perfect time to do me.
See how far I can take this talent I seem to have. A talent for putting dudes to sleep.
I almost grin thinking again about how sweet that win tasted today.
I park outside the prison and wait. Butch told me he’d meet me out here. It’s too chilly to have the window down, so I put on classic rock and let my mind go over the fight again. O’Reilly’s smug face right before I knocked him out… The anger I felt in the ring wells in me again, and I stare dead ahead.
Fucker thought he’d take me out. Arrogant prick. I even overheard him talking about me to other fighters, how he was looking forward to putting me in my place. I let my rage help me focus on winning the bout. And it did.
The passenger side opens, and Butch slides in. “Let’s get the fuck outta this place,” he murmurs. “I got shit to shake up.”
What a greeting.
“Good to see you too, Pop,” I say as I put the car in reverse and head toward our house. As I drive, I sneak furtive glances at his profile. Been a long fucking time since I’ve seen him outside of the prison walls. Kinda strange to have him just sitting here next to me like this is just another day, like he just went to prison yesterday instead of years ago.
He looks older. Harder somehow. His eyes are narrowed and he scrubs the back of his neck. A lot more gray threaded in his hair, too. No doubt all those years in the joint have had an impact on him.
“Catch me up on everything,” Butch orders, wasting no time.
Pop has only a few things on his mind constantly. The family. Money. Cracking skulls.
There’s a lot my dad doesn’t know about what’s happened, and I have to be the one to break it to him. This isn’t exactly going to be a fun ride home, and I silently curse my brothers for leaving me in the dust to deal with it alone.
I fill him in on everything—my twin brother Hudson’s idea to start our bar Fugitives as a way to compete with Outlaws, then our eventual truce with Outlaws, how my estranged older brothers are now living with their new women, and so on. My frustration over their abandonment bleeds into my voice, and I know Butch hears it. His face gets darker and darker as I talk.
“The fuck you say,” he growls, then rakes his hand through his hair. “Unfuckingbelievable. My boys have gone soft.”
I bristle. “Not all of us.”
Butch huffs. “Well, it’s time to right all these wrongs. Get back to our plan to take Outlaws. I don’t like this shit I’m hearing.”
Years ago, my father signed a contract with the man who opened Outlaws, my cousins’ father, and loaned him money to start the business. And since my uncle died before paying Butch back, the business was supposed to go to Butch as payment. The bar belongs to Butch, and he wants it, badly.
Before the truce, we tried a number of tactics to get Outlaws back under our control, from threatening to fighting to even a little destruction, and none of it worked.
And in the end, Smith and our other cousins helped us when we needed them. But I can’t tell Butch any of that—he doesn’t wan
t to hear it.
“Fugitives is doing decently,” I offer. “At least there’s that.”
“I don’t give a fuck about Fugitives. I care about settling old scores. Outlaws continuing operation under Smith is a sign of personal disrespect toward me.” Pop sighs and looks out the window. His irritation is palpable, filling the car. “I leave you guys in charge, and everything goes to shit.”
I clench my jaw. He’s pushing my buttons. It’s easy for him to dictate to us how things should go when he’s not having to do anything himself. He wasn’t here, going through all the shit I went through, as, one by one, I watched my brothers fall in love and defect.
He glances at me and must see my emotion, because his voice softens a hair. “At least I still have you and Axel on my side. We can right the wrongs with everything. Together.”
It’s the first concession he’s given about my loyalty to him, despite the rising odds. I try to let the words calm me. Butch was never one to give affection, so this is about as touching as it gets for us.
“We’re not going anywhere. We can fix this, Pop.”
I pull into our neighborhood. You can see an instant change around us as we move from the nicer streets into our side of town. But it’s home, and it’s what I know. It’s where I learned how to fight and got the drive to pursue boxing. Speaking of… I clear my throat. “So, I have some good news. I got accepted into a boxing tournament. Made it in by knocking the other guy out cold.” Pride fills my voice.
I’m reminded of Phoebe again, despite my efforts to not think about her. About those soft, sexy lips. Her wide eyes. Her breathy sigh when I kissed her, even though she tried to act unaffected.
“Whoa,” Butch says, holding up his hands and interrupting my train of thought. “We don’t got time for that now, boy.” He’s frowning at me, and my stomach sinks, an involuntary response. I don’t want to care. I shouldn’t fucking care. This is my life. But I have that gut response to please my old man.
“Just thought you’d like to know I won a fight.”
“Look. I appreciate that you’re good with your fists.” Butch drops his hands in his lap. “But I want you to put those fists to good use out on the street, not in the gym, where they do nothing to help me. To help our family.”
My whole body is tense. I don’t know what to say. It’s not like I can quit this tournament. Can’t back out. I already got in, and I paid my entry fee.
Not to mention I just don’t fucking want to stop. I’m close to achieving my own dreams. I know Butch wants to rule Rock Bridge. But that’s not what I really care about. I want more from my life. I can still do work here for him…but also pursue boxing.
I pull into the driveway. Butch hops out of the car, a pleased smile on his face. Seeing the homestead has distracted him from the topic at hand.
“You’ve done a fine job keeping up on the house,” he says. “Thanks, son.” He claps me on the back.
I follow him inside, and he heads right to the fridge and grabs a beer.
“Axel should be home later tonight,” I say. He’s working at Fugitives, which Butch doesn’t care about, so I just leave that part vague.
Butch settles onto the couch and waves his hand. Cracks open the brew and takes a deep swig, giving a heavy sigh. “Fine, fine.” He picks up the TV remote and clicks it on.
I make my way to the shower. My fight wasn’t long, barely enough for me to even sweat, but I still want to rinse off. Not to mention try to shake off the unsettled feeling I have from the conversation with my father.
Maybe a shower will help me stop thinking about Phoebe. What it was like to kiss her. How badly I want her. The moment I touched her, my cock slammed hard against the thin fabric of my boxer shorts. I wanted to be inside her, to grip her hair and turn that pretty face up to mine.
And then she pushed me away.
Said she was afraid of me.
I step into the shower and turn the water on hot, letting it run over me. Okay. It’s true, I have a temper. I won’t deny it. And sometimes I have a bad attitude. I like to fight. I use my fists to resolve issues—and it fucking works. But it also turned her off, despite her evident arousal.
For the first time in my life, someone is making me question if my attitude, if my temperament, might keep me from having the things I want.
I mull the whole thing over as I soap myself up, then rinse off. Wash my hair. I resent her judgments. I resent the fuck out of them. She doesn’t know me—just made assumptions based on a five-minute conversation and a thirty-second boxing match. I resent her…but at the same time, I’m already drawn to her. Intrigued by her innocence, mixed with the flare of sensuality I know I fucking saw in her eyes.
The way those plump lips responded when I kissed them.
Damn, it was one of, if not the, best kiss of my life. And I’ve kissed plenty of girls.
Yet with all those girls, it’s this Phoebe chick I keep thinking about nonstop suddenly. I want to win her over.
But Phoebe is a distraction, one I can’t really afford right now. The timing is shit. I have too much on my plate. Butch. Fugitives. Boxing. Not to mention still handling things in my neighborhood. Our family has taken on the responsibility of policing things, since the cops won’t even come around here. Folks pay us and trust us to handle problems—we keep things in line.
I shut the water off and wrap a towel around my waist. What is it about that girl? Why is she crawling under my skin like this? It’s not like me to care. To think about someone when she’s not around. I’m clearly not what she’s seeking.
But she was turned on by me. I saw the challenge there. And I can’t fucking help myself. I’ll prove to her that I’m not what she thinks.
The next morning, I whip up a hearty breakfast before going on my run. Axel is asleep, since he closed the bar last night, but Butch is up, sipping on coffee and looking through the local newspaper.
“Fucking shame,” he says in a disgruntled tone as he flips page by page. “All a bunch of shit now. Everything’s changed since I got locked up.”
I fight back the urge to say, “Of course it did,” and focus on finishing plating our meals. I slide eggs, sausage, and toast in front of him, then sit down to devour my food. I’m fucking starving.
Butch doesn’t thank me, but he does down his food quickly. He still grumbles under his breath while flipping pages, though it appears eating has sated his frustration a bit.
“Hopefully that’s better than what you had in the joint,” I finally say with a nod at the food.
He looks up and laughs. “Damn sight better.” His nod shows his appreciation. “That shit was almost inedible at times.”
“Quite flattering,” I say in a sarcastic tone.
Pop rolls his eyes. “Quit being tender. I complimented you.” He lets out a long belch. “So I heard from Bart last night, and he’s having some troubles he needs our help with. We’ll meet with him this afternoon.”
I draw in a steadying breath. I have shit to do today at the bar, to prepare for me being absent during the times I’m at the tournament. “I might be able to squeeze in an hour or so,” I tell him.
He quirks a brow. “Oh? Suddenly someone’s too busy to keep up on what we’re supposed to be doing? Remember what a shithole this neighborhood used to be before we took over and made peace?”
How could I forget? Bad fights all the time—even attempted murders and a few actual murders. Rampant fear, people too afraid to come out of their homes for worry of being hurt…or raped, or just threatened.
Yeah, we had to use violence to keep shit in line. But it worked. Now there’s a tenuous peace. Neighbors are having grill outs. Hanging out together. Not afraid to cross the street anymore, for their kids to play together.
Our family’s work was a big part in that.
“I haven’t forgotten,” I tell him flatly. “I’ve been keeping that going for years while you were gone.” I thought I was done having to prove myself, my loyalty, to Butch. Apparently no
t. My brothers bailing on our family has made him paranoid, I can tell.
He grunts and looks away, wiping the paper napkin across his mouth. “Well, see that you don’t. We have shit to take care of. I’m ready to take back over…and deal with things that have been left for far too long.”
After he leaves with those foreboding words, I dump the dishes in the sink. I’ll deal with them later. For now, I need to run off this steam building in my chest. To forget about my complicated life and let myself focus on my training. The tournament officially begins tomorrow. I can’t afford to let anything distract me, even my father’s plans.
I’m going to fucking win, prove everyone wrong. And once I do, he’ll be proud. He’ll understand why I had to keep going with this.
Butch is going to do something big though, insofar as dealing with Outlaws. I can tell. I don’t know what he has planned, but I recognize that look in his eyes. Shit is going to hit the fan. He isn’t happy that we have a truce with them now. Isn’t happy that we ignored his orders to take Outlaws back in our grasp.
And I’m kind of nervous about whatever the fuck he might do. Butch has never been one to think with a cool head. Not that I can say anything—I’m a fucking hothead myself; my twin was always the one who kept me from losing my shit.
But Hudson’s gone. In San Francisco. Living with his woman. And I’m here, picking up the pieces of everything my brothers left behind.
I head out the front door and begin at a slow pace. Wind my way down the streets. About two miles away, there’s a wooded park with good paths for running. It’s usually not too busy in the mornings, and I enjoy the quiet run through nature. Gives me a chance to escape my thoughts, sink into what I’m doing without being distracted by everything else.
The air is brisk, but it invigorates my lungs, drives the negative thoughts out of my head. Butch doesn’t understand my need to compete in this tournament, but I’ll make him. He’ll see why this is a big deal for me, and for us.
