by Olivia Chase
Butch pushes the clothes into the bag, then rests the still-bloodied knife on the top. He’s standing there in faded red boxers. He ties the bag and then goes to the fridge to get an ice pack, pressing it against his face. “Fuck,” he says as he winces, then pushes it harder against the bruise on his eye.
“Pop,” I demand. “Explain.”
“Me and a couple of friends went to rough Smith up and send him a message.”
Fuck. I rake a hand through my hair.
He continues, leaning back against the counter. A totally casual tone, like he hasn’t just done something insane. “Smith proved to be…tougher than we anticipated. He fights like a dick. I had to take care of it. So I pulled out a knife and stabbed him.”
I just stare in shock, feeling like I might literally puke. “Did you kill him?”
Butch scoffs. “Fucking wish. Why the fuck do you care?” A pause. “No, I didn’t. He was beating up on one of my friends, so I stabbed him in the leg, and we got out of there.” He groans and rubs his side. “Fucker punched me in the liver. He deserved it.”
I don’t even know what to say. Butch fucking stabbed Smith. All because he wants that stupid bar…even though Fugitives is doing so well. What the hell?
“I need a shower,” Pop says. He stretches his back. “And a good sleep. I’ll handle disposing the bag later. Can’t have evidence lying around.” He winks with his good eye and saunters off to the bathroom.
As soon as he’s gone, I move at a clip toward my room. Phoebe hasn’t changed her position. Her face is drained of all color. Fuck. She heard. I managed to drag her into my family drama. Phoebe, who is innocent and pure and has no business getting tangled in this shit.
“We gotta get out of here before he realizes you were in my room and overheard his confession,” I say in a low tone.
Her nod is shaky. She swallows. We dress, and I make sure Butch is still in the shower before hustling Phoebe out the front door. Thankfully, we make it into my car, and I high-tail it toward the arena to drop her off at her car.
It’s still pretty dark out, with the edges of morning just starting to emerge. The roads are empty, which makes the drive faster. Good thing, because I can barely focus.
Our silence is tense. Phoebe clenches her hands, twisting her fingers. Chewing on her lower lip. I’m too overwhelmed with my thoughts, stressed. What the fuck do I do about this? Is Smith in the hospital? Should I go visit him?
“We need to go to the police,” Phoebe blurts out. Her voice is thin and reedy.
I pull into the arena parking lot. Despite the early hour, there are already a couple of cars here, other than hers. I put the car in park and look over at her. “No fucking way I can do that. I can’t rat on my father.”
“Hale.” She draws in a breath through her nose. “I know he’s your dad…but he stabbed someone. How is that okay? What if the guy dies?”
Like I’m not already concerned about all this shit? I clench the steering wheel, my brain spinning. “He isn’t going to die.” I have to believe that. Smith got help in time. Butch seemed sure he didn’t kill him.
But I have to go see him. To make sure.
“Phoebe, let me handle this.” I reach over and take one clammy hand in mine. “I know you’re scared. I’m going to take care of it. Don’t concern yourself—it’ll all be fine.”
Phoebe is frowning at me. “How can you possibly know that though?”
“Because this is what I do. I fix things. I make sure things are okay.” I stroke her hair, still sleep-mussed. And because I can’t help myself, I lean forward and kiss her.
She doesn’t quite soften her body stiffness, but she opens for me. I kiss her until the both of us have even just a moment’s reprieve from what happened.
“I’ll check on him. I’ll make sure he’s okay. But let me deal with it. You have work to do.”
Her nod is stilted, but she says, “Okay.” Phoebe exits my car and slips into hers, then drives off.
I stay in my spot for a few minutes, willing myself to cool down. This is fucked up. So fucked up. I had a suspicion that Butch was going to do something, but I had no idea he’d go this far. Makes me glad I haven’t been involved in his plans. I could never have agreed to fucking beat Smith up, even if it would have made Pop angry with me.
He was right to leave me out of this after all.
I feel more waves of nausea and shock roll through me as I digest what my insane father has gone and done.
Since I didn’t see Axel with him, I’m guessing my half brother wasn’t included in on the plan, either.
I pull out of my spot. Head home. When I get inside, I can tell Butch is out of the shower, and his bedroom door closed off. The faint sounds of snoring reach me. The man can sleep through anything. He stabs his fucking nephew and just passes right out.
It’s too early to go to Outlaws and find out details on Smith. Plus I gotta figure out how I can get information without giving away that I know he was stabbed. Fuck. Thanks for putting me in a pickle, Pop. Resentment floods me.
I need a plan.
I’ll come in early to Fugitives and make up an excuse to pop over to Outlaws. Surely they’ll be buzzing about what happened, and I can find out details. See where Smith is, make sure he’s okay.
But even with a plan forming about how to move forward, my body is tense, my stomach in knots. Fucking hell.
I picture Smith in my mind and my chest tightens.
The thought of turning my old man in flashes through my imagination and for a second I feel…almost relieved.
No. Fuck no.
I don’t know if I need a beer, or to go hunt Phoebe down and bury myself inside her…but I have to shake this off before my bout tomorrow. It’s the fucking semi-final. The winner will be in the final match…and it’s looking like Gunner Lewis is gonna be the competitor.
I wanna beat the shit out of him. Coming on to my girl like that… My blood pressure spikes, and I make myself draw in slow breaths. Exhale. Gunner doesn’t matter. I’ll win the semi-match tomorrow and make it to the finals. It’s fine. I’ve been training hard. Al has been unrelenting in pushing me.
I take a cold shower. Pace the rooms and attempt to watch TV. The seconds tick by. But finally, it’s late enough that I can go into Fugitives. I hop in my car and head over.
Fuck. I hope Smith is okay.
Smith and his brothers, Jax and Asher, were enemies of my family for a while. We thought them uppity, thought they believed they were better than us because their neighborhood was nicer. Took a lot of time to work past our bad blood. But we formed a truce.
And then Butch comes in and takes over, and everything goes back to shit.
I go into Fugitives and linger for a moment, then exit out and cross the street toward Outlaws. I can see a few cars in the parking lot. Likely my cousins and their employees getting ready for the day.
When I go through the front doors, the room is quiet, with hushed whispers. Jax is standing off to one side of the bar, talking with Jamison, my oldest brother.
Both turn to look at me. Their eyes are hooded, their faces drawn. “Hale? What are you doing here?”
I fake nonchalance, hoping the guilt isn’t on my face. “I came over to see if you guys had extra fliers for the joint promo we’re running next weekend. Is everything okay?”
Jamison walks over to me. His voice is even, but his gaze is hard on mine. “You don’t know?”
“No, should I?” I keep my chin up. I didn’t do anything wrong. I’m here to make sure Smith is okay. But I can’t rat Butch out in the progress. Family doesn’t do that to each other.
“Smith’s in the hospital. He got stabbed in an attack last night by three masked men. Went down swinging, but his leg was cut.” Jamison pauses. “Anything you heard on the street or…around?”
“I’ll keep an eye out for anything,” I say generically. “Fuck. How’s he doing?”
“Stable,” Jax says, coming over to join us. “Got stitched up
. Thankfully the wound wasn’t dangerous. He’ll be fine…just out of commission for a while.” His frown is deep. “I’ll fucking kill whoever did this to him.”
My gut is twisting hard. Guilt. Frustration. A little bit of anger—at myself, at Butch, at everyone around me. If we could have resolved shit peacefully, maybe this wouldn’t have happened.
And even that is irrational, to be upset with my family, at least over this.
“He’ll be fine, Smith is tough as nails,” I say, clapping a hand on Jax’s shoulder. I don’t know what else to offer.
“Thanks.” Jax walks off to talk with other employees.
Jamison is eyeing me oddly.
“What?” I ask him.
“You seem…different.”
And now I’m feeling uncomfortable. Fuck. “I’m not. I’m still me.”
“Hmm.” He rubs the back of his neck, muscles flexing. “Heard you’re in that boxing tournament.”
I quirk a brow. “Asking around about me? Why brother, I didn’t know you cared.” It’s said lightly but there’s a slight sting in my words that I can’t quite hide. It sucks that things changed so much. We all used to be tight. And now we’re splintered.
“I never stopped caring. I just couldn’t…” He sighs. “I’m not trying to shit on you. Just saying kick ass with it.”
“Thanks.” My tone is gruff. “Glad you’re…doing well.”
He smiles. “Thanks. Life is pretty fucking good.”
For once, I kinda know what he means. I think about Phoebe, the way she felt against me last night. The smell of her hair, the curve of her ass pressed to my front. Her soft, sleepy sighs.
Jamison starts to grin. “I know that look.”
I narrow my eyes at him. Fuck. “You don’t know dick. I gotta go.” I turn away before he can read anything else.
I’m not a soft man. I’m not an emotional man. But Phoebe has thrown a wrench into my life. Made me feel stuff I wasn’t ready to feel. Never wanted to feel, actually.
And now others can see it on me.
When I enter Smith’s hospital room, he’s hooked up to a blood pressure machine, a thin nurse checking his stats on the display.
“Looking good,” she says, jotting down numbers on her chart. “I’ll leave you to your company. The doc will be around soon to tell you when you can go home. I have a feeling he’ll want to keep you overnight just to make sure infection doesn’t set in. But we’ll see what he says.”
Smith nods at her and then lies back on the bed. His legs are tucked under a thin blue blanket. Soft beeps fill the space between us.
I step forward and say, “How you feeling? Heard about what happened. You in a lot of pain?”
“On some pretty good meds right now.” He gives a small smile. I can see his eyes are slightly glazed.
“Pass some over if you’re feeling generous,” I say, sliding the metal chair closer to his bed. My chest feels like there’s a brick smashing out of my rib cage. Must be my heart slamming. I can’t help but ask, “What happened? I didn’t get a lot of details.” I rush to add, “I dropped by Outlaws for fliers and heard you got attacked.”
Smith moves his head until he’s eyeing me. “I was in Outlaws, finishing up after the shift was over.” He reaches up and gives his scruff a lazy scratch. “Thought I’d locked the front doors. Guess not. Three men walked in, masked, and came at me.” He gives a grim smile. “Managed to fuck ‘em up good for a while.”
I think about Butch’s swollen face. “And one of them stabbed you?”
“Yup.” He exhales slowly. “They tried to disguise themselves. I have some thoughts on who it might be, though.”
That brick in my chest grows bigger. “I hope you find those fuckers,” I say lamely.
“You wouldn’t happen to know anything about the attack, would you?”
Fuck. Of course he suspects Butch. Anyone with half a brain cell would. Given all the shit talking Butch has done about our cousins, he’d be the most obvious suspect to anyone. I suppress a wave of sickness. “Not a fucking thing, man.” Lie. And I kind of hate myself for it.
All this tension is building in me. I feel like my skin is too tight. It’s hard not to squirm; even drugged-up Smith is still more observant than I’d like. He keeps staring at me. “Well, I hope you’d say something if you did know.”
“Of course I would,” I snap. I didn’t even fucking do anything, but I’m being questioned about it. This is fucked up. My anger is beginning to spike.
“Slow your roll, hothead,” he says, lifting his hand. “Look, I’m fucking tired. Not trying to fight. I just wanna get the fuck out of here and get back to work.”
“I’ll let you sleep.” I stand, my hands clenched. I mutter a goodbye over my shoulder and exit his room. Stalk down the hallway, out into the brisk air. My nerves are shot; I’m all raw energy. I want to fucking punch something so badly. I want to throw up. I want all this shit to go away.
It’s horrible to think it…but I wish Butch hadn’t come home. Things were going smoothly before he came in and shit all over everything. But he’s my father. Prison changed him. Maybe he just needs time on the outside to get back to how he was. I can’t fucking abandon him too, like my brothers did.
Or maybe he’s a dick now, and I’m fucking wrong for letting this happen. Not doing something about it.
I hate this…unsettled feeling. Not knowing what the right thing to do is. I can hear Phoebe’s thin voice when she said I had to go to the police. Would she have done so in my situation? Hard to tell. But she does abhor violence…so my guess is yes.
But I’ve been raised my whole life to be loyal to my clan.
I get in my car and drive aimlessly for a couple of hours. Willing my brain to stop thinking. Willing my stomach to unknot. I can’t deal with this now. Too much is on my plate. Smith is healing, and I have a match tomorrow. Plus a bar to run tonight. Butch can deal with his own shit. Not my problem.
I sit on the bench and look at the row of lockers in front of me. My match is next. Semi-finals. Winner of this one will be facing off with Gunner Lewis, who just won his bout. He’s near the entrance, talking with a group of reporters, getting his photo snapped.
Shake it off, I tell myself. This isn’t the time to focus on that fuck nut. That time will come once I win this fucking round.
The man I’m fighting, Finn Donovan, has been sweeping through his bouts. He’s got fiery red hair and an attitude to match. Hopefully fighting him will prove to be a good distraction from the shit storm in my life.
I haven’t talked with Phoebe much; I think she may be avoiding me. Likely freaked out over what my father did. Can I blame her? Doesn’t help that I just want to tug her in my arms and breathe her in until every worry escapes.
“Son, you okay?” Al asks, coming over to sit by me. “You seem off. Gotta get your head in the game.”
“I know,” I say, my tone harsh. I can’t help but react to the chiding. “Don’t need a fucking lecture.”
Al narrows his eyes. “Boy, save that anger for the ring. Whatever the fuck is going on in your head, get it out. Now. You have a hard match ahead of you. Donovan’s not gonna be an easy fight.”
I suck in deep breaths to try to calm my anger. Fuck. All these emotions are boiling in me, and I just want to lash out at everyone around me. Yell. Punch something. No wonder Phoebe is avoiding me. Maybe she can sense it in me. And then the guilt comes sliding in…because now I’m proving myself to just be another fucking man like her father by giving in to my anger.
Al stands and grips my shoulder. “Don’t know what’s going on with you, Hale. But keep your nose clean. You got a good thing ahead of you. Shit will drag you down if you let it.”
The announcers begin to talk, indicating it’s time for me to get up and go fight. I follow Al out to the perimeter of the ring, hopping in between the ropes when I’m introduced. Finn is next; the crowd is chanting his name as well as mine, their words mingling in the air.
F
rom his spot on the ground, Al hands me my mouth guard, and I pop it in. “Remember,” he says. “Focus. Keep your hands high, chin tucked. Look for vulnerabilities. And earn those points—you may need them.”
The bell rings.
I shut out everyone and everything around me, willing my brain to go silent and stop torturing me. This is my time for victory. Gotta have my head in the game.
The first couple of rounds start off without a clear winner. We both get in several good hits. Finn’s grinning widely, taunting me as he bounces on his feet. Dancing around me. I’m growling back at him. I’m fucking ready to tear this shithead up.
By the time we’re two rounds in, I’m dripping with sweat. My muscles are growing fatigued. This is the hardest match I’ve had yet. And I’m not sure I’m going to win.
Out of nowhere, Finn socks me in the chin, and my mouth guard almost goes flying. Fuck. I right myself, ignoring his smug look. His left eye is swollen where I hit it, and he has a small cut above his brow. The breaks between rounds seem to fly by; I can’t get my bearing, can’t seem to gain control over the situation.
One more round to go. The crowd is chanting, jeering. There’s still no fucking clear winner, and we’re close. Too close. I’m rallying everything I’ve got, but I’m exhausted. Angry. Frustrated. This isn’t the clean, quick fight I thought I’d get. I’m scraping by for every point I can manage.
When the fight is over, Finn and I are panting, back in our corners, our coaches talking to us while we stare hard at each other. That fucking know-it-all smile is on Finn’s face; he’s so sure he won.
“The judges have tallied up the points,” the announcer says. “And the winner is…Hale Beckett!”
I heave myself off the bench and lift up my arms. I want to be smiling right now because I won, but it wasn’t a good performance. I fucking let myself down. Stinging sweat is sliding down into my eyes, and my hair is dripping wet.
I get out of the ring as fast as I can. I need to get my shit together. As I’m walking behind Al, Diane sidles up to me.
“Looked like that was a hard effort you put in that match,” she says, her voice bearing a decidedly cool edge. “Haven’t seen you struggle this much before, Hale. But I’m sure you’ll get it together against Gunner.”
