REFRAIN: A ROCKSTAR ROMANCE

by Anne Mercier

  “Let’s get this last one done. I’m wiped. I need a shower and a nap—in that order,” I announce.

  “Don’t forget to hydrate,” Sera reminds me.

  I hold up my bottle of water. “My third.”

  She pats my cheek. “You’re such a good boy, Ethan.”

  I roll my eyes.

  “Xander,” Cage begins, “we should talk about your visit.”

  Xan’s eyes get big. “My visit?” he squeaks.

  “Mhmm. Very clever.”

  “Yeah, sure,” Xander says, then walks quickly back to his drums.

  “What was that about?” I ask.

  Sera laughs. “I’ll tell you later.”

  We jam out the last song. I think about calling Linc, but I know he’s busy, too. I send him a quick text.

  Then I go and do just what I said I would: I shower then take a short nap.

  22

  LINC

  Ethan’s lucky. His gig is tonight, Friday. I don’t fight until tomorrow night, so I’m stuck here until Sunday. I wish I could’ve flown out early tomorrow, but Coach wasn’t having any of it.

  “Let’s go grab some grub,” Coach Dave tells me.

  “Sounds good. I’m fucking starved. Airplane food sucks—even if it’s a private jet.”

  “Don’t let Jabs hear you say that.”

  I smirk. “You know if I do, he’ll make the meals even better.”

  Coach gives me a look and nods. “You’re a clever and manipulative fucker. Let’s mention it when we get to the restaurant.”

  I chuckle.

  Jamie “Jabs” Royal’s already seated in a booth in one of our favorite low-key bar/restaurants, Bandits. It’s crowded, as usual. No one pays any attention to us. Fighters come in here all the time. It’s the go-to hangout for the Underground.

  “Knox, you big beast,” Jabs says by way of greeting.

  “What’s up, Jabs?”

  “Just the sky. Coach,” he nods.

  “Jabs.”

  The waitress makes her way over. “I’ll take a large water and a large ginger ale.”

  Jabs rolls his eyes. “You and your fucking superstitions.”

  “They haven’t failed me yet.”

  Dave orders himself a beer.

  When the waitress brings our drinks, I cut Coach a glare.

  He looks at me and smiles big, then takes a healthy drink of his frosty mug of beer.

  “Asshole,” I mutter.

  Coach laughs. “Sunday you can have all the beer you want. You’ll need to work it off on Monday, though.”

  I shake my head. “Not worth the hassle or the hangover.”

  “Where’s your boy?” Jabs asks.

  “Ethan’s got a gig in L.A. A charity benefit.”

  “Ah. They’re about as big as it gets, yeah?”

  I nod. “Pretty much.”

  “All the rags and media are makin’ a spectacle out of ya.” His accent makes me think of Tera and how she goes nuts for it. Jabs is from Ireland. Born there, moved to the US when he was 14. He’s managed to keep the accent. I think he goes out of his way to do so. Seems all the chicks love an Irishman.

  I nod. “We’re ignoring most of it. We’ve got PR handling it.”

  “Still can’t be easy hearing all the insults.”

  “Nope, it’s not, but we’ll get through,” I reply.

  Coach excuses himself to go talk to the owner of Bandits.

  “Tell me,” Jabs urges.

  “We got it, man. Really. We prepared for it.”

  Jabs nods. “Tired of hiding, huh? Can’t blame ya. It’s gotta suck keeping such a big part of your life a secret.”

  “It wasn’t easy. Truthfully, I hated it, though I understood why. Until Ethan and I were living in the same place, we didn’t want speculation. With him living there and me living in the city, you know if someone saw us sitting here, they’d blow it out of proportion. Likely, you’re going to be my side piece,” I tease.

  “You could only be so lucky, you fucker.”

  I chuckle, but that fades quickly when I see three other fighters walk through the door—and these aren’t the friendly sort.

  “Fuck,” Jabs mutters.

  I grunt.

  “Spyder, Reaper, and Mayhem. Word must’ve gotten around, and you’ve been here less than half an hour,” Coach says as he sits down.

  I nod.

  “This can’t be good,” Jabs mutters.

  I shrug. “What’re they gonna do? I don’t fight outside of the ring or cage. There, they can bring it and bring it hard.”

  Coach gives me a look. “Just because they know it, doesn’t mean they’ll abide by it.”

  “Pricks,” Jabs mutters.

  We order our dinner when the waitress comes back, and I keep one eye on the three assholes by the door.

  “I’m going to get an ulcer from all this shit,” Coach states.

  “If you haven’t got one already, ya ain’t gonna get one now, Old Man,” Jabs taunts.

  “Old man? Fuck off. I’m three years older than you, ya fuck.”

  Jabs laughs.

  Coach Dave used to be a fighter, too, until he got his bell rung way too hard and got a concussion that left him with intermittent vertigo and some memory problems. He was one hell of a fighter. When he got his bell rung? It was from a cheap shot from Spyder. It’s part of why I hate that son of a bitch. The other part is because he’s a loud-mouth prick who doesn’t know when to shut the hell up.

  “Who’s fighting who tomorrow?” I ask.

  Jabs gives me a look and I grin.

  “Spyder?” I ask.

  Jabs grins and nods.

  “Now I understand the threesome,” Coach tells us.

  I grunt in response, lifting my ginger ale and taking a long drink My eyes cut to Spyder who’s doing shots with the other two and chasing ‘em with beer.

  Jabs follows my gaze. “He’s a fucking idiot.”

  “Tell me something I don’t know.”

  He thinks he doesn’t need to be in top shape to fight me. This is a first. Must be he heard about me and Ethan. Like that makes any difference as to how I fight.

  I fight clean. I fight hard. I fight to win.

  That fucker is going down.

  23

  ETHAN

  The crowd’s wild and getting rowdier with each song. Hell, they’ve started a mosh pit—at a charity event. I suppose the sponsors don’t care who gets in, so long as they pay—and pay they did. These tickets were pricey.

  I leave my wifebeater on to soak up the sweat so do Ben and Kennedy. We’ve hauled out the bandanas to keep the sting of sweat from dripping into our eyes.

  Xander and Jesse have both lost their shirts a long time already. They’ve matched us with the bandanas, and both are sporting wristbands.

  Cool air mist or not, it’s hilariously hot right now, even with the sun setting.

  We’re on our last song and thank fuck for that. We’ll do a three-song encore, and the I’m hitting the showers immediately. I’m not here for chicks or dicks. I’m here for the charity. We aren’t taking a penny for this show. It’s for kids who’ve been abused, have been displaced from their parents for one reason or another, and for kids to get a second chance to learn what it’s like to be loved.

  In other words, it’s a fundraiser for Harmony House so Joan and crew can open more locations.

  We finish the last song and head backstage to chug water before we head back out for the encore.

  24

  LINC

  “I’m gonna head out,” Jabs announces. Coach left an hour ago while Jabs and I shot the shit.

  “Yeah, I need sleep. I fucking hate hotels. Sometimes I wish we’d have kept Tera’s loft.”

  Jamie laughs. “As if that was going to happen with Tera going back to Xander.”

  “True, true. I’m surprised they kept her on at the gallery,” I admit.

  “Nah. She’s too talented to let go. They know what a loss that’d
be.”

  I nod in agreement, throwing some bills on the table to cover the tab and tip.

  “I got next one, then,” Jabs tells me.

  “No problem, man. My treat. More than. I gotta take a leak before I head out.”

  Jabs looks over at the three still at the end of the bar, who are now pretty fucked up. “Want me to hang out and wait?”

  “Nah man.”

  “All right. See you in the morning.”

  We bump fists. He walks out the door and I head to the men’s room.

  I walk out the back since I’m parked back there anyway. I’m just unlocking my rental, when I hear Spyder’s stupid fucking whistle. I roll my eyes and sigh. I’m fucking tired.

  I turn to face them, leaning back against my rental SUV, arms crossed over my chest.

  “Lookie, lookie. If it isn’t Knox,” Spyder sing-songs, his words slurring.

  I just wait.

  “Where’s your boy toy?” Reaper asks, smirking like the prick he is.

  So that’s what this is about. You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.

  “I never would’ve taken you for a fag,” Mayhem bites out, like he’s pissed.

  I shrug a shoulder. I might look bored, but I’m on full alert. I know what’s happening here.

  When Spyder pulls a bat from behind his leg and taps it against his palm and Reaper puts on his brass knuckles, I know this isn’t going to go well.

  “Where’s your weapon?” I ask Mayhem.

  He lifts his fists. “These are the only weapons I need.”

  I nod. “At least one of you isn’t a pussy.”

  “What the fuck would you know about pussy?” Spyder sputters.

  “Only what your mama taught me,” I reply. “And now I’m gay, so you know how well that went, right?”

  “You fucking faggot,” Reaper yells.

  “Yep.”

  “Do you get hard in the ring when you’ve got us pinned or submitting?” Spyder asks.

  “You couldn’t get me hard if you jerked me off all night.”

  “Fuck you,” Spyder shouts, and then they’re on me. Three to one—two with weapons.

  I feel the bat hit my back first, but I’m not paying any attention to that. I’m more worried about Mayhem stepping up to me, toe-to-toe. He’s on my level so fighting him alone would be a challenge. Fighting all three? The odds aren’t good.

  Mayhem throws a punch, and then I’m swinging, kicking out, punching—doing whatever it takes. Reaper tries to hit me with the brass knuckles, but I pick him up and lift him over my head, throwing him onto the car next to us. He hits the hood with a thud and a groan. He won’t be moving anytime soon.

  When I turn, there’s Spyder already swinging the bat and clocks me on the side of the head. Fuck, that hurt. I feel the blood trickling down my neck and arm. Another crack of the bat against my head and I drop to a knee, my vision blurring. I grunt and pull myself up. I’m not going down without one hell of a fight.

  I turn, fist clenched, arm cocked, and I nail Mayhem hard. Down he goes. As Jesse would say, one hitter quitter.

  Spyder swings again, this time nailing my ribs. Shit. I heard and felt the crack. Before I know what’s happening, my guard down from the dizziness, my arms are held behind my back and Spyder’s grinning. The little fucking weasel.

  He holds the bat just under my chin. I struggle against Reaper’s hold. “I don’t think you’ll be fighting tomorrow night.”

  I yank my arm hard and I break free, my fist flying into Spyder’s jaw. He stumbles back, dropping the bat, blood dripping from his mouth.

  I scramble to try to get the bat, but someone reaches it before me. I look up. Mayhem.

  Well, fuck. This is gonna hurt.

  25

  ETHAN

  The show’s over and I’m headed back to the bus. The guys are going to hang out and sign some shit, but I signed so much before we got here, my hand was cramping up.

  I reach into my pocket and try to call Linc. I know it’s really late there, 11:00 pm here means 3:00 am there, but he usually answers. When he doesn’t, my brows furrow. Maybe he turned it off so he can get some rest. He needs a solid eight before a fight, but he always picks up when I call.

  I text and let him know the show kicked ass and exit the arena.

  There’s a crowd, like always, but security’s pretty tight. Chicks call out some really suggestive proposals.

  “Stupid bitches, didn’t you get the memo? Ashcroft’s a fucking fag,” some dude hollers from somewhere in the crowd.

  My nostrils flare and I just keep walking, shaking it off.

  “I don’t care if he’s gay. I’d fuck the hell out of him,” another chick yells.

  Christ.

  I’m nearly to the bus when I get grabbed, a gloved hand covering my mouth as I get pulled backwards to a dark area behind the bus.

  Fists punch. Feet kick. Nails scratch. I don’t know how many guys and chicks there are, but I never stood a chance.

  Linc’s gonna be so pissed.

  26

  LINC

  Hospitals are so fucking sterile and I hate the smell, but tonight I hurt too much to let it bother me. I don’t know what’s all broken, but I know there’s a lot. I can’t even open my eyes.

  “He’s going to need surgery,” the ER doc announces. “Pretty sure he’s got a ruptured spleen. Call up to the OR and let them know we’re on the way.”

  Aww, fuck.

  Ethan’s gonna be so pissed.

  27

  ETHAN

  “Ethan,” a voice says loudly. I bat away the hand holding the light that’s shining in my eyes.

  “Ethan,” a different voice says. This one I recognize.

  “Cage,” I grit out.

  “Let the doctor take care of you,” he demands.

  So, I do.

  The light shines in my eyes again and the doctor announces, “Concussion.”

  “I coulda told you that,” I mutter, my jaw hurting when I try to speak. “Jaw.”

  “God damn it,” Damian yells. “Security was tight, but the one who was watching the bus door decided to walk off and take a piss at the perfect time.”

  Cage clears his throat. “I hope he’s been dealt with.”

  “He has,” Damian relays, his voice sharp with anger.

  “Was it just him, or more?” Cage asks.

  “Four.”

  “How the…” Cage stops. “We’ll figure that out later. Right now, let’s focus on getting Ethan patched up.”

  “He’s gonna need more than patches,” Kennedy tells Cage. “Concussion. Likely broken or cracked jaw. That cheekbone looks to have been hit pretty damn hard. Bet that’s fucked up real good. Fingers, that right arm, ribs. Likely he’s going to need surgery.”

  “Is there anything you aren’t knowledgeable in?” Jesse asks.

  “No,” Kennedy answers matter-of-factly.

  Kennedy’s a genius. He could have been so much more than a rockstar, but he loves the music. It soothes him, just as it does all of us.

  “Looks like you’re correct,” the doctor announces when the x-rays come back. “He’s going to need surgery for some internal bleeding. Call the OR and tell them we’re on our way.”

  “Don’t miss me too much,” I manage between closed teeth. These pain meds are awesome.

  Just as they’re wheeling me out, Cage’s phone rings.

  28

  CAGE

  We’re at Gio’s house, and I’m livid. It takes a lot to get me majorly pissed off, but I’m there.

  I look around the room at everyone who was to be security and those in charge of security.

  “Someone explain to me how the hell this happened!” I yell. “How did both Ethan and Linc get attacked on the same night, sustaining nearly identical injuries?” I pace around the room. “Do you think that’s coincidence?” I slam a hand on the table everyone’s gathered around. “It’s. Fucking. Not. So, who dropped the ball here? Was it me? Should I start d
oing all this shit with Damian and Ernesto to make sure it gets done right?”

  A mumbled “no” is heard collectively.

  “Then what the fuck is the problem?” Gio asks, his tone hard but tempered. “How could this happen? Two different people, two different cities, different sides of the country?”

  No one says a word.

  “Damian, you and Ernesto investigate and deal with those who need it,” Gio orders. When the head of La Famiglia steps in, you know it’s a bad situation.

  “How bad is it?” Gio asks when everyone files out of the room.

  Sera walks in and sits down. “Concussion: Both of them. Broken fingers: Ethan. Broken arm: Both of them. Surgery to repair internal bleeding: Both of them. Broken ribs: Both of them. Fractured cheekbone: Ethan. Broken scapula: Lincoln. Busted up face: Both. Major head injury: Both, but Lincoln’s required stitches and staples in three different spots. I stopped writing down the rest. I don’t want to know.”

  “This!” Gio yells, pounding a fist on the arm of his chair. “This is Famiglia. This should not happen. We find the traitors and eliminate them.”

  “If Linc were up to it, I’d suggest we let him beat them to death. I think he’s going to wish he could, not for himself but for what happened to Ethan,” Sera answers.

  “They will be dealt with,” Damian says from where he’s standing in the corner.

  “I want to be there,” Sera commands.

  Gio inclines his head, and I nod in agreement.

  “Let’s find these bastards and crush them,” Damian tells Sera as they exit the room.

  “They didn’t just hurt her family, they hurt her heart,” I tell Gio.

  He nods. “She’s had enough of that.” He sips from his glass of scotch. “This wasn’t the Manzinis. I spoke with Salvatore.”