by JL Mac
“Beast isn't here,” he says, coming to a stop and turning to lean against the wall, an exhausted look in his normally unreceptive eyes.
“What's wrong?” I whisper. The sense of knowing bad news is in the pipeline causes the tiny hairs on the back of my neck to raise up.
“Nothing for you to be concerned with,” he huffs raking his hands over his head.
“Where's Beast then?” I stay put, unsure if moving toward him is such a wise idea.
Murphy sighs rubbing the bridge of his nose.
“His gym.”
I turn on my heel, ready to find my boss when Murphy grabs my arm, halting me.
“Be careful,” he orders ominously, and I silently consider what he means. Careful of what? Of the streets? Random violence or Beast? I keep my mouth shut and opt for a single nod before he loosens his grip allowing me to go after Beast. If Murphy is in this condition I can't imagine how The Beast of Boston is doing. I get to the gym and park in front just to find that the sign is flipped to closed and the door is locked. I back up from the gym, scanning the building for a way in. Hopping back into my car I round the building and pull in back to find his car haphazardly parked. I climb out and test the back door with a posted employees only sign. It swings open bringing with it the scent of sweat, leather, and rubber, all the hallmark scents that can be found lingering in gyms. My ears preen, guiding me to where the grunting noises are coming from.
Sweat trickles down his spine, flanked by muscles, rippling and flexing with every brutal blow he lands. His body moving like this makes his tattoos seem alive, creeping, swaying and crawling over his body. My mouth feels dry, my lips too. I swallow, trying to ignore the masochistic yearning blooming low in my stomach. He's beautiful, and wild, and dangerous... and clearly unhinged, particularly right now.
He throws one ruthless punch after another making the heavy bag swing and sway as though it weighs nothing. He's breathing heavily and let's out a small grunt with each attack he makes on the bag. In awe I stand here, rooted in place by the entrance to the main area of his gym. Right now he isn't as calculated and composed as he normally is. He's... raw, emotional. Before my brain catches up with my body my feet move, carrying me to him.
“Beas—” I can’t even get his name completely across my lips, and he's whirled on me. Before I realize it, I'm grabbed and shoved roughly against the wall beside his punching bag. His thick arms caging me, his face is so close, his eyes are pools of violent gray storms. His jaw is clenched tightly, his brows drawn together. He radiates fury, caused by who knows what but if I had to guess, something terrible has happened in Beast’s world.
“What's wrong?” I force out.
“What's your name,” he rumbles.
“This isn’t about me. I know it isn’t. What’s wrong,” I rush out.
“What’s your name,” he barks in my face.
“Abigail Tally. Will you tell me what's wrong?”
“What's your name?” he growls again. Sweat rolls in paths down his face.
“Abigail Tally. Please, tell me what's happened?” I implore him.
“Well, Ms. Tally, I am having a really bad day,” he explains in a frosty voice. “I would love to take it all out on you and fuck you senseless in an effort to forget said bad day so I'm going to need you to tell me your name. Now. I'm tired of this game we've been playing.”
I pause, stupidly considering spilling my guts but that would be a huge mistake. He’s way out of control right now.
“Abigail Tally,” and even I’m disappointed to maintain my lie, my alias, and my mess. This monster, no matter how merciless, is in need and clearly suffering. He is implying that my body, my submission to him could somehow help and I still deprive him of that. It’s no surprise to see the hatred and violence in his eyes aimed right at me.
“Fuck!” he roars in my face, his bare knuckles crashing violently against the wall beside my head, one, two, three times. I freeze not daring to move. Beast pants, sweat still rolling down his tattooed skin. His head falls forward. Exhausted and panting he rests his forehead against his arm. He's so close and this stupid desire to touch him, to console him and learn his secrets is nearly more than I can take.
“Will is dead. Mikey is fucked up. He might not make it either,” he confesses in a hoarse voice, leaden with emotion he’s too physically tired to keep hidden. The punching bag guys. My heart squeezes painfully for him. “I've known them for over twenty years. I used to stay at their house sometimes when I was a kid. Before Or took me in. They’re my friends, one is dead and the other may die too and I wasn’t able to stop it. I fucked up.”
His confession, this insight into his world feels so fragile and tentative that I fear disrupting it. Those small details about his youth are a shining soap bubble floating through space between us. It’s bound to burst, delicate as it is but I don’t want to be the one to ruin it. I choose against saying anything. Instead, I archive the information and carefully reach up to take his hand. He does nothing to protest as I lead him across the gym to the locker room. He doesn't resist when I deposit him on the long bench running the length of the space. I flip on the faucet and grab a towel. When I return to him with the damp towel in my hands I find myself looking not at a monster, but at a man—just a man grieving the loss of his friend and I feel such a strong kinship with him right now. He blames himself for what happened to Will and Mikey. I blame myself for what happened to Lan.
I squat down in front of him and take one battered fist in my hands. His scarred knuckles are bleeding and a terrible shade of purple. I begin wiping away blood and absently wonder what fight each scar was a product of. Once I've washed one hand I move on to the next, carefully blotting away blood. I peek up at Beast to find him staring down at me.
“What am I going to do with you?” he rasps. The fury in him seems to be wicked away for now, leaving only sorrow.
“Anything you want I fear,” I whisper my confession so quiet I have to wonder if it actually came out or if I'd merely thought the words. “Should I ask how he died?” His only response to my question is an empty stare into my eyes. I nod and swallow down the dryness in my mouth.
“You know I can't keep you safe in my world.”
“Safe from your enemies?”
“Safe from me, Ms. Tally. Safe from me and all that I am.” He sounds impassive again but his eyes look tormented. They tell me what his words don't. Beast most certainly has a heart and I’d bet anything it’s broken.
Chapter Nineteen
Beast
Everything seemed to come to a halt but also zip into motion all at once when Will and Mikey got ambushed. We got our shit together and hit every Bratva hangout we knew of. Bullets flew and the war between rival crews was moved into the fast lane. At the same time, it felt like all High Knoll business was covered by a wet blanket—a blood-soaked blanket that smelled like the promise of impending bloodshed.
Arrangements for Will’s funeral were made and Mikey pulled through but had made it clear that he wished he hadn’t. He’s set on revenge but it will have to wait because he has enough holes in him at the moment to have any decent trauma doc referring to him as a miracle.
Murphy: Picked up Teeny. He’s in VIP Helen waiting for you.
I straighten my tie and cuff links before leaving my bedroom. I go downstairs with the bag of evidence that needs to be discarded. Tossing the blood-spattered shirt, pants and shoes from last night’s run-in with more useless Bratva in the fireplace, I flip the switch for the gas and watched the flames consume the threads. It isn’t lost on me how much I enjoy destroying things. It makes me feel better, lighter. It’s goddamn cathartic. Fucking with Teeny will be a nice release, a handy way to let off more steam. God knows I’ve got plenty trapped inside.
“How useless have you been lately, Teeny?” I mumble to myself as I kill the fireplace and snag the keys to my Aston Martin. I all but skip into the elevator that will take me to the parking garage. The prospect of knowing a littl
e something more about my liar has me feeling anxious. I’ve done my best to keep her busy and away from me but she’s always there, an impossible distraction in the back of my mind. A craving cloaked in enigma.
I don’t know what I hope for more. That Teeny has completed the lift and run and has information for me or that he doesn’t because if Murphy is right and Abigail is a cop or has compromised my crew, she dies. Today. And with death and destruction of some of my crew still so fresh, I couldn’t’ prevent it even if I tried.
“Teeny, my man. How’s it going?”
“Been better,” he grunts, his hair sticking in various directions, his clothes rumpled and looking like hell. If he smells like he looks I’ll keep well away.
I snag the folder from the table between us and set it on my knee, leaning back into the sofa. “Drink?”
“Nah. Thanks.”
I smile tightly and relax, enjoying his obvious discomfort. “In a hurry?” I ask pretending to be surprised. I’m not though. He’s always eager to get as far away from me as possible. I don’t blame the guy.
“I actually have to get back to work so…” he trails off. I nod, pursing my lips like I get it.
“So you’ve looked at these?” I ask lifting the folder from my knee.
I catch his ruddy brown gaze and his tongue darts out, licking his dry lips. I can see he’s contemplating what to say next but not actually giving anything up.
Pathetic.
“I see. Know anything else I should know?”
“No.”
I flip the folder open, read the first few lines, and lose track of time and space. For the first time ever, Detective Kevin Santini has rendered me completely speechless. Never had I considered the fingerprints she’d left on the glass of water I offered her the night she auditioned would produce these results. I’d sent the glass to Santini—Teeny—and asked that he lift the prints and run them against law enforcement databases, assuming… not this. I flick the folder shut, wanting to read the rest in private. My gaze finds Murphy looking relaxed in the chairs against the far wall and I give him a tight nod. Without hesitation he gets to his feet, gun drawn and does what needs to be done.
“You’re gonna call in to let them know you got the flu. Maybe you’re just going to go ahead and resign, take a vacation.”
“Guys,” he says putting his hands up defensively. I don’t stand around to hear any of his pathetic pleading. I have to have a chat with my little liar.
Chapter Twenty
Ena
Now…
He’d ordered me to his office, no doubt to send me on more wild goose chases, delivering dirty money to adoring widows and dropping off laundry and picking up his cigars from the guy with one hand who provides Beast his Cubans. He sends me on all these stupid missions when all I can think of is telling him the truth and asking for help while kissing his lips and touching his skin. He’s a terrible human being and I am an even more terrible human being for longing for him like I do. I drag my heels down the hall to his office, already loathing whatever he has planned for me and wondering when and if I will get the nerve to do what needs to be done for Lan.
It’s risky and going to get you killed for Lan whom you aren’t even sure is still alive. That’s why you haven’t done it.
Foolish.
Coward.
Pathetic.
I mentally stomp on my inner musings, shove away my three words for the day and focus on my gopher work. I decide that while annoying and depreciating, Beast’s stupid tasks keep me busy.
I round the corner into Beast’s office and instantaneously things shift into slow motion. Like a car accident, you see things unfolding seemingly frame by frame but you’re completely helpless to change the path you’re set on. His scarred hand darts out and I’m gripped by my throat then helplessly pinned to the wall in one fluid movement. The door slams beside me, making pictures on the walls jolt.
“Wanna tell me what a rookie cop and the daughter of a pig is doing in my fucking club, Abigail Tally?” Beast is inches from my face and he’s seething. His hazel eyes are wild and I struggle in his grip, clawing my own neck as I try to peel his fingers back. His hold is unrelenting. I grip his wrists pulling myself up, hoping it will decrease how suffocated I feel. Blood rushes to my head making my vision blur and my brain fog. “Answer me!” He bellows so loud my ears ring and I flinch.
Fuck, I’m going to pass out.
I gasp, fighting for minuscule sips of oxygen. Carrick’s thigh roughly forces mine apart and his knee flies up to my center, successfully lifting me an inch. I slap at his hands on my throat indicating to him that I can’t fucking speak under his crushing hold.
“I don’t know what you’re…” My voice sounds hoarse and I’m even dizzier thanks to the sudden influx of oxygen. “… talking about,” I force out.
“Bullshit!” he spits, withdraws his knee and returns full force stranglehold on my throat. Tears threaten and I let them slide uninhibited knowing that they were sliding anyway thanks to him squeezing the life right out of me.
I think for a moment as I stare into his feral eyes. I could just confess now. If I did, I may be as good as dead. Or I may be able to convince him to spare me. I try sorting out my thoughts but they jumble into a ball of madness bathed in adrenaline in my brain. My heart is slamming so hard in my chest I think I’ll suffer a heart attack. Not that it matters much seeing as how he’s already poised to kill me right here and now in his office.
Alana.
The part of me that thinks Alana is already sold or dead—the same part I’ve been ignoring since she went missing—withers, and waves the white flag and I let her. He can just kill me and maybe I’ll be with Alana again in no time. My hands fall to my sides and I compel my body to relax. I concede to this beast before me and do nothing further except stare into stormy hazel eyes and pray it doesn’t take long.
And thank god it isn’t long at all. The look of torment in his eyes tangles with his fury and distantly I wonder if he will regret killing me. I don’t have to think about it long. My vision goes white, my hearing dims to silence and I feel… nothing.
I’m sorry Alana. I’m so sorry.
Chapter Twenty-One
Beast
I have hurt people. I’ve hurt many people. I’ve been the hand that brought death to multiple people. I’m at peace with who I am. My journey through life led me to this point. A fucked up childhood led to a dead, abusive father. Orin was informed of what had happened to one of his crew and they hunted me down. I was a dumb kid, I had no chance in hell of staying hidden from Orin McCrae but he meant me no harm. Orin felt responsible for the orphaned kid of one of his men. He had his people clean up the mess I left decomposing in our apartment and took me in as his own which I later found out was more for him than it was for me. He’d lost his child before they ever even left the hospital after delivery. Despondent with grief, Orin’s wife committed suicide, leaving him a widower before he was even considered middle-aged. I became his legacy. For the first time in my life I had clean clothes—expensive clothing, a full stomach, a clean home to live in—Orin’s home and I discovered boxing. He encouraged me to channel my aggression in the ring, and in the streets with High Knoll when I wasn’t in the ring.
Point is, I’ve never second-guessed or regretted my life, my choices or the crime I commit. I know I’m not a good man and I am content with that. When I die, Satan himself will likely have a welcome reception just for me. I’ve made no bones about any of that.
Until I strangled my little liar.
I curled my fingers into the flesh of her thin neck and I squeezed. Hard. I watched her eyes dim, the light inside fading and then… gone. Her limp body fell to the floor at my feet and I stared down at her form, realizing how small she really is from my vantage point. I’d wielded my size and strength against her and she’d lost. It happened so fast. It was so wrong.
I growled under my breath and crouched over her. Wondering what the fuck to do nex
t. I’d need to order a cleanup. The guys will need to make a run to the country. Fuck. Then there’s Teeny. I still have to handle him. That fucker has something he’s not telling me and I’ll root it out or he’ll die while I’m trying.
“Goddamn!” I grab my cell and summon Murphy. Five minutes later, he slips through my doorway, his eyes immediately going to her body lying on the floor.
“I need my car backed up to the service door,” I say tossing him my keys. Murphy catches them mid-air and nods, his expression as cool as ever.
“Need help?”
“No,” I say shortly, shrugging into my suit jacket. “I’ll handle this.” I look down at her on the floor and try to decipher that hollow, acrid feeling in my chest. Allowing Murph a couple of minutes to get my car in place, I scoop her body up, tugging her against my chest, and that poisonous cloud inside feels like it could consume me and every one around me.
Maybe it already has.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Ena
My head hurts. My eyes burn. My neck is stiff and I realize through the pain that I’m not dead. Not yet. I force my eyes open and the sun streaming in through three large skylights blinds me. The fact that the sun is high in the sky directly overhead, visible through the skylights tells me it must be around midday. I snap my eyes shut and groan at the thundering going on in my head.
Get your shit together, Ena, I chide myself. How am I not dead?
With a deep breath I try to gather my thoughts and do an inventory of damages. I begin at my toes, testing them, wiggling them. My ankles, my knees…
Still have lower limbs, including knees and kneecaps. That’s good.
