by Monica James
My stomach roils, threatening to bring up the scotch I had earlier, but I squash down the nausea and keep my cool. Bull told me to stay hidden, but when Tiny punches Bull so hard in the jaw, I hear a crack, I forget his warning and charge forward.
I don’t want to be hidden in the shadows. We’re in this together. I want it to be my face he sees, not a sea of strangers.
The masses are nothing but animals, hollering and cheering, demanding more bloodshed, but I shove them aside, desperate to get to Bull. I can’t stand by and watch him being beaten this way.
“Move!” I scream at the vile men who are shouting for Bull’s blood to be spilled. They look down at me, not masking their crude thoughts.
“You lost, baby?” one of them slurs. The smell of whiskey hints he is drunk on more than just bloodlust.
“Fuck you!” I scream, clawing at him to move out of my way, but he does nothing of the sort. He grips my bicep, drawing me against his chest.
“I can arrange that.” He chuckles, cupping my ass.
Anger explodes from me. I’m so sick and tired of the misogynistic pigs in this world. Without thinking, I raise my knee, in hopes I connect with his balls, but he stops me when he grabs my upper thigh.
“We’ve got a pocket rocket, boys,” he hollers over his shoulder.
“Let me go,” I demand, trying to shake from his hold. But his grip is tight.
He hauls me forward, groping me without apology as I scream. But my cries are muted by the shrieks of others. I suddenly wish I’d listened to Bull. I just wanted to help. I couldn’t stand by and watch him sacrifice himself yet again. I wanted to be there for him, a familiar face showing him how much I care.
His worth to me is more than money can ever buy. And I want him to know that.
But I won’t be going anywhere thanks to the asshole who won’t let me go. He threads his fingers through my hair, yanking my head to the side before licking along my throat. I kick and slap at him, but the violence in the air feeds his depravity.
Regardless of my flailing, he manages to unsnap the top button of my jeans, but that’s as far as he gets before he’s violently spun around and dropped to the floor, unconscious. My heart is in my throat as I blink rapidly, unsure of what just happened. When I tear my eyes away from his motionless form on the floor, I see what happened is standing inches away.
Bull is seething. His body twitches as pulses of anger and adrenaline course through him. I gasp because he is beaten and bloody, but when I frantically advance, needing to help him, he shakes his head firmly, demanding I stay put.
The hard set of his rigid stance reveals he isn’t playing. And when the crowd parts behind him, he gives me my wish. Bull knows what’s about to happen, and he accepts his fate with his eyes locked on mine when Tiny grabs his shoulder, spins him around, and knocks Bull out cold. With a thud, he drops at my feet while I cover my mouth with a trembling hand.
I wanted my face to be the one he saw, and it was. But not before he saved me—again.
Two men lay unconscious at my feet.
For the first time since I entered this shitshow, the crowd is silent. But that is soon replaced with a deafening cheer. Men high-five one another while others tear their scraps of paper in half. I don’t know what’s going on, but I don’t care.
More than anything, I want to drop to my knees and help Bull, but when I notice both Stevie and José peering at me with nothing but curiosity, I leave indents on my palms as I curl my fists. I was supposed to be invisible, but now, I’m on their radar.
With bile rising, I raise my pink ticket in the air, faking victory. If I appear victorious, maybe I’ll throw them off. Two men appear out of nowhere, picking up a limp Bull by the arms. His chin lolls against his chest.
His long hair flops forward, shrouding his face, but I saw the damage inflicted to his eye. I can only imagine what hides beneath his mask. The men drag him away like he’s nothing but trash as the crowd looks on, clearly surprised the favorite lost.
No one comes for the asshole who groped me, and his “friends” have scattered, showing there is no such thing as loyalty in a place such as this.
People soon disappear as the main act is over. I see the bookie sitting in the corner of the room, handing out the winnings. From the short line, I dare say that a lot of punters have gone home empty-handed. I decide to line up as it’ll buy me some time to wait for Bull.
I have the spare set of truck keys in my pocket, but I’m not going anywhere. I know I made a promise, but there is no way I’m leaving him here. As I’m waiting in line, I place my hands into my pockets to stop them from shaking. But when I feel someone behind me, I don’t have a hope in the world to mask my nerves.
“Seems we both have a thing for the underdogs.”
Taking a small breath, I look over my shoulder and see José and his men behind me. I can’t help but look at his scar. It looks like someone tried to gouge his eye out with a melon baller.
He waits for me to reply, so I nod with a smile. “Seems so.”
I turn back around, desperate to get away from this man. Even though Bianca is linked to them somehow, Bull is right. Getting mixed up with the cartel will only lead to more trouble.
José, however, doesn’t seem to get the hint. “We haven’t seen you here before. Who told you about the fight?”
Shit.
Anxiously peering overhead, I see about four people in front of me. I can’t ignore him, so I turn back around, and reply vaguely, “A friend at work.”
“Oh, yeah? Where do you work?”
If anyone else was asking me this, I’d say they were just making conversation. But there is no such thing as casual chitchat with a man like José.
“If I tell you that, I’ll have to kill you,” I tease, batting my eyelashes. Bull told me not to share any information because if I do, it’ll look suspicious. The vaguer the better, as this is an illegal fighting syndicate after all.
José’s lips twitch. I’ve dodged a bullet—for now.
“Smart girl. I hope to see you around.” It’s a promise. He knows I’m lying. No doubt he saw the way Bull came to my aid. Hopefully, he only thinks Bull asked me to bet on Tiny to win him some money.
The line begins moving, and when I’m up next, I quickly give the bookie my ticket, surprised when he hands over an envelope stuffed full of cash. I don’t bother looking inside.
With eyes downcast, I walk the long way around, avoiding José and his men. I can feel his gaze follow me out the door and know this isn’t the last I’ve seen of him. It’s snowing, but I don’t wait for it to stop. I make a mad dash for the truck, keys in hand, afraid someone will come lunging out of the shadows to stop me.
Opening the driver’s door, I dive inside, then slam the lock down. My heart is in my throat as I breathlessly scan my surroundings, but all I see is crisp white snow.
Reaching for my phone, I send Bull a text.
I’m waiting in the truck.
No matter how long I have to wait, I will. I don’t know how long it takes for someone to recover from being unconscious, but from the looks of Bull, I guess it’ll be a while.
Sinking low in the seat, I keep my eyes peeled, watching for any signs of danger. I don’t see Stevie, so maybe he’s with Bull. I’m sure he’s not happy with Bull losing tonight. There is so much unknown, and I hate it. I want to help, but I wouldn’t even know where to start.
Peering at my phone at what feels like hours later, I see that the last text message I sent to Bull was forty-five minutes ago. Where is he?
Tapping my fingers against the steering wheel, I contemplate sneaking back inside. Only a few cars remain, as most left the moment Bull was knocked out. I haven’t seen José leave, but I wouldn’t put it past him to have arrived via private jet.
Just as I’m about to unlock the door, a figure comes hobbling out a side door. Although his face is downturned, I know it’s Bull. He’s alone, so I wait for him to get closer before I open the door and rac
e toward him.
Seeing him fills me with a sense of peace, which is ironic, considering his state, but I feel like I can finally breathe again. His wet hair is slicked back, so I can see the extent of his injuries. He looks far worse than I ever imagined.
“Oh, god. Let me help you.” Looping my arm around his waist, I encourage him to lean against me as we stagger toward the truck.
He allows me to help, which confirms he feels as bad as he looks. I just hope José won’t double-cross us. Bull trusts him because although they’re criminals, their word apparently is solid. Makes no sense to me, but hey, what do I know?
He stops suddenly, inhaling sharply as he sags against me. “Sorry. I just need to catch my breath.”
“Don’t apologize,” I say with sincerity, giving him all the time he needs.
He’s good to go a few moments later, and when we get to the truck, I open the door and all but shove him inside. When he’s in, I close the door and run to the driver’s side. A sense of security falls over me when we’re inside.
After Bull is buckled in tight, I start the engine, eager to get away from this church that has been anything but a sanctuary.
The moment I pull onto the road, I exhale, but my heart is far from returning to a normal pace. Glancing back and forth between Bull and the road, I work my lip between my teeth until I taste blood. He looks to be on the cusp of passing out.
“Bull,” I caution, gently reaching over and squeezing his thigh. “Stay awake. You’ve probably got a concussion.”
He jerks awake, shaking his head to clear it. “Are you all right?” he pants, flinching as he grips his side.
“I should be the one asking you that,” I assert. “What can I do?”
I feel so helpless. We didn’t know what the severity of his injuries would be, so I packed a first-aid kit filled with everything just in case. He said he’d be okay to drive back to Detroit, but each time I hit a small pothole, he winces.
He needs to rest. And I don’t think I can drive the few hours home without running us into a ditch. All I want to do is touch him, to make sure he’s okay, and I can’t. When I see a motel up ahead, I take it as a sign.
“Why are you stopping?” he asks, shifting to get comfortable. But he can’t sit still.
“Let’s stay here overnight. You need to rest. We can leave in the morning after a good night’s sleep.”
Again, he doesn’t argue.
I park the truck and sprint into the twenty-four-hour reception. The man doesn’t bat an eye when I ask for a room and pay in cash. This place is your typical seedy motel, so I’m sure he’s seen it all.
Our room is the last one toward the back. There are barely any cars parked here. Just a couple of semi-trailers. The place is quiet, so it’s perfect. As I grab our bags from the back seat, Bull opens the door and slowly exits. He stubbornly hobbles toward the room, but I catch up to him quickly.
I don’t ask for permission before I wind my arm around him, leading him to our room. The hallway lights flicker, which has Bull shielding his eyes. When we get to our room, I maintain my hold on him as I unlock the door with one hand.
Shouldering it open, we commence a slow stagger toward the bed, where I carefully help him onto the foot of the mattress. I don’t fail to notice how this is all too familiar now.
Once he’s settled, I lock the door and toss our bags onto the floor. “What do you need?” I ask him, unzipping my backpack.
I packed everything I could think of.
“Painkillers,” he replies. “And scotch.”
He’s in luck because I packed both. But the scotch is for me.
Grabbing a bottle of water and the painkillers, I pass them to him. He doesn’t argue but looks at the water like it just told him to go fuck himself. After unscrewing the lid, he pops four tablets and drinks down the water in one gulp.
Hunting through my supplies, I reach for the antibiotic ointment and the alcohol swabs. I have Band-Aids, gauze, and ice packs. I even brought a liquid bandage solution. There is no way I’m stitching him up with a needle and thread again.
Deciding to examine the damage first, I sit down beside him, carefully brushing the hair from his brow. His right eye is once again swollen shut. The other is bloodshot. His nose is about twice the size, and his bottom lip is busted open.
“Goddammit,” I curse angrily. I am furious it had to come to this.
Ripping open the alcohol swab, I gently dab at his cuts and scrapes. I keep my hands steady, but my fast breathing gives away my nerves. Bull sits still, allowing me to nurse him. Once his face is cleaned, I reach for his left hand and wipe over his knuckles with a new swab.
His palm sits snugly in mine and touching him has my heart rate slowing and my breathing calming. He anchors me in ways I don’t understand. But I don’t question it. “Where else does it hurt?”
“I’m fine,” he stubbornly replies. The painkillers must have kicked in.
“Take off your shirt,” I order, ripping open another swab.
He reads my no-nonsense attitude and reaches over his head, tugging his T-shirt off by the collar. He’s traded his trademark shirt and suspenders for a gray T-shirt. He dumps the T-shirt on the floor while I swallow down my nausea.
His flesh is red, and bruising lingers under the surface. There are a few scrapes, which I gently dab with the swab, but his injuries are more internal. Dark bruising has formed around his ribs. Dragging my backpack over, I grab the single-use ice pack and squeeze it together, waiting for it to cool.
“Here.” I apply it to his ribs gently.
This close to him, his scent is amplified tenfold, and the tension coiling within begins to unravel. I am suddenly so tired. We are one step closer to getting Jordy back. I can do this.
“Thank you,” I say, unable to meet his eyes. “I know you did this for your own personal gain also, but—”
Bull doesn’t allow me to finish. He grips my chin and tips my face to his. “I made you a promise, and I don’t break my promises,” he says, thumbing over my tender bottom lip, frowning. “Why are you hurting yourself?”
I don’t understand what he means until I remember it’s sensitive because I nearly gnawed it off in the car.
Without warning, he lets go of my chin, only to roll up my sleeve and run his finger over the elastic around my wrist. Hissing, I don’t even realize it’s red and raw until Bull draws my attention to it.
“Why, Tiger?” he repeats, watching me closely.
Yanking it back subconsciously, I instantly chew on my lip. A force of habit I’ve picked up, just as flicking the elastic around my wrist is, since Jordy was taken from me.
“I don’t even realize I’m doing it,” I confess. “But the pain, it feels good. It’s punishment I deserve.”
“Why do you deserve punishment?” he asks, shaking his head slowly.
“Because I failed my son,” I hopelessly declare. “I never should have trusted my brother. I should have listened to my gut. If I had—”
“That’s the thing about hindsight,” Bull cuts in, still brushing over my wrist. “It’s fairly fucking useless. Learn from your mistakes.”
Tears sting my eyes. “Do you think he’s okay?”
“Yes, I do. He’s leverage, and Jaws needs that. And as long as he’s of use to Jaws, he will be okay. Jaws needs an inside man and that hasn’t changed. He still wants revenge on those who hurt him.”
“Just like us,” I add, realizing our endgames are all driven by revenge.
“His game plan is still the same. He still wants Stevie dead.” Bull releases my wrist but never breaks eye contact with me. “But we have an advantage. Jaws doesn’t know we have the cartel on our side. We can’t tell anyone about our plans.
“Stevie won’t care that Jaws is blackmailing us. Or that he has Jordy. We can’t tell Lotus about Stevie’s plans. She isn’t that good of an actress. We need it to be business as usual until we get Jordy back.”
Nodding, I realize Bull has bee
n thinking about this, ensuring everything is rock solid.
“Jaws still thinks he has the advantage and can use us. That we will do anything he says. And we will until we get to Scrooge. He’s making us wait to show he’s in control. But he’ll soon reveal what he wants.”
“Why can’t he get someone else to do this?” I ask, needing to understand every angle there is.
“He needs a man he can trust,” Bull reveals, flinching as he moves the ice pack to sit higher up his ribs. “And believe it or not, that man is me. He has something I want—his head and your son. And I have something he wants—inside information which I haven’t given him—yet. It is the only pull I have over him.
“This isn’t a business where you trust easily. Jaws would have to start again. After Kong, Stevie won’t allow just anyone in on his operation, and Jaws knows this.”
“This is all because of Bianca?”
Bull nods. “I think so. It also has to do with his empire. He needs to be alpha, but he isn’t. Maybe he’s hoping Bianca will see who the bigger man is, and she’ll come back to him. I don’t know. All I know is that he wants Stevie dead. And to take his business while doing so.”
Blowing the hair from my cheeks, I say, “Jesus, I know our childhood wasn’t the best, but I don’t know who this person is.”
“Once we get Jordy back and Jaws and Scrooge are no longer”—Bull swallows deeply, gauging my response—“then we’ll go to the police. We’ll tell Franca everything.”
I now understand why the pause. Bull has thought this through.
“We tell her about Stevie and the cartel. If we don’t, and they find out what we did, that we lied to them for our own personal gain, they’ll kill us. They saw my response to you tonight, so you’re already on their radar.”
Unable to hide my guilt, I avert my eyes, angry with myself for not holding it together. “You’ll get in trouble,” I state, shaking my head. We can’t go to the police. Franca will want to know how we know all this. If she digs, she will uncover the bodies Bull has left behind.
