by Renee Rocco
“Not a problem.” His reply is terse.
“Jester, when this happens, it’s going to happen fast. You need to get us out of Florida as quickly as possible but without drawing attention.”
“Again, not a problem.”
“It won’t be me who contacts you with the details of where and when to meet us. That information will come from Roger or Thomas. Only them. Do you understand?”
“Fuck. Yeah. Okay. And Jamie?”
“Yes?”
“You better say a prayer to whatever god you believe in because if Wraith dies, you die. I don’t give a shit that you’re a woman. I’ll rain hell down on you myself.”
“I expect nothing less.” Unfazed by the threat, I end the call and text the number to my burner phone before handing Roger his cell. “It’s done. He’ll be here.”
“Thank God,” Roger says on a relieved sigh.
I throw my arms around his neck. I’m unaffectionate by nature. Or is it by nurture? Whatever the reason, my sudden display is because if something goes wrong, I’ll never see him again. But the moment passes, and I step away. “Thank you.”
Roger tucks the phone in his vest. “After everything you did for me, this is the least I can do for you.”
I give him a curt nod, emotion a lump that sticks to the back of my throat. “I’ll see you after.” Then to Wraith, “We’re doing our part. Now you have to do yours. You stay alive. You hear me?”
His calloused palm skates over my bare leg, sending an unexpected jolt of electricity up my calf. “You’ve always been mine, Runt.”
Blinking away the sting of tears, I fight the tightening in my chest at his rasped declaration. “I know.”
Before I leave Elite, I place a feathery kiss on Wraith’s head, then whisper in his ear, “Next time I see you, we’ll be free.”
7
Wraith
“Push, bitch.”
Whatever, asshole.
I dismiss Lyle, who’s an annoying gnat buzzing in my ear. Coward’s standing on the “safe” side of the bars because, of course he is. He’s been trying to get me riled all morning. Hasn’t worked, not after coming thisclose to death.
Yeah, I stood on the fucking edge. No doubt about it. Can’t say I saw the light or any of that bullshit, but I stared into the abyss. Worse, it stared back at me.
Don’t know how the hell I’m still here after what they did to me in that room, but for whatever reason, I didn’t die. I’m sure the devil is pissed he didn’t get his due. Oh fucking well. He’ll have to wait a little longer because Roger confirmed I’d heard right. When I was drifting in and out of consciousness, Jamie called Jester. Told him she was getting us out on Fight Night. Today’s Thursday. Took me more than a week to heal from the torture—longer than it’s taken me to recover from the other times they had their fun with me.
But it’s all good because it’s my last night in this goddamn nightmare.
And Jamie’s coming with me.
Heard that shit, too. I might have been half dead, but some things I remember—like Jamie crying when she saw me.
And her cut lip.
Fuck yeah, I saw it. Couldn’t say shit about it thanks to being incapacitated, but I saw it. Filed it away as one more reason why I’m going to enjoy murdering Crane.
Once I get her to Mayhem, no one—no-fucking-one—is ever going to hurt that woman again. Jamie’s a badass, no doubt. She didn’t get this far by being weak. But she’s been through enough, and from what Thomas and Roger have been telling me, she’s gone through most of it alone. That shit ends now. I’ve got her back, and with me comes the Unholy. God help anyone suicidal enough to fuck with her with us standing behind her, because we sure as shit won’t take pity on the stupid bastard.
Am I pissed Thomas and Roger didn’t tell me they’re friends of hers? Nah. One slip-up, and we’d all be dead. Who the fuck knows what I might have said when the guards had me pumped full of drugs? Jamie made the right call.
And speaking of calls…
When I woke up the morning after the torture, I thought I dreamt the whole thing. But it came crashing back, and Roger filled me in on any blank spots in my memory. Jamie did come to my cell. She did call Jester. He also explained how they planned on getting me out. Can’t say I’m thrilled about it, but it’s genius.
Word around the dungeon is that my next fight is supposed to be my last. Only reason Crane’s putting me in the cage is because I was right. Tickets were already sold with me as the main event. Gotta give the crowd what they want or risk his precious reputation getting tarnished. But after that? The bastard plans to torture me to death nice and slow. And once I’m dead, Jamie’s next. Yeah, no. Not happening.
For the last week, Thomas has been in steady contact with Jester. Jamie’s been in self-imposed isolation. She sent Thomas a single text, telling him it’s to keep Crane off her ass.
Jester and Malice have been laying low in Georgia for the last two days. They’re waiting until tomorrow to cross over into Florida, where they’re picking us up at Blessed Souls Crematorium. It’s where Crane burns the bodies of fallen fighters.
No way was Jester coming alone. Nor could he bring an army like I know he and Crow wanted. Malice is one of the meanest motherfuckers in Mayhem. He’s the person you want if bullets start flying. If anyone’s getting Jamie and me over the state line, it’s those two demented sonsofbitches—who also happen to be my best friends.
Dressed in crusty gray sweatpants and black trainers, I grab the towel draped over the rack machine and wipe my sweaty face and chest. All the damage to my body has healed, leaving behind brutal scars that have turned me into an unrecognizable stranger. Not going to lie, I appreciate that there aren’t mirrors here and I avoid looking down at myself. I don’t want to see what I’ve become. I’m also still struggling to get back to my full strength, which is perfect. My injuries have to be believable to sell a trizapam-induced “death.”
Pressing 260—half my usual lift—I take advantage of my time in the gym. If I don’t release some of the festering frustration and anger, the monster inside my head is going to start making all sorts of noise. Of course, calling this room a gym is giving it too much credit. It’s a glorified cell with state-of-the-art equipment. No free weights, obviously. Stackable plates and weight machines get the job done. Unfortunately, it’s in the same corridor as the torture chamber. Currently, the wails of some of unlucky bastard are knives stabbing me in the fucking brain.
It’s an effort to tune out those screams as I move to cardio. I punish myself on the treadmill, my mind on what Crane said about Jamie being a virgin. She has her reasons for remaining untouched all these years, but that shit ends once we get to Mayhem. I’m breaking through her defenses and doing what I should have done when we were teenagers. Should have taken her virginity and marked her as mine years ago. But I didn’t, and now life’s giving me a second chance. If we make it out of this hellhole tomorrow night, I’m burying myself so deep in her, she’ll never forget the shape and feel of me inside her.
Determination pushes me, and I run until my legs give out before killing the treadmill. My throat’s dry as fuck. Lungs burn, too, and I love it because this torment reminds me of when Jester and I would go head-to-head at the gym. First one to tap bought the first round of beers. God, how I miss those days. How I took advantage of freedom and just…being. Instead, here I am, every second of every day, bleeding into the next in an endless cycle of misery.
But there’s a light at the end of this tunnel because the next weight I lift, I’ll be doing it in Sanctum’s gym with my best friend.
And I’m rusty.
Means I’ll be buying the first round.
“He’s done,” Lyle says into the radio fastened to a strap on his left shoulder. “Doc wants you in medical. Gotta get you cleared for tomorrow’s fight. Can’t have you fighting injured.”
I stroll to the bars like I got all the time in the world. I twist my arms behind my back and turn so
Lyle can secure my wrists. No reason to be hostile when I’m a breath away from freedom. “Yeah, because Gomorrah is all sorts of moral.”
“How’s about you shut the fuck up before I sew your mouth closed again. It worked real good at keeping you quiet last time.” Lyle pulls the zip tie tight, then gives it a yank.
I grit my teeth and swing around to sneer down at him. I’ll be damned if I show him the threat was a direct hit. “You do what you gotta do, little man.”
“You can act as tough as you want, but I was there when you were screaming like a bitch and covered in puke.”
The no-hostility thing lasted, what…twenty seconds? That’s gotta be a new record, even for me.
“And I saw how scared you got when Crane’s wife threatened to lock you in the cage with me.” I take his measure and laugh in his face. “Must suck being you. But tell me, does being a giant pussy take effort, or does it come naturally?”
He pulls free the baton. “Let’s go, asshole.”
Lyle can wave that thing around all he wants, but we both know he can’t do a damn thing this close to a Fight Night. Crane will have his balls if he’s the reason I can’t get in the cage.
I deliberately hover near the door as Lyle unlocks it rather than take a step back like I’m supposed to. He grabs me and pushes me forward, his face a gratifying shade of angry red.
“Easy, dude, don’t gotta be so rough. This ain’t sex,” I taunt.
Holy shit, he’s mottled, and his forehead vein is throbbing.
“I wouldn’t be cocky if I were you. You got a reckoning coming your way.”
No shit.
And that right there is why Jamie’s plan can’t fail.
Lyle marches me up the corridor, with the wails of the fighter following us out. When we reach the Hub, I count three guards—one of whom is Roger. He doesn’t give us more than a passing glance.
Mornings are quiet, with only one additional guard stationed in the control booth. Lyle swings his keys and whistles beside me. The delicious scent of bacon drifts over us, and my mouth waters as I side-eye a guard eating a breakfast sandwich. My stomach growls, and I don’t know what I’m going to do first once we get to Mayhem—shower or eat.
One guard lets out a snicker as we pass. Another one jabs him in the arm and throws him a silent warning. Thank God, they’re getting my ass out of here. Hate to be a dick, but Jamie better not fuck this up. From the vibe, I won’t like the apocalyptic shit her husband is going to do to me if she can’t get me out of here.
One more fight.
One more man I have to kill for my freedom.
I can live with one more death on my conscience.
I keep my expression bored when Doc pokes at the healed-over wound on my left shoulder. “Tender?”
I give him a curt shake of my head.
He inspects the matching mark on my right shoulder, his wrinkled face pinched in a frown. “How about this one?”
Again, I shake my head. “Noz did the trick, Doc.”
Truth is, all of me hurts all of the time. He can poke anywhere on my body and trust it’s going to be tender, sore, achy… You name it. I’m being held captive in a dungeon. The guards hurt me. Put a period on that sentence and just get me in the damn cage so I can pretend to die and go the fuck home.
Brown eyes squint behind thick lenses that are as big as windshields perched on the bridge of a long nose. Bushy brows peek out from above black frames. The white lab coat barely fits around his bulky build as he gets in close and holds an ophthalmoscope to my eye. “Look straight ahead.”
I do as he instructs, wanting to get this over because anticipation’s clawing at me. Each second is a hammer banging against my brain as time marches me toward freedom.
“Keep your head still and follow the light with your eyes.”
I do that, too, familiar with this dog and pony show we perform before every event. Crane keeps the fights fair because, apparently, it’s not profitable or entertaining to put half-dead fighters in the cage. It’s all or nothing, so we endure these bullshit medical exams conducted by Crane’s ethically questionable physician Thursday afternoons before Fight Nights.
“He’s not concussed,” Doc says over his shoulder to his assistant.
A younger man, fidgeting on a wheeled stool at a metal desk, transcribes the doctor’s diction to my file. Even I can see the bold red warnings scrawled across my records.
Aggressive. Hostile. Dangerous.
Damn. Fucking. Right.
Lethal, too. That’s why I’m chained to the exam table. Metal cuffs clamp around my wrists over the zip ties. My ankles are shackled. Even Doc’s assistant has a taser gun tucked into a shoulder holster.
Across the room, Lyle has the cattle prod at the ready as he scrolls through his phone. He’s not paying a lick of attention to anything but what’s on his screen.
Doc moves around to my back. He presses the crisscrossed scarring. The skin’s fucked over the worst of it, but luckily for me, Lyle and Owen were sloppy. They made more of a mess than serious damage. “Your back healed nicely.” He returns to stand in front of me. I get a noseful of latex when he touches his gloved fingers to the marks around my mouth. “These shouldn’t bother you.”
Not physically. Psychologically is a whole other animal. Something about having my lips sewn closed stayed with me. Can’t shake the sensation of the needle and thread sliding through my skin or the sickening feeling of not being able to open my mouth. God, just thinking about it makes me break out in a cold sweat. But I shake it off before it becomes a problem.
Can’t risk Doc sidelining me.
“No,” I grunt, fighting down a shiver that’s trying to work its way up my spine. “They’re fine.”
“I’m going to take your blood pressure.”
“Do what you gotta do,” I mutter.
The rubber soles of his shoes squeak against the white vinyl tiles. He wheels over the mobile blood pressure stand, and after fitting the cuff around my biceps, he instructs me not to move. I think he says it by rote because, seriously, we’re beyond these reminders. And I’m bound almost to the point of being nailed down.
I roll my eyes. “Sure, Doc.”
He pumps the air bulb a few times. Releases it. “One twenty-one over eighty-two.”
The assistant writes it down. Doc sticks the otoscope in my ears. Peers down my throat and feels the lymph nodes. Goes through all the motions of an actual medical exam before stepping away.
He nods to Lyle. “He’s cleared to fight.” Damn right I am. I have to be. My life depends on it. Jamie’s life depends on it. “I’m sorry, son.” Doc’s whisper is low enough for only me to hear.
This is the first time he’s shown a hint of remorse over what happens here. Like he knows my days are numbered.
I shrug. “No worries.”
“What’d you say?” Lyle demands.
“I said, you’re an asshole, Lyle.” I punctuate each word.
Dismally, Doc shakes his head. “Why must you instigate?”
Sorry, but I have to laugh. I yank the chains securing me to the exam table. “This is why.”
“It’ll be over soon.” Again, his whispered words are solely for me, and I frown, suddenly not so sure whose side he’s on. He gives me a curt shake of his head, his eyes full of warning.
Christ, he’s in on the escape, too.
That’s my last coherent thought because, as always, after an exam, the needle pierces my neck, and I ride the wave of agony that flood my veins.
Fucking ket.
8
Wraith
The Coliseum’s frenetic energy radiates down to the dungeon while I wait for Thomas and Lyle to escort me to the arena. Or maybe it’s me, lit up like a supernova, as I pace the width of my cell. Adrenaline got me going. Ripe to kill whoever stands opposite me tonight.
The crowd is wild, their intensity shaking the building’s foundation. Four matches done with one more to go. The main event. I’m Atlas with the
weight of the world resting on my shoulders because Jamie will be in the cage with me. Not in body, but in spirit. I survive, she survives. But if I hit the mat dead, she does, too. But I can’t think about her. Not now. Gotta keep my focus, or else I’ve lost the fight before I enter the octagon.
I bang my fists together as Thomas and Lyle storm into Elite. Thoughts, doubts—they fly out of my mind. I’m in the moment and at the ready. I breathe in through my nose, filling my lungs until they’re about to burst. Blow the air out through my mouth.
Lyle tosses black shorts into my cell. He nods at my dirty gray sweatpants. “Off.”
“How’s about you take a flying fuck off the tip of Thomas’s dick?”
Wouldn’t be me if I didn’t run my mouth.
Lyle makes a talking gesture with his hand. “Yeah, yeah. Keep it up, asshole.”
“Or what, sweetheart, you’ll cry?”
“For fuck’s sake, children, we all know you hate each other. Let’s get this done.” Thomas plays along perfectly. “Just put on the shorts, Atticus.”
I shove off the sweatpants. Because I’m a prick, I plant my hands on my hips and stand there bareass and smirk at Lyle. Shit, even though there’s not much of my body they haven’t mutilated in some way, I’m still an impressive sight in all my glory. That’s not empty arrogance or conceit. I’ve worked for this body. My strength (and a shitload of determination) has kept me alive for six months. So, yeah, I’m remarkable as a motherfucker naked.
“Here.” Thomas hands me a groin guard.
I snap to attention and give Thomas an exaggerated salute. “Yes, sir.”
