Before I Die

by Nikki Ash

  His words remind me that Stephen is dead. He’s gone and never coming back.

  “My brother was a good man,” I argue, tears pricking my eyes.

  “Your brother was a corrupt fucking cop,” he volleys.

  “You killed him,” I accuse. “You’re a murderer.”

  Before I realize what I’m doing, I spit in his face. His eyes widen and then his hand comes up and backhands me. My head jerks to the side, my cheek burning in pain.

  “Your brother got what was coming to him,” he hisses.

  As he ties my wrists to the leg of a desk, I take in my surroundings. We’re in what looks like a home office. There’s a large wood desk and a couch. A table against the window with a tray of glass bottles lined up. Alcohol. The walls are a plain white with no pictures on them.

  When he gets done, he stands. “I have shit to do. Feel free to scream until you lose your voice. Nobody will hear you.”

  “You’re leaving?”

  “Yeah, I need to meet with the guy who’s buying you.”

  He turns to leave and I start to freak out. He can’t leave me here, tied to a desk! I need to do something… “I need to go pee!” I yell, stopping him in his place.

  He raises a brow.

  “If you don’t let me go pee, I’ll pee all over the floor,” I challenge, hoping it’ll be enough to get him to release me.

  He groans and steps forward, kneeling to untie me. “Fine, but if you try anything, I won’t hesitate to kill you, just like I killed your brother.”

  He’s full of it. He just said he needs to get the money back my brother owed him. He isn’t going to do anything to me. But I don’t point that out. He might get mad and not let me go to the bathroom.

  He pulls me into a standing position and then pushes me out of the room and down the hall to the bathroom, swinging the door open.

  “Can you untie my hands, please?” I ask nicely in an attempt to get on his good side. “I need to pull my underwear down and wipe myself.”

  He rolls his bright blue eyes, but does as I ask.

  “Can I have some privacy?” I ask, when he makes no attempt to leave the bathroom.

  “Better get used to it.” He smirks evilly. “You’re about to get sold to a slave owner. Any modesty you have will be thrown out the window. You’ll be fucked seven ways to Sunday every day until you die.”

  My body goes cold. He mentioned this before, but I didn’t think about what it would mean. He’s going to sell me. I’ve read about sex trafficking. It’s huge all over the world. Hundreds of thousands of women every year are taken and sold, never to see their friends and family again. I even participated in a church fundraiser to help fight against it. And now, because of whatever my brother did, I’m about to become a statistic.

  I’ll never see my friends or family again. I’ll never have a chance to live my life.

  Sitting on the toilet and ignoring the man staring at me, I go pee. Glancing around, I spot a window, but it’s too small to climb out of. My only hope would be getting away and running out the door.

  After I wipe myself and pull up my underwear, the man reaches for my hands to tie them back up, and I know it’s now or never. I probably won’t make it out the door, but I have to try.

  Pretending like I’m complying, I put my hands out, only when he’s about to wrap my hands with the rope, I raise my knee and hit him directly in the groin. He stumbles back enough that I’m able to run by him, into the hallway. I see the door, and I run as fast as I can. Only I’m not fast enough, and before I make it, I’m tugged back by my hair. The man brings me to the floor, but I refuse to give up without a fight. I kick and scream and slap at him. I hit him once in the face for sure before he slaps me across the face for a second time. He climbs on top of me and pins my wrists above my head.

  “You fucking bitch,” he growls. “I should fuck your ass right now to teach you a lesson!”

  “Please,” I beg, tears blurring my vision. “Please, don’t do this. I-I’m a—”

  “A virgin?” He laughs, and it sounds psychotic. This guy is crazy. “I know. I’m going to get twice as much because of it, too.” Oh my God! How does he even know that? Has he been stalking me?

  “Let’s go.” He lifts me and ties my hands behind my back again.

  Once we’re in his office, he ties me to the desk. “I’ll be back,” he says as he walks away, closing and locking the door behind him.

  I try to listen, but there’s nothing to hear. It’s dead silent. He must’ve really left. I consider screaming for help, but he’s not stupid, and he wouldn’t have left me here without covering my mouth if anybody could hear me. So instead, I lean back against the desk and cry—for my brother and his loss of life, and then for me and the life I’m about to lose.

  I don’t know how long I’m crying for, but when I hear a door open, I start to scream for help. It’s probably just the man who took me, but what if it’s someone else.

  As I’m screaming as loud as I can, hoping whoever is on the other side isn’t the man who took me, I see the doorknob jiggle. I hold my breath, but when the door doesn’t open, I start to scream again. A few minutes later, the door pops open, pieces of the doorjamb splintering and falling to the floor, and in walks a man, dressed in a suit. When his eyes meet mine, I recognize him immediately. I would remember those eyes, that face, that body from anywhere.

  “What the fuck are you doing here?” he growls.

  Ethan

  Forty-eight hours earlier

  Jesus fucking Christ. It’s been close to twenty-four hours since that hot angel surprised the shit out of me with that kiss, and I can’t get her off my damn mind. I’m supposed to be getting the club set up underground for the fight tonight, but my focus isn’t worth a shit.

  Slamming my laptop screen down, I get up and, grabbing a cigar from my desk drawer, head out back for a smoke break. I’ve just sat down on top of the picnic table we have in the back of the club, and haven’t even lit the fucking thing, when Logan gets out of his car and sits next to me. He hasn’t said a word yet, but I’m already more agitated than I was before he pulled up.

  “Got another Capone?” Logan asks, nodding toward my Al Capone cigar. I shake my head, needing a few minutes to calm myself before I speak to him. Sticking the cigar between my lips, I light it, then draw in the smoke. I hold it in for several seconds, letting the sweet taste of cognac calm my nerves, before releasing the smoke into the air. I watch as the white smoke travels upward, eventually disappearing, before taking another couple drags, already feeling calmer.

  “You ready to go handle the cop?” I look over at Logan and he lets out a deep sigh, telling me I’m not going to like what he’s about to say. Bringing the cigar to my lips, I take another drag, waiting for him to tell me whatever it is, while sending a prayer to whatever the fuck God is up there that I don’t kill my best friend and employee.

  “He’s been gambling with Ricardo.”

  I release the smoke into the air. “Seriously? Ricardo? So, he’s getting desperate.” I take another draw from my cigar. Ricardo is as shady as they come. He’s nothing more than a wannabe gangster in a shitty neighborhood, playing bookie for amateurs.

  Logan nods. “He owes him a shit ton of money. He won’t be paying anyone. He’s broke as hell. He was up so fucking high and it all came crashing down. Now that he’s in over his head, he’s got nothing to lose. Remember when I told you he’s been making threats about going to the higher-ups?”

  “We need to discuss this shit in my office, not out here.” Standing and walking toward the back door, I flick the cigar onto the ground then step on it, putting it out. We get back into my office and I shut the door, already wishing I was back outside, smoking. There’s no way I’m calm enough to have this conversation.

  Leaning against the front of my desk, I face Logan, who is standing against the wall. I give him a look that says to speak, and he does. “He’s not only threatening to turn us in for the underground fighti
ng, but also for the money laundering.”

  “He doesn’t have proof.”

  Logan’s head drops and my fists clench in response.

  “He doesn’t have proof, right?”

  “He’s dating a woman at the bank.”

  My fist tightens and I punch the closest thing to me—a metal filing cabinet—the pain radiating through my knuckles and up my arm. There’s something more going on here. I fucking know it.

  “So. Fucking. What. He’s a goddamn cop, not the FBI. What the hell is he going to do?” I stalk over to Logan, closing the small gap between us, and grab him by the collar of his shirt. “There’s something you’re leaving out. I’m not fucking around, Logan.”

  He shakes his head.

  “Logan, I’m giving you one chance to tell me what the hell is really going on.”

  “Okay, okay.” He puts his palms up in a placating manner, and I consider grabbing his hands and breaking each one of his fingers. When he doesn’t say anything, I fist his collar tight enough it almost chokes him as I push him against the wall.

  “Logan…”

  “Fuck! Okay. Look, just hear me out, all right?” I let go of his collar, slightly backing up so I can look him in the eyes. He bends over, coughing lightly.

  “Stand the fuck up and talk,” I demand.

  “Luis noticed people were looking for…a pick-me-up on fight nights. As you know, his brother sells, so he came to me and offered us a cut if we let him sell on fight nights. On an average night, we bring in five figures easily.”

  “What sort of pick-me-up?” I ask, already knowing the answer but needing to hear it with my own ears. Luis is one of my bouncers underground, and his brother is one of the biggest drug dealers in Atlantic City.

  “X.”

  “You’re selling ecstasy in my fucking club. Anything else?”

  “Coke.” Jesus fuck.

  I give him a pointed look, wondering how the fuck I didn’t notice this was happening under my roof, and realizing I’ve put way too much trust in Logan. “And what does the cop have to do with this?”

  “He found out and started demanding a cut in order to turn a blind eye.”

  I shake my head, not believing the shit he’s telling me. “You risked my fucking club over five figures? What the fuck is wrong with you?”

  “Money’s money.”

  “Says the guy with nothing at stake. You know damn well why I don’t fuck with drugs.”

  Logan blanches. “I didn’t think about that. It’s been, what? Ten years?”

  “Twelve, and I don’t give a shit if it’s been twenty years. We don’t deal drugs, ever.” Not even my father deals anymore. He knows it’s a hard limit for me—and why—and respects it. Weapons, alcohol, gambling, money laundering—I’ll handle anything else he needs me to handle, but I’ll never touch drugs again.

  “I didn’t think you would care as long as you weren’t the one dealing.”

  “Bullshit, Logan. That’s why you hid it from me.”

  Walking around my desk, I grab my cigars and phone from the drawer.

  “Where you going?” Logan asks nervously.

  “I’m going to handle the fucking cop. I can’t let it get out that he owes me two hundred fucking grand, and I’m sure as fuck not going to let him get away with blackmailing me.” Logan’s eyes bug the fuck out, telling me there’s something else he’s hiding.

  “I’ll handle it,” he offers. “It’s my shit.”

  “Okay.” I nod in agreement. “But I’m going with you.”

  Logan opens his mouth to argue but thinks better of it. “All right.”

  We jump into my Nissan GT-R and head over to Stephen’s place. I’ve never visited the cop myself, so Logan gives me directions that lead us to a decent apartment complex just outside of Atlantic City.

  When I park in a spot near his building, Logan says, “Let me go in first and talk to him. I think I’ll have a better chance of convincing him to drop the threats and work out a payment deal if it’s just me.”

  Getting out of my car, I slam the door shut and light a cigar. “I’m giving you five minutes to talk to him, then I’m going to handle this bullshit myself.” He already said the guy’s broke, so I know damn well he’s not getting money from him, but I’ll give him his five minutes and then I’ll find out what else he’s hiding.

  Logan heads toward the building to the cop’s door. I watch him knock, and then knock again. A good minute or so later the door opens and then Logan enters the apartment, closing the door behind him. It’s in the sixties today, so I find a sunny area near the building to smoke.

  It can’t be more than five minutes later when I hear yelling coming from the apartment. It’s becoming evident Logan isn’t handling business properly. After I deal with the cop, I’m going to have to reassess Logan’s position in my business. Hiding shit from me is a huge damn red flag and I would be a fool to ignore it.

  The door opens and Logan steps outside. He closes the door behind him and locks eyes with me, but doesn’t walk toward me. Okay…I guess I’m going to have to handle this shit.

  As I push myself off the wall and take my last drag, I spot a woman stumble out of a window. Her ass hits the ground, but she doesn’t let it slow her down. She pops up and starts to run. What the fuck. She whizzes past me, and for a second, I think I recognize her. Where the hell have I seen this woman before? She doesn’t stop running until she gets to her car, and once she’s in, takes off, her tires peeling out.

  Throwing my cigar into the grass, I stalk over toward Logan. Something’s wrong here. As I get closer, I see he has a gun in his hand, and his face is white as a ghost. I quickly assess the surrounding area, making sure there are no witnesses. “Get inside,” I bark. He steps back inside, and I follow him in, shutting the door behind me.

  My eyes immediately go to the dead body on the floor. It’s not the first time nor will it be the last that someone has been killed by the hands of one of my guys, but with the business I run, I try to leave it as a last resort.

  “What the fuck did you do?” I accuse, because really…there better be a damn good reason to kill a fucking cop.

  “He left me no choice! He wasn’t listening.” Logan is staring at the guy bleeding out all over the floor.

  “I told you to talk to him, not kill him. You should’ve let me handle it. After I call Franco to clean up your damn mess, we’re going to have a serious fucking talk.”

  Logan looks at me, not saying a word. He’s in shock. I remember the first time I was forced to pull the trigger. I had no choice, and if I had to do it over again, I would still make the same decision I made back then. But knowing I did the right thing to save the person I loved doesn’t change the fact I still played God with a man’s life. It’s also the day I came to terms with the fact that if there is a God and heaven, there’s no way I’ll be walking through those pearly gates.

  Taking my phone out of my pocket, I dial Franco’s number. With my eyes trained down on the screen, out of the corner of my eye, I notice a pair of women’s shoes. The girl falling out of the window. Fuck.

  My head shoots up to Logan. “Was someone else here?”

  He looks at me like I’m stupid but then looks around. Franco answers on the first ring. “I need a clean-up.”

  “You got it.”

  I give him the address while glancing around the room. A purse. I point to it, and Logan’s eyes follow my direction. I move to the kitchen and notice the clean dishes in the strainer. Two cups. Two sets of silverware.

  After we hang up, I go back out to the living room and Logan is going through the purse. “I have a license. Her address isn’t here. I’m telling you, nobody was here.”

  “She was here. I watched her fall out of the damn window.” I stalk down the hallway, knocking open each door until I find the window. The goddamn bathroom. “She was hiding in here.”

  Jesus fucking Christ.

  “Let’s go. Grab her purse and shoes. Franco will be
here soon to clean this all up. You’re going to find the girl.” I point my finger at Logan. “Find her and bring her to me. Don’t fuck this up, Logan.”

  “She has the same last name as the cop.” He stares at the license. “It’s got to be his sister or cousin maybe… unless he’s married and has been hiding it.”

  “Just get her and bring her to me.”

  He has her license in his hand, so I snatch the purse from him and walk out of the apartment and back toward my car so I can head back to the club. My anger toward Logan is increasing by the minute, but as much as I want to throw his ass to the wolves, one of the more crucial pieces of advice my dad gave me when he started teaching me the business was to keep my friends close and my enemies closer. So, for now, I’m keeping Logan close. Whether it’s as a friend or an enemy, only time will tell.

  I’m pissed at myself for letting my guard down enough that Logan could get shit past me, but my guard is now up and my eyes are open, and once I get this all sorted, he’s going to regret ever crossing me.

  I spend the rest of my evening making sure my face is seen at the club to ensure if anything goes down I have several alibies. At eleven o’clock, I grab my main bouncer, Rosco, and head downstairs to the underground club to check shit out. Logan was quick to throw Luis under the bus, but now I’m curious to see what else has been going on while my back was turned. My employees know damn well drugs in my club is unacceptable. The last thing I need is someone overdosing or acting a fool because they’re hopped up on something. They can do that shit elsewhere.

  The underground club has two entrances. One is down a hallway, off the main area, and the other is outside, around the back, the stairs leading down to the underground level. The underground part of the club is invite only. There’s a large cover charge and all licenses are scanned so we know who is entering. From the outside, it looks like a shitty old door that needs to be replaced, like where one would go to throw the garbage out, out back.