Hurt (The Hurt Series, #1)

by Lydia Michaels

  Sucking his swollen lip between his teeth, he grunted at the renewed taste of blood. Tomorrow, he’d be painfully stiff and equally tender.

  “I dinnae think ye had it in ye, but ye came back like ye always do,” a man with sharp eyes and a glinting diamond earring praised. “Yer a machine.”

  Even nodding cost him.

  Finally, they approached the payout table. “I’ll be takin’ my money now.”

  “Aye.” The bookie’s eyes measured him. “Yer not one for talkin’, are ye?”

  His stony silence was answer enough.

  Rhys handed him his jacket, but he was still too warm to put it on, and dinnae want to move his body more than necessary.

  Registering the sum of his wounds, the man slid his money across the table. “I knew it’d be a close fight, but well worth the pay, aye?”

  Callan briefly examined the contents of the envelope and stuffed it in the pocket of his jeans. “Let’s go.”

  “Ye’ll be hearin’ from us again real soon, MacGregor.”

  Disenchanted, he silently admitted, aye, he’d be back.

  His wounds would hardly have time to heal before he returned. That was the way of it. His family needed money for food and shelter. His siblings needed school fees. Sooner or later they’d have enough to buy a house in a safer area.

  The cost to his health and conscience dinnae matter. It never had.

  Violence was a stubborn cancer of the soul, and the profane brutality of such a vicious fight did not easily wash away. Every time Callan unleashed his temper, the gaping hole inside of him grew grander and filthier, like a tarnished cup marking his ill-gotten victories. Trophies of shame collected in the shapes of scars.

  As they trudged the unlit streets, neds, junkies, and thieves loitered in every darkened alley. Brooding clouds snuffed out the glow of the moon. Soon the reddening dawn would come, and the world would awaken while sinners slept. A time to repent. A time to forget.

  The weight of a thousand pounds planted in his back pocket hustled them past the drunkards in the streets. Callan retained his threatening presence, but tonight’s fight had wrung him out, and he had little strength left to defend himself if anyone approached.

  Watchful eyes glinted like windowless souls. He’d fought damn hard for the money in his pocket. He was grateful for Rhys’s gun—an unlicensed relic of a pistol he’d won in a card game and never fired to see if it worked. In a pinch, neither of them would have the bollocks to pull the trigger, but it was a good scare tactic. Strip away the undefeated reputation, and they were just boys trying to be men.

  Rolling his shoulders in an effort to uncoil the tension, he sought a sense of satisfaction.

  The stitch on his eye wasnae holding. Squinting through a trickle of blood, he dabbed the swollen, torn flesh. “I need a rag.”

  Rhys glanced over his shoulder and stopped walking. Reaching in his bag, he pulled out a roll of tape and tore off a strip with his teeth, doing a quick examination of the gash.

  “We gotta pick up the pace. Ye got a real gusher. I shouldae done more than one stitch before we left.”

  Callan winced as Rhys pulled away the ruined suture, pinched the wound, and pressed fresh tape tight to his skin.

  “If I let ye stitch me up all the time I’d look like Frankenstein’s patient.”

  There weren’t any beauty pageants in his future as it was, but Rhys sucked with a needle and thread, and he’d rather risk bleeding out on the way home than let his mate sew him up like a voodoo doll. Once they got home, Innis could do it nice.

  Rhys’s green eyes flashed as they dropped from studying the gash to meet his stare. “Aye. Well, I’m sorry if I don’t have the delicate touch of Innis. She’s got those wee female hands.”

  Any mention of his sister’s body—even her wee hands—earned a scowl. Innis was undeniably beautiful. Even blind men knew it for a fact. But it wasn’t something they spoke about.

  As her older brother and caretaker, he’d always been overly protective of her. She was too damn pretty, too damn innocent, and too damn fragile. And wee hands or not, the girl should know how to throw a punch. He tried teaching her, but she always laughed his concerns away.

  He bet she forgot to lock the damn door again. That’s how seriously she took his warnings that the world was a dangerous place.

  Their da had been a monster. But Innis had been too young to recall much from that time. Callan had often made a game of quietly hiding with her whenever their da had been on a tear. Sheltering her, even then, from things that went bump in the night.

  He winced as a sharp zing pinched his eye. “Don’t fuckin’ squeeze it!”

  “I’m tryin’ to tighten this stitch. It’s comin’ apart.” He let go, and warm blood trickled from his brow. “She’ll have to fix it when we get there. She’ll be up.”

  Most of the time, Rhys and Innis bickered like children, but they were no longer kids. Innis, now a seventeen-year-old young woman, could not afford to be naïve. And Rhys couldnae afford the thrashing Callan would unleash if he ever put his hands on his baby sister.

  “Stop scowling. Yer makin’ it bleed more,” Rhys fussed.

  “How is it ye know when she’s up and when she’s sleepin’?”

  His mate paused, his gaze shooting to the road. “I’m sayin’ she’ll be up soon enough. It’s a school day and almost dawn.”

  Rhys might care for her in a tender, harmless way, but Callan dinnae want him confusing things for her. “Don’t be an obstacle blocking her future. I want more for her.” It was a hard but honest truth.

  Like the wasted moments of deafening clock bells, they were just marking time for her. She was destined for a better life. And Callan wouldnae let anything—including his best mate—stand in her way.

  “Aye. I want better for her, too,” Rhys agreed.

  Their life had been a culmination of hollow joys and dense tragedy, but their bad luck was coming to an end. His soul thirsted for a home. Not a ramshackle dwelling surrounded by the scent of rotting potential, but a true home, a place to bury bleak regrets and sew honest dreams.

  Once they escaped their impoverished start—which they would—he’d repent for his sins and start anew. No more violence. No more pain.

  Gavin would grow into a fine young man and Innis could attend uni, fall in love, raise a family—all the things their mother never mastered.

  The fading memory of their ma brought only a whisper of grief. Life got harder after she died, and mourning seemed too indulgent for three wee kids trying to keep a roof over their heads, shoes on their feet, food, heat, and everything else that always just appeared.

  He’d never resent his mother. Through all the depression, addiction, and abuse, she still managed to deliver the necessities. But love ... love was a luxury.

  By the time Gavin was born, she dinnae have it in her to hold the baby. Luckily, Innis possessed a maternal heart.

  Maternal, and never squeamish—thank God, because his eye wasnae lettin’ up.

  The first time she stitched him up after a fight, she argued that she had no experience sewing people, only fabric. He gave her a few slices of ham to practice on, and since then she’d been a regular medic.

  They cut across an empty pathway to a sundry of vacant buildings. The metallic tang of blood faded as the cool morning fog misted his face.

  Not much in this section of Glasgow as far as commercialization. It resembled a modern-day apocalypse. Lifeless structures, once beautiful but now soulless, hung on the abandoned streets like prostitutes on their last fuck. The far-reaching decay of this place infected more than the vacant buildings, and he ached to escape.

  Chapter Two

  Glasgow—Scotland

  The house was dark when they arrived. The rotting porch creaked under their combined weight.

  Sliding his key into the lock, he jerked the deadbolt free. A wave of satisfaction hit when the inside chain caught. Dim light caught in the eyes of a scraggly dog slumbering in the
corner, slightly sheltered from the misting rain.

  “What the fuck is that?” Rhys shifted behind Callan.

  He shook his head. “Innis keeps feedin’ it. We barely have enough to feed ourselves. She’s probably lettin’ the bloody thing inside when I’m not here.”

  “It’s ugly as sin.”

  Callan grumbled and hissed through the cracked doorway, “Innis.” He tried not to wake Gavin who likely slept on the sofa closest to the fire.

  The dry-rotted awning did shite for shelter against the damp Scotland climate. Rhys’s shoulders bunched against the cold mist as he impatiently crowded the stoop to get out of the rain, his untrusting gaze shooting back to the watchful dog. He probably worried the stray might take his place.

  His sister’s willowy form approached the other side of the door like a silent shadow, and the chain slid free. They bustled inside, kicking off their muddy boots and relocked the door.

  “Fuck, it’s bloody freezin’ in here,” Rhys complained, immediately moving closer to the fireplace. “Warmer outside in the rain.”

  Innis ignored him and assessed Callan’s face. “Yer late. And you look like shite.”

  “Ye should see the other guy.”

  “Did ye win?”

  Pulling the money from his pocket, he dropped it on the table with a thump. “Aye. Put that in the tin, will ye?” He moved closer to the fire and hauled the sofa back from the hearth. “Innis, ye cannae let him sleep so close to the flame. An ember catches in the blanket, and he could get hurt. The whole place could go up.”

  She pulled the corner of the blanket over Gavin’s scrawny shoulders. “Yer eye looks atrocious. Is that sad stitch supposed to be doing something?”

  “It was a temporary fix,” Rhys said defensively. “The patch is doing most of the work.”

  She clicked on the lamp, already sorting through her little box for a needle and thread. “Come have a seat then, and let me see what I can do.”

  Callan pulled out a chair from the table. “Do ye want me te wash up first?”

  “That’ll only start the bleedin’ again. We’ll clean ye up when I’m done.” She tsked, getting another glance at Rhys’s shoddy work. “I dinnae ken why ye let him by yer face with a needle. He’s only addin’ te yer scars.”

  Unaffected by her insults, Rhys warmed his hands by the fire. “Why’s it so cold in here?”

  “I couldnae get the storage heater on. The timer’s shot and I was too frozen te keep messin’ with it.”

  Callan took the hint and stowed it away with a sigh. It had to be damn near freezin’ for Innis to complain. She already put up with drafty, uncovered windows and bare floors. When it got really cold, she’d fill a glass bottle with hot water from the kettle and wrap it in a towel to keep warm. But she wouldnae tolerate a broken storage heater as well.

  Two grimy bare feet dangled from the sofa. “Is Gavin warm enough?”

  “He’s too young te mind the cold. The fire’s enough for him.”

  “I’ll take a look at the heater when yer finished stitchin’ me.”

  “You’ll not do anything until ye get those hands in some ice.” She disappeared into the kitchen, returning a minute later with two buckets. She set them down and tsked. “Look how swollen. You shouldae tended to them sooner.”

  He gingerly submerged his hands, and his shoulders flinched as the cold cubes ground against his torn knuckles and swollen fingers. The brutality of the evening stayed with him like a foul stench.

  Using a match to sterilize the needle, she then snapped off a length of heavy thread. She and Gavin were too desensitized by the regular sight of blood. Guilt churned in his gut, reminding him this wasnae how normal people lived.

  “We made a good profit tonight,” he said as a way to ease the guilt.

  Innis tsked, her eyes focused on threading the needle. “A profit at what price? Where else are ye hurt?”

  “Nowhere that willnae heal on its own.” Her worry cost him in ways he couldnae afford. He wished Rhys was a better medic, wished Innis dinnae see him directly after a fight.

  He sat silently as she worked, his eyes watching hers as they focused on the task. Rhys settled in at the table with a mug. “Drop of whisky te warm yer blood.”

  Callan eyed the cup. He’d wait until Innis finished stitching his eye to have a nip. “Anything happen tonight?”

  She pulled the needle slowly, closing a neat seam along his torn flesh. “Spent most the night fussin’ with the heater.”

  The poor condition of their house played as a constant reminder of all they’d suffered and continued to sacrifice. Still, it was better than living on tick and falling deeper into debt.

  They dinnae have much, but what they had was theirs. And the tin in the kitchen hid enough notes that they’d soon be rid of this drafty gaff for good.

  “I’ll fix the heater,” he promised, taking one worry away from her for now.

  “Good.” She pushed the needle through the tender edges of his tattered brow, dragging the thread slowly, so as not to rip the skin. He remained still and tried not to wince.

  “Doctor Innis. It’s got a nice ring to it,” Rhys teased. “No clue how ye keep yer hand so steady.”

  “Ye just shut everything else out—includin’ chatterboxes who cannae respect a peaceful silence.” She glanced over her shoulder at Rhys then back to Callan’s gash. “Stay still. Almost done.”

  Innis had been bullied, so he transferred her and Gavin to private school. But to see her now, one would never know she’d been a victim. Fragile but fierce. She was his masterpiece, the beneficiary of all his sacrifices. She and Gavin were the sum of his pride and the whole of his heart.

  “There.” She clipped the thread with a pair of shears, cleaned the needle, and tossed the items back in the box. “I’ll get a damp rag and clean you up.” Closing the sewing box, she disappeared into the kitchen.

  Callan longed to fall into his bed and sleep for days. Rhys looked ready to pass out as well. “Feel like helpin’ me take apart the heater te see what’s wrong with it?”

  Tired emerald eyes flicked to him. “Hardly.”

  Callan stretched, his shoulder adjusting with a pop. “You’ll help.”

  Innis returned with a steaming rag and wiped the dried blood from his face. “You’ll be a picture once these bruises darken.”

  “I like te think my beauty’s in the flaws.”

  She scoffed out a laugh. “Beauty? Yer nose’s been broken so many times it’s no wonder ye cannae smell the bullshite yer spewin’. Yer skin’s nothin’ more than raw mince. It’d be nice if ye gave yourself time te fully heal for once.”

  She was right, but he couldnae make any promises. Too late anyway. While Innis was great at stitching up wee nicks, his face had paid a hefty, permanent toll for so many victories. After the bruises faded and the swelling went down, he’d still be ugly.

  “Brat,” he teased, knowing she regretted the irreversible damage he’d done to his face. But if they couldnae laugh about it, there was no sense in mentioning it at all.

  He stood and stretched, wincing when his ribs reminded him to move a wee bit slower. He followed her into the kitchen. “Have ye seen my tools?”

  Rinsing the bloody rag in the sink, she gave him a stern look that reminded him of a natural born mother but nothing like their beaten down ma. “Rest first. I know yer exhausted, Callan.”

  Ignoring her concern, he found his screwdriver in the pantry from when he fixed the latch. “I think I left the rest of them in the basement.”

  Worn floorboards creaked as he took the stairs, and his battered back envied the soft groans.

  Simple acts like mending a broken hinge or tightening the faucet helped him rein in his unraveling sense of self. His humanity slipped further away with each fight, but doing things like fixing the heater for his siblings felt normal, grounding. Vigilance kept his mind rooted, even when the violence sometimes let his innate nature dangerously loose.

  Their fath
er had been a nasty bastard, and Callan felt him in his DNA. While every man was capable of vile acts, not every man had the genetic makeup of a monster.

  He did.

  But the fights were a temporary solution. One he hoped to be through with soon. It was best to not think of what was. Survive the present. And when the time came to sever the now from the then, he’d start anew.

  There was no salvaging the heater. By the time he’d given up trying to fix it, Gavin had woken. Innis set him up with a bowl of beans, hot off the stove, and went upstairs to dress for school.

  “I knew you’d win,” Gavin announced, laying out the paper notes and handling each one with awe in his wide eyes. Money was a respected thing in their household—rare and respected.

  “Aye. And I asked yer sister te put tha’ in the tin. Why don’t ye put it away when ye wash yer bowl? It’s gettin’ late.”

  Gavin’s wee fingers clutched the bank notes in two hands, counting them out in manageable piles. “Do ye think we’ll finally have enough?”

  Though Gavin never complained about their circumstances, Callan made sure the boy believed things could always improve. “Soon.”

  His brother’s youth limited his experiences and narrowed his view of the vast world. Callan told him tales of a better life, a faraway home they would someday own. And Gavin gobbled up the fantasies like children cling to the magic of Saint Nick or Superman.

  Callan savored the last of his brother’s childhood years. Soon enough, Gavin would mature into a mouthy teen, and all that trust and innocence would fade. He wasnae ready. They needed a wee bit more time, and then Callan could set them up in a better area where a boy wouldnae be surrounded by so many bad influences and a girl wouldnae be surrounded by as many bad boys.

  He tossed another log on the fire and collapsed on the sofa.

  “Gavin!” Innis appeared, dressed in her uniform for school. “I told ye to get dressed as soon as ye finished breakfast. That was forty minutes ago.”

  Gavin rushed up the stairs. Innis sighed and bent to gather the scattered money.

  Rhys watched her from the chair by the fire. “You look nice, Innis.”