Hurt (The Hurt Series, #1)

by Lydia Michaels

  Callan frowned, wincing as his stitched brow pinched.

  “What is it yer after, Rhys?” Innis’s clipped tone echoed with suspicion.

  “Just payin’ ye a compliment.”

  A distrustful laugh burbled out. “You don’t pay anything without expectin’ somethin’ in return. Did ye not have enough to eat?”

  There was never enough to eat, yet somehow they always managed to feed Rhys, too. Innis seemed to take pity on him, like that scraggly, old, stray dog.

  “There’s nothin’ I’m after. Just bein’ gentlemanly. Can a man not be nice once in a while?”

  “A man can. You cannae.”

  The two of them were making his headache worse. His fingers pressed to the bridge of his swollen nose, and he groaned. “Hold yer wheesht, the both of you.”

  “He started it.”

  “I was bein’ nice!”

  “I know exactly what ye were doin’,” she argued.

  Callan growled and snapped, “Christ, Innis, he was payin’ you a compliment. And Rhys, find another girl te look at before I rip out yer eyes. Now, both of you, shut the hell up so I can rest.”

  That did the trick. The den quieted, and he sank deeper into the thin cushions of the couch. The heat from the fire finally penetrated the chill in his bones, and his concern over their bickering disappeared.

  Resting his eyes, his mind slowly drifted like an unanchored ship at sea. Placid calm consumed him, and his aching body seemed to exhale one tired muscle at a time.

  The cool press of lips to his brow had his eyes wrenching open, the tight skin pulling under his stitches. Gavin grinned, his childlike breath a fragile tease over the stubble on Callan’s jaw.

  “Bye, Callan. Love you.”

  “Ye have all yer books?”

  “Aye,” Gavin whispered.

  Callan cupped his small face, the contrast of his delicate features thrown into stark relief against his battered knuckles. “Love you.”

  Rhys snored softly from the chair as Innis buttoned her jacket at the door. She nudged Gavin out of the house. “Go back te sleep.”

  “Have a good day at school.”

  The moment they left, the house seemed too still, as if the circulation was cut off at the foundation. A fresh draft seeped into the emptiness left in their absence.

  He preferred when they were all together, but knowing they’d be at school meant he could rest easy for at least a few hours. Easing back into the sofa, his body quaked with relief, muscles throbbing.

  He longed for the days when he’d only know tiredness, not this chronic, bone-aching exhaustion he battled now.

  Drawing in a slow breath, he released the last of his fraught strength. But he never fully unloaded it. And knowing, after all he’d been through, that he still banked a reserve of strength, left him unsettled in ways he couldnae explain. Ways that gave him a healthy fear of himself.

  Chapter Three

  Glasgow—Scotland

  “The payoff is ten thousand pounds, Callan. That’s more than you’ve ever made in a fight.” Rhys paced through the kitchen as Callan pieced together a sandwich and took a bite.

  “It’s crooked. I might not have a dignified job, but I have my dignity.”

  “Is this about keeping yer undefeated record?”

  He scowled, the pith of his abilities sheered down to naked purpose by even his best friend when the right price sat on the table. “I dinnae give a piss about the titles those twats pin to my name. I just care that they pay me on time and that the fights are fair. Being undefeated keeps me in demand. It keeps food on the table and a roof over our heads.”

  “You’d still be in demand. They bleedin’ love you.”

  “They dinnae fucking love me,” he sneered. “I’m nothing to them but a dog in a fight.”

  Rhys shoved into the empty chair, green eyes crazed with greed. “Then why not take the payoff and be done with them once and for all? Ten thousand, plus what ye already have saved, could get us all out of here.”

  His stature was damn tired, crippled by the weight of his responsibilities. Rhys sometimes climbed onto the pile, forgetting he could make his own way. “I’m not a fuckin’ sponge to squeeze. I’ll fight for a fair purse, but I’ll not tarnish my integrity. And fuck you for suggestin’ I do. It’s my name out there, not yours.”

  Genuine hurt flashed in his friend’s face, and he drew back. “I love ye like a brother, man. I’m only delivering the message, letting you know what they’re offerin’. It’s one fight, Callan. One fight and ye could score enough to never fight again. I promise, my thinking is only about you and Innis and Gavin. I dinnae give a fuck about those setting up the matches. I’d never betray ye or cross ye. Tell me ye know that.”

  He believed Rhys wanted to believe that, but the older Callan got, the harder it was to trust others. Sometimes people did fucked up shite whether they agreed with it or not.

  “I trust ye dinnae want to betray me.”

  “I would not. Not ever.”

  He finished the last of his sandwich. “I’m not takin’ a payout. If they want a fight, that’s fine, but it’ll be an honest one.”

  Rhys’s shoulders hunched, perhaps in disappointment, but he accepted Callan’s decision. “You know, there’s a chance he might wallop you. The Mountain’s a fuckin’ beast. Merciless.”

  Callan knew the guy’s reputation. He was a foot taller than his six feet, and a good five stones heavier. Of course he had a chance of getting his arse crushed.

  The man hailed from the travelers, a batch of lawless gypsies even the lowest of neds had the common sense to avoid. They stuck together, like bees to a hive. To them, life was about savage survival and clan pride.

  The Mountain had been known to bite off men’s ears, lips, and noses in fights, and swallow them whole. They said he did it to mark his victims, leaving nothing to be sewn back on.

  “There’s always a chance I’ll get beaten.”

  “They say the last sorry bassa lost an eye.”

  One did not fight The Mountain without understanding the risks. He wouldnae leave the ring unscathed, whether he won or not.

  The men who trained him and traveled with him also sanctioned deathmatches. Deathmatches led to bodies, legal hang-ups, and pricey cover-ups. They might have very few rules in the ring, but no one ever died under Callan’s fists.

  He wasnae a killer. That needed to stay true for his sanity to stay in check. But fighting The Mountain might very well destroy him, leave him in a way that death would be a blessing.

  He should turn down the fight. Take the smaller ones and keep squirreling away his nuts. But inescapable leverage came with booking a dangerous fight—fixed or not.

  “I’ll accept no less than thirty-five hundred for the win.” It was less than the payoff to throw the fight but much more than an ordinary purse. They’d hear that number and know he would deliver a fight worth witnessing. Sort of a fuck you to whoever thought they could buy him off and a taunt to The Mountain at the same time.

  Rhys balked. “They’ll never pay tha’.”

  “They will.” Once he said it, he felt it. Vile curiosity would insist they made it happen now.

  “If ye want that much, why not just ask for the whole ten thousand? At least then you’d be guaranteed to walk away, just take enough lumps to make it look real.”

  “Because I’m not gonna throw a bloody fight. Thirty-five hundred to the winner. They can take it or leave it.”

  The crowd for a fight between him and The Mountain would be huge. The price wasnae too improbable.

  Rhys stared into his eyes, his concern working out like a math problem across his face. “Do ye think ye can actually beat him?”

  “I think I’ll try my best and that’s the best I can do.”

  Honestly, he wasnae sure. The offer for a payoff to throw the fight—though from an outside party—made him wonder how many other opponents The Mountain had beaten fairly and how many were paid off. Perhaps his record wa
snae a true measurement of his actual abilities in the ring. But Callan’s record dinnae lie.

  “He’s a fuckin’ beast,” Rhys muttered, rubbing a hand over his face.

  “We’re all beasts.”

  Any man that stepped into that ring understood that. Being nearly bludgeoned to death on a regular basis had a way of stripping down a man and revealing the animal within. Strip them enough and the skin never truly grew back.

  The unsettling truth that he’d been doing this too long and had been stripped to muscle and bone too many times told him everything he needed to know.

  The Mountain might be a son of a bitch, but the darkness shackled by Callan’s bones, that shallow puddle of strength even he never wanted to dredge, that was worse. Whatever lived inside of him could win this fight. If he needed to, he’d wake it up and let it off the leash.

  “Book it. Thirty-five hundred one week from tonight.”

  Rhys got on the phone and made the arrangements. Within one hour they took the offer, realizing a high stakes fight might be just as good as a fixed one.

  The seven days that followed revolved around high protein, portion controlled meals, grueling circuit training, and rest. Some days he’d spend hours simply meditating, trying to get his head into the game and clear away the stress of life. Others he’d spend sweating out his worries.

  Innis and Gavin always fretted before a fight, but never tried to talk him out of it. But this time, once Gavin saw a picture of The Mountain, his unflinching confidence visibly shook.

  “He’s a tree, Callan.”

  “And I’ll be yellin’ timber! when I drop him like an oak,” he teased, exaggerating his self-assurance to bolster his brother’s.

  He dinnae have room for doubt. Doubt invited other negative thoughts, like maybe he should have taken the offer to throw the fight, guaranteed an outcome, and secured a sure profit.

  No.

  There was still a chance he could win this way—dignity intact. He’d be able to look himself in the eye, no matter the victor. Though he might be a little disfigured and hard to recognize.

  The day before the fight, Rhys pushed him to the point of exhaustion. He got a full eight hours of sleep and, once he woke, his heart pounded ahead of normal speed.

  Anxious to get the match over with, he said goodbye to Gavin and Innis and reminded Innis to lock up after him.

  “I will.” She poured some chopped vegetables into the broth warming on the stove.

  “I mean it. Do it now, Innis. I willnae be back until late.” And who knew what condition he’d be in.

  She rinsed the cutting board and counted out potatoes to peel. “As soon as I’m finished starting the soup.”

  He gritted his teeth and pressed a kiss to Gavin’s head. “Mind your sister.”

  “Can you bring me back a lock of The Mountain’s hair?” he asked excitedly, earning a scowl from Innis.

  Callan dinnae know how to outwardly respond to such a request. Inwardly, he cringed, hating how desensitized Gavin had become and how easily he requested the maiming of another living soul.

  “Say yer prayers before bed.” Leave the Almighty to field that one.

  On the long walk to the mill, his lungs seemed steadily short of breath and his steps sluggish. His ribs still werenae completely healed from the last fight, but his range of motion had recovered.

  His strategy tonight would be speed. Like a bullet, he’d plunge in with force, attacking every vulnerable inch he could reach, and then pull back like a slingshot only to unleash again. If he kept his motions precise and unpredictable, the fight shouldnae drag too long.

  The sight of bodies overflowing from the main entrance had both him and Rhys slowing their steps.

  “Jesus.” Rhys’s eyes widened as the roar of idle chatter reached a deafening rumble.

  Callan’s heart vibrated up his neck into his skull. The place was fuckin’ mobbed. “Come along. Let’s get my hands taped.”

  As they cut through the crowd, men and women turned to stare. Once they were recognized, the excitement built like a wave, a growing tsunami climbing and sucking everything out of its wake and clearing their path.

  “This is new,” Rhys mumbled, a deep S curved along his forehead as he raised a brow at all the fuss.

  A definite sense of importance floated in the air, making this fight more significant than all the rest. “We should have asked for more money.”

  Rhys laughed. “Bastards. Who knew this many people would show?”

  Someone knew. That’s why they wanted it thrown. Someone hoped to score a fine payout at the expense of their pounded flesh and spilled blood.

  The swollen crowd had his ego clawing to the surface. Their chants and excitement for the coming fight infected him with a mix of shame and glee. While he loathed the idea of thrashing another man, he was human enough to desire the win. But no matter who won, they’d never be on the same level as those in this room.

  They slipped into a private room, and the noise muffled to a distant drone. Using his meditational practices, he quieted his thoughts and let Rhys take charge.

  Layers of clothing slipped off, and his laces were tightened. Water and fruit were shoved in his face, and he drank, taking intermittent bites.

  “Ye gotta move around,” Rhys said, once all the prep was done.

  Callan paced over the cement floor, his head down and eyes unseeing as he psyched himself up for the battle. Rhys left to check the start time. As the door swung behind him, the echo of anxious spectators chanting something seeped into the private space.

  It was too muffled by other noise to tell if they were shouting Mountain or MacGregor. Probably a mix of both.

  The air thrummed with anticipation and promise. His flesh drew tight, damp with sweat, taut over muscle like the skin of a drum.

  Rhys returned, opening and shutting the door with another wave of muffled sound. “Holy shite, there are so many people here.”

  “How long?”

  “Ten minutes.”

  Time to check in. “Give me yer phone.”

  Rhys handed him his mobile and Callan dialed his sister. The service in the mill was shite, so he shifted closer to the broken window. Wind cut through the glass, regardless of the hole.

  “Hello?”

  “I’ve got about nine minutes. Just called to check in.”

  “We’re fine. About to eat.”

  He let out a breath. They were why he did this. They were worth it.

  Sensing his tension, she clucked. “You’ve got this, Callan. No point in givin’ up yer cockiness now.”

  He grinned. It was her way of calling him dramatic. “Aye. I suppose not. Let me speak to Gavin.”

  “Come home to us in one piece.”

  “Aye. Love you.”

  “Love you, too. I’ll get Gavin.”

  The certainty in his sister’s voice dropped his anxiety a few notches. A dangerous cocktail of doubt and fear mixed in his gut. But Innis was right, he did better when he was cocky.

  “Callan?” The sound of Gavin’s wee voice stifled his fear.

  “I’m about to go in, but I wanted to tell ye to expect a win.”

  Gavin laughed. “Really?”

  “I’ll do my best.”

  “Destroy him!” His baby brother yelled with enough hero worship and blind faith to shove the last of Callan’s doubts out of reach.

  “Consider him destroyed.” He ended the call, and his heart bounced with impending energy. Time to let some of this lightning out of the jar. “Let’s get this over with.”

  Rhys grabbed his bag of medical supplies and a few water bottles as they headed out. Additional lighting had been brought in, and a long banner with a picture of The Mountain hung down the rotted, far wall.

  “We forgot to do your photo shoot,” Rhys teased.

  Callan frowned at the level of promotional material flung across the decrepit walls. Who was endorsing this? Typically, these fights came with a how do you do and nothing more.r />
  “MacGregor!”

  Identified, the crowd again parted, making a clear path between him and the ring.

  “MacGregor, I need a word!” An older man approached, panting for breath. “I was told to deliver this to ye.” The man’s eyes bounced under the brim of his hat, his motions sketchy.

  Callan frowned and took the thick envelope. Cracking open the seal, he peeked inside, spotted a hefty stack of bank notes. “Who gave this te ye?”

  “I’m not te say. There’s ten thousand there.”

  Aggravated, he flung the envelope at the man’s chest. “Tell whoever gave this to you I’m not interested. See it gets back te him.”

  The man lifted his cap and wiped away the gathering sweat on his brow. “I strongly suggest ye take it.” His rotted teeth delivered each word with a cutting stench.

  “I strongly suggest ye get the fuck out of our way,” Rhys snapped, in full guard dog mode.

  The man glanced over his shoulder and Callan did a quick scan of the area. Whoever gave him that envelope was in the crowd.

  Rhys gave the man a shove. “Get.”

  With a final huff, he turned, and the mob swallowed any trace of him.

  “The pay off?” Rhys asked.

  “Aye. I thought ye—”

  “I did,” he said, hands up defensively. “Tenacious bastards.”

  Rolling his shoulders, he shook off the incident, but Rhys held on.

  “Stupid tits. Do you know what this means? It means whoever they are, they’re scared.”

  Callan dinnae care who they were. People who tried to fix fights werenae decent people, and he wanted no association with them, mistaken or otherwise. “Let’s get this over with.”

  The conciliator greeted him, going over the general rules and verifying the thirty-five hundred pound purse to the winner. Everything had been arranged.

  Callan paced, waiting for his opponent to show. The crowd erupted, and he turned, certain The Mountain finally arrived, but not yet able to set eyes on him. He dinnae have to wait long.

  Speakers, that were not typically present, pounded from brackets on the wall. Heavy drums and screaming metal guitars built in a crescendo, announcing the start of something unstoppable, promising the delivery of an unforgettable thrashing.