Losing It All

by Wilde, Kati

  Tusk isn’t desperate. He’s enjoying it.

  Tearing the other man apart. Piece by piece. Breaking bone by bone. Making him scream and beg. But Draft’s not dead yet—he doesn’t even get that mercy—when Tusk shoves him face first into the chainlink fence right in front of us and begins raping him.

  While staring at Cherry.

  She’s not watching. Her fingers are in her ears and her eyes are closed, trying to shut it all out. I wish to fuck that I could shut it out, that I couldn’t see Draft’s face—or hear him.

  That poor fucker. That poor goddamn fucker.

  He should have taken the bullet.

  There’s more puking coming from somewhere as Tusk grunts and finishes up. I’m not far from it myself. All that sick rot in my gut boils with rage. That Tusk would do this. That people pay to see this. That the bastards who run this place set it up to happen.

  One way or another, I’m burning this goddamn place to the ground.

  The whole place is quiet when Tusk drops the other man to the floor. Then he just stands there until Cherry glances up—fingers still in her ears—as if looking to see whether it’s over.

  His teeth bloody, Tusk grins at her. “One more.”

  She squeezes her eyes shut again. Tusk’s got one minute to finish the kill, so he starts stomping on Draft’s head.

  I don’t watch that. Instead I look over Cherry’s bowed head at Crash. “What the fuck did that mean? ‘One more?’”

  He looks real grim. “You win ten fights, you get a prize.”

  “Her?”

  He nods, then nudges her with his shoulder until she looks over at him. “We’re not going to let it happen, you understand? We fucking swear it.”

  Her lips tremble. “Okay.”

  Like she appreciates him saying so but doesn’t really believe it.

  Crash narrows his eyes. “I mean it. Either your plan will get us out of here or it won’t. But Tusk won’t get to you. Not if we can help it. Right, brother?”

  “Sounds right.” I’ll make it my fucking mission in life to bring Tusk down. All this shit needs to burn. And that sick fucker needs to burn with it.

  Her lips are pressed together but her chin’s wobbling as she thanks him, then turns to me. Her eyes are bright.

  “Thank you,” she whispers shakily.

  “Don’t thank me. I haven’t done shit yet.”

  “It still means something. Especially since…”

  She trails off there and averts her eyes, but I know what she’s not saying. That she owes me.

  But this is different. And not really for her. After what I just saw, I’d kill Tusk no matter what.

  That she’s a prize simply gives me a timeline: it needs to be done before the next fight. Or during the next fight.

  If there is one. “What plan to get out of here?”

  She blinks and glances at me again, her eyes wary. But she only hesitates for a moment before she opens her mouth—then shuts it.

  Because the guards come over and begin unchaining Crash and me.

  Crash grunts. “Back to the van, then?”

  “No,” the guard says. “You two are going into the Cage.”

  Cherry abruptly frowns, shaking her head. “They aren’t cleared for it. Their bloodwork doesn’t pass.”

  “Doesn’t matter. This isn’t part of the broadcast.”

  Dismay widens her emerald eyes. “A demonstration?”

  “Yep. On your feet, new guy.”

  On my feet. While Cherry looks from Crash to me, all that dismay melting into horror and fear. Me, I’m still trying to fit this shit into my head. Supposedly, fighters from the same stables don’t ever face off against each other. We’re valuable assets, owned by Papa. So Papa might put us up against a fighter with a different owner, because although there’s a risk of losing that asset, there’s also a chance of winning big money—which is what this shit is really all about.

  If Papa puts two of his own assets up against each other, though, there’s no real winning. Only losing.

  So it doesn’t make any goddamn sense. Unless Papa decided that one of his assets isn’t worth much, anyway. Like if Papa found out an asset doesn’t really have an earache, but a tumor.

  That better not fucking be what this is.

  But Crash must be thinking the same. He confidently bumps fists with Handlebar while swaggering past his partner—then mutters, “I’ll take the bullet,” as we continue toward the Cage’s entrance.

  “The fuck you will.”

  “I’m already dead, brother. And you’ve got…” He trails off, looking into the Cage. “Hold up. Is this some tag-team shit?”

  Because two men are coming in through the other entrance. One meathead who appears on the verge of shitting his pants. The other’s got his chin up, wearing an aggressive, cocky expression on a face that’s real familiar.

  “Holy fuck,” I tell Crash. “That’s Sherlock—the prez of the Devil’s Hangmen. He’s the one who nabbed our girl Zoomie.”

  And passed her over to the slick cartel fucker who would have stuck her in the Cage, too.

  “Then why’s he still living?”

  The slick fucker isn’t. But the Hellfire Riders didn’t want to draw attention to ourselves by taking out the Hangmen, too. Instead we stayed real quiet, so it looked like the Hangmen were responsible for losing Zoomie and killing the cartel’s man. “Blowback figured their higher-ups would take them out.”

  Crash rolls his shoulders, loosening them up. “Looks like Blowback was right.”

  Yeah, he was. Cherry called this a demonstration, and the guard said the broadcast was over. But the cameras are still filming. Because they’ll throw the two Devil’s Hangmen in the Cage as punishment for their fuckup—and use the video to make sure any other associates know the consequences of failure.

  Which is pretty much what the emcee says during his introduction. I ignore the fucker, because he’s not telling me anything I need to know.

  I say to Crash, “I’ll take Sherlock.”

  And won’t be a bit sorry. The Devil’s Hangmen were bad fucking news the second they moved into the next county and began running meth and girls and guns. The drugs and weapons, I don’t really give a shit about.

  But those girls. I’ve seen how some of them ended up.

  So I’m looking forward to this.

  Crash nods, his face all business. “Who’s the other one?”

  “Pretty sure he was named the Hangmen’s enforcer after Blowback got rid of the first two.”

  Got rid of. As in, tiny pieces buried all around central Oregon.

  “So I’m up against a third-stringer? Fuck me. I’ll take yours, instead.”

  “Over my fucking corpse.” It comes out lightly, but I mean it. The third-stringer helped snatch Zoomie, but Sherlock gave that order and took the lead. So the only people I’d step aside for are Zoomie herself, or the Hellfire Riders’ prez. “Our girl wasn’t wearing a Bedlam Butchers vest when he took her.”

  “Goddammit.” Because Crash knows he can’t claim any right to Sherlock over me—though he’s not really trying to, either. With his balance shot and his wonky right eye, even a third-stringer might give him some trouble. But we both know that, so neither of us is going to bring it up. “All right. Only because yours looks as if one hard smack will turn on the waterworks.”

  Maybe. Sherlock’s daddy was prez of the Hangmen’s mother chapter in Vegas. So it might be that he was coddled his whole life and always got the smooth ride, but believed it was his own steel balls and badass attitude that got him where he was going. I’ve seen plenty of boys in boot camp break like that. Men who thought they were tough, but learned that they’d just always had it easy. Then they cried like babies.

  Sherlock doesn’t cry. As soon as that bell rings, he begins putting up a decent fight. Taking a few hits. Then getting a few in while I take his measure. He’s all right. Strong, fast. But I outclass him by a fucking mile—and given the rage building in m
e ever since I saw Anna’s bloodied face, I’d have loved to take the full fifteen minutes to beat the shit out of him.

  But I’m not the only one here. And Crash isn’t fighting at one hundred percent.

  So I’ll finish this quick. But not before I tell Sherlock, “Remember when Zoomie beat the holy fuck out of your first prez? That should have warned you. But you had to go and touch her anyway. And that makes you one stupid piece of shit.”

  A dead piece of shit. Face red, he lunges at me. I snap his neck and drop him like the trash he is.

  Crash has got the other Hangman backed up into a corner. Even with his balance fucked and his vision half gone, the brother’s holding his own. All the money that Uncle Sam put into training him didn’t go to waste.

  “Need a hand?” I call out.

  He grunts. “Fuck off.”

  I glance at the clock. Thirteen minutes and twenty-five seconds left. Outside the Cage, Handlebar appears more at ease. Though it’s not over yet, the quick look he gives me says it all. He knows I’ve got Crash’s back. That makes all the difference.

  And a little ragging isn’t amiss. “You’re about to hit two minutes on a third-stringer! Maybe spend a little less time choking your dick and more time choking the dickhead?”

  Nah, not choking. Crash is like me. He’ll go for quick and clean.

  And he does. Neck snapped. Done.

  Though the chainlink, I see Cherry on the bench, looking like a sweet mix of one scoop sickened and two scoops relieved. She meets my eyes and gives me a sad little thumbs up, then her worried gaze is all over Crash—maybe afraid the hits he took rattled his head.

  But he seems steady when he turns. “All right?” I ask him.

  “Peachy keen.”

  He raises his fist and I bump mine against it. This one, we can call a win. Every other fight in the Cage was some sick shit. But not this. This is what I should be doing. Taking care of the Hellfire Riders’ business. For the first time in days, the rot isn’t eating at me. And I feel all right. Because I got shit done.

  Now to get even more shit done. Like killing that sick fucker Tusk. And burning this place to the ground.

  “You gonna unlock this before Christmas, or are you waiting for Santa to bring you a brain first?” Crash says to the guard standing outside the Cage’s entrance.

  The guard darts an uneasy look over to Victor, who’s wearing a flat stare and regarding us with his arms crossed over his chest.

  Bluntly he says, “You aren’t done.”

  “Yeah, we are.” Crash glances over at the two bodies, then at me. “They look pretty fucking dead to you?”

  “Hard to tell,” I say easily, though my gut’s knotting up real tight. “Could be they fell asleep with their heads on crooked.”

  That flat stare doesn’t flicker. “Only one fighter walks out of the Cage. Those are the rules.”

  I push in closer to the fence. “That’s fucking bullshit. It’s also against the rules to put in anyone who doesn’t pass your drug tests. This was a demonstration. The bastards were taught their lesson. We’re done.”

  Victor’s jaw clenches. Everyone on the benches is absolutely quiet. But not the same silence as when Tusk killed Draft. Instead it’s a stunned, intense quiet—as if they can’t believe what they’re hearing, either. As if they figured the same as we did: two teams enter, one team leaves.

  The bastard looks to the clock. “You’ve got eleven minutes, gentlemen.”

  Fuck no. Oh fuck no.

  “Bullshit!” With a roar, Handlebar lurches up halfway out of his seat, his chains clattering as he fights against them. “Fucking bullshit! They killed the fuckers, they got their win, so unlock the fucking door!”

  Other fighters are joining in the cries of Bullshit! and Unlock the door!—except for Tusk, whose laugh booms out and doesn’t stop. The whole warehouse is suddenly filled with noise.

  But it’s nothing. All of it’s gone. There’s only Crash, turning to meet my gaze. His right eye’s reddened and watering, the pupil blown, and isn’t focusing in on me like the left eye is. But the message in them is clear.

  Hoarsely I tell him, “Don’t you say it.”

  “I’m already—”

  “Fuck your already-a-dead-man shit.” We’re all dead men, sooner or later. My time was already pushed out to ‘later’ thanks to Crash. “You remember Goat Ridge? Because I do. You saved my ass. It’s my turn to save you.”

  He goes right for my jugular. Not with his fists or feet. With one statement. “They’ll kill Anna.”

  Ah Christ. Ah fuck. The image of her bleeding flashes in front of my eyes. But I shake my head. “Gunner won’t let them near her.”

  He’s crazy in love with her. Has been for years. He’d die before letting them hurt her again.

  “You’d bet her life on that?” Face hard, Crash leans in and his next words stab a knife into my gut, releasing the poisonous rot. “They got past him once. They got past your whole fucking club.”

  The sour poison boils up my throat. Jaw clamped shut, I stare at him. My brother. My friend. I won’t do this.

  Except I will. We both know I will. Because Crash tossed Anna into the Cage with us.

  “You goddamn fucking asshole.” It’s thick and raw, as if my throat’s bleeding.

  “You know it’s right,” he says simply, then faces the fence.

  Faces his ride partner, who’s still yelling at Victor to unlock the door. My chest becomes a black hole as Handlebar must see in Crash’s eyes what I saw. Every goddamn thing inside me feels as if it’s collapsing in on itself when Handlebar’s voice tears apart like steel through a shredder.

  “Don’t you fucking do this,” Handlebar grates out. “Don’t you fucking do this. You fight. You can beat that bastard.”

  I’m the bastard now. And he’s right. Only a bastard would let a friend sacrifice himself instead of throwing in with him and going down together. Only a disloyal piece of shit who deserves to be in that pile of corpses—and who doesn’t deserve to be called brother.

  But they got to my sister once. And I want to believe that the Hellfire Riders are protecting her now. But for all I know, the Iron Blood never let her go after making the video. They might have her locked up in a stall somewhere, ready to kill her if I refuse to fight—or if I lose a fight.

  Jesus, I can’t breathe. Crash is trying to say his goodbyes, but Handlebar’s in denial, telling him to shut the fuck up, to kick my ass, to fight. On her bench, Cherry looks from Crash to me, tears silently spilling from her emerald eyes, fingers laced tightly together in front of her trembling lips.

  Suddenly I want those fingers touching me, because all I see is the memory of how she held Crash’s hand through Handlebar’s fight. As if she could make him feel better.

  But her touching me couldn’t make any of this better. It couldn’t make what I’m about to do feel right, like Crash said it was.

  Nothing will ever be right again.

  And I can’t look at her now. Seeing her cry rips the hole in my chest open wider. I don’t even fucking know why. She’s nothing to me. Just some sweet girl I kissed in a bar. And that girl was a lie.

  “Ready?” Crash says from behind me.

  Never. A cluster of razors lodge in my throat when I face him. He looks resolved—and calm. Though his eyes close when Handlebar’s next hoarse words reach him.

  “I’ll never forgive you for giving up, you fucking bastard. You fight, goddammit.”

  Expression pained, Crash gestures me closer, grips the back of my neck and presses his forehead against mine. His voice is thick as he says, “That stubborn bastard didn’t listen to me. So you tell him. My last words are that I love him, yeah? And I couldn’t have asked for a better ride partner.”

  Fuck me. I can’t fucking breathe, can’t fucking see. “I’ll tell him.”

  “And tell him to feed my cat. I know he hates that mangy little shit, but she’s his now.”

  This time I can only nod.

&
nbsp; “All right, then. Except for one other thing.” He grins and backs up a step, raising his big fists. “You’ll have to work for it, fucker.”

  11

  The first match I ever saw in the Cage taught me the difference between real fights and movie fights. Yet as Crash grins and raises his fists, nothing about this fight seems real.

  Instead it looks like something out of a movie—two big men circling each other. Their physiques are evenly matched, down to the tattoos they wear on their shoulders, like two action stars about to face off in the climactic fight that ends the show.

  For an instant, my gaze lands on the two men already lying dead in the Cage. That fight had seemed unreal, too. Because that’s also a movie thing—the idea that breaking someone’s neck kills them instantly. Most of the time, it’s simply not true. Damaging the spinal cord might cause paralysis, but the person doesn’t immediately die. More likely they’d suffocate. And it takes a while.

  Someone only goes quickly when there’s massive damage to the brain stem. That’s the kind of damage Crash and Stone know how to do.

  And they seem evenly matched. But they aren’t. Not just because of Crash’s tumor and how it’s affecting his coordination. He’s also wearing a grin. But as Stone circles around and I see his face, there’s nothing like a grin mirrored there. Only resignation. Only emptiness.

  But everything’s different. So unreal. They begin trading blows, and it’s almost like watching something choreographed. I’ve seen Crash fight before. It was always like how he took out the first man. Quick. Efficient. Brutal.

  This isn’t. Instead it’s like they’re playing. Or practicing, with Crash on the offense and Stone on defense. Stone keeps moving back. Taking hits he could have avoided.

  Like maybe Stone thinks he deserves them.

  Handlebar keeps shouting encouragement with every hit. But I think he knows what I know. That Crash already told the other man to kill him.

  And in movies, I know how this goes. If it’s a bad guy versus a good guy, the good guy will be on the brink of defeat before pulling out a win. And if they’re two good guys, they’ll square off and fight to a draw—then team up to take out the villain.