by Shandi Boyes
Those were the words he used when he encouraged me to accept an underworld associate’s invitation to fight in an illegal circuit. He said I’d have a chance to clean up the streets I grew up on and that women like Demi and my sister wouldn’t have to constantly look over their shoulders when they go out dancing with their girlfriends. Since that’s all Demi does day and night—the looking over her shoulder part of my comment, not the dancing part—I jumped at the opportunity to do some good.
All I’ve done the past seven months is triple Agent Moses’s investment each fight night. We haven’t schmoozed the men who organize the events without the Florida State Athletics Commission’s approval, nor have we accepted their offer to double our involvement in their organization. I turn up, fight, win, then go home with a measly share of the prize money.
The first couple of months, I let the money side of our arrangement brush off my concern. I was making enough coin to pay my college tuition, which removed the burden from my parents, and had plenty left over for the fun and finer things in life—like taking a beautiful raven-haired woman to an exorbitantly priced Latin restaurant for lunch.
I would have continued ignoring the obvious if Agent Moses hadn’t started riding my ass. He doesn’t just want to control what I do in the ring, he wants to govern all aspects of my life. He spoke to the Dean at my college about shortening my classes so I can slot in more hours at the gym, shifted my study schedule without seeking permission, and he even rocked up at my family home unannounced last week like we’re best mates.
In all honesty, I can’t stand the prick. He’s arrogant, temperamental, and when things don’t go his way, he chucks a hissy fit worse than any tantrum Justine has ever pulled. He’s a loose-fucking-cannon, and I’m done putting up with his shit.
“I don’t think I can make next week’s fight, either. I need to wash my hair or some shit.” While fighting the urge not to farewell him with a two-finger salute, I dip my chin, mentally flip him off, then kick over my bike’s engine. My father didn’t just teach us how to protect ourselves, he taught us values as well, and Agent Moses isn’t enough of a man for me to lose my morals over.
The healthy revs of my custom Triumph Bobber should drown out Agent Moses. Unfortunately for me, he raises his voice to ensure it can’t. “Do you really think she arrived at that gym at the exact time she did for no reason?”
He doesn’t need to say Demi’s name for me to know who he’s talking about, and I don’t need to nibble at the bait he’s throwing out to announce that. Demi’s uncle owns the gym I work out at. I knew that when I drove the forty miles from my local gym to Stamina, and I knew it when I signed up for a year-long membership.
My bond with my brothers meant I couldn’t make a move on Demi, but not a single thing in the rulebook said I couldn’t torture myself by admiring her from a distance.
Mistaking my quiet as deliberating, Agent Moses attempts to stack more wood on the inferno he’s hoping to instigate. “She’s playing you, Ox, but unlike the last guys she fooled, you have the means to fight back.”
My brain screams at me to pull back on the throttle, to get the fuck away from Agent Moses before his vileness rubs off on me, but my heart demands otherwise. As I’ve said earlier, I’ve been crushing on Demi for years. Just the thought she could be playing me isn’t something I can ignore. I’d donate a lung to see her smile one more time, but I don’t want it costing me everything.
I work my jaw side to side before killing my bike’s engine. “You have five minutes.”
Agent Moses splatters, coughs, and gargles before he finally pushes out, “Only yesterday, Demi was seen approaching four men at three separate gyms.”
When he tosses his briefcase onto the trunk of the car parked in front of my bike, he bumps into an elderly gent enjoying a morning stroll. Unlike Demi’s collision when she endeavored to get away from me yesterday afternoon, Agent Moses doesn’t apologize to the gray-haired man. He stares at him as if he’s worthless before he thrusts an unmarked envelope my way.
“The statistics in this file reveal only forty percent of her recruits make it out of the carnage unscathed.”
I shouldn’t fall for his tricks, but what can I say? Curiosity killed the cat, but satisfaction brought it back.
When I rip open the envelope as if I’m unaware there are confidential files inside, Agent Moses discloses, “Intel suggests Demi has been recruiting for her uncle’s fighting syndicate the past three years. At the start, she merely pointed out fighters he may be interested in, but when her knowledge of the industry grew, her involvement in all aspects of it evolved.”
I have no reason to disbelieve him. Not only is it printed in black and white as clear as day for all to see in the file in my hand, Demi mentioned at the start of lunch yesterday that she wasn’t eye-fucking me. She tried to fawn off her gawk as an appreciation for my technique.
“Two years in, Col changed things up. The crowd grew bored with standard fights. They pay top dollar for ringside seats, so they felt they had the right to demand a level of entertainment that suited them.” Agent Moses flips over a handful of pages in the document in my hand, stopping once he reaches a bunch of glossy photographs. “The first change-up was the right of the fighter’s owner not to throw in the towel. As long as his fighter was standing, he could demand that he stay in the ring.”
If the timeline of the snapshots in front of me is anything to go by, the longer Col’s new rules went on, the more regularly fighters were stretchered out of the ring.
After plucking a single surveillance image out of the pile, Agent Moses says, “The new rules kept the spectators happy for months. Profits were good, Col had owners arriving with new fighters every week, and although illegal, his fight circuit remained off the FBI’s watch list.”
“What changed?” I ask, aware the FBI isn’t merely watching Col’s underground fighting syndicate. They have eyes on his entire family.
“This.” He places down the image he plucked from the stack onto the gas tank of my bike. As per the previous images, the boxing ring’s mat is coated with blood. There’s just one difference, this one has a body bag hanging over the frayed ropes. “There’s no throwing in the towel. No referee interference. In this circuit, they fight to the death.”
“No fucking way,” I mutter under my breath, my shock incapable of being harnessed.
The fight syndicate ran in the basement of STEM Academy is tame compared to the one Agent Moses warned me about when he demanded I put more hours in at the gym, but still, this is beyond belief.
Although it has nothing on the shock that pummels into me when Agent Moses uses the handlebars on my bike to produce a sickening timeline. In the first lot of images, smiling, sweaty gym junkies are seen talking to the woman who occupies my mind even when I’m sleeping. In the second lot of stills, the same men are either lying lifeless on the floor in pools of blood or standing over a deceased man.
Confident I have the gist of what he’s saying, Agent Moses gathers up the surveillance images, stuffs them into his briefcase, then locks his eyes with mine. “She’s sentencing these men to death, then enjoying Latin cuisine as if their murders aren’t her fault.”
“She didn’t kill them.”
He tsks me as if I’m blinded by Demi’s oceanic eyes and cock-thickening body. I probably am, but he doesn’t need to spell it out for me.
“She may as well have, Ox. She knows of her uncle’s plan when she recruits these men. She knows the torture they’ll endure under his watch, and if she has it her way, you’re her next victim. I have all the proof you need in my office.” His lips once again curl into a pompous, arrogant smirk before he says with a breathy chuckle, “Unless you have somewhere more important to be, Agent Walsh?”
7
Demi
“Not those ones.”
Millie, a second-year apprentice chef, moves away from the oven keeping the last two tortes warm with her hands held in the air like she’s about to be arrested.
“Are they not for sale?”
Considering it is almost noon, it’s stupid for me to shake my head, but I can’t hold back. Maddox could still be sleeping. We ended things very late last night. Not everyone is accustomed to lagging sleep schedules.
Millie looks torn between wanting to comfort or strangle me when I say, “They were preordered last night. The customers wanting them will have to order something else.”
Stealing her chance to reply, I continue kneading the dough for today’s lunch special, acting as if a two-hour delay is perfectly acceptable. I’ve never been on an official date, so for all I know, it could be.
“Jesus! Shit. Sorry,” I push out in a hurry when my storm into the kitchen causes the swinging door to crash into one of the waiters exiting from the other side. Creamy ricotta spaghetti and baked ziti sail into the air before they land on the floor with a flop and a crash. “I’ll prepare them again now. Please tell the customer their bill is on the house. I’ll pay for it.”
Ty halts my blubbering by curling his hand over mine. “It’s fine. I’m sure the bills you sneak into the waitstaff’s jar each night will more than cover the bill.” After removing a cracked plate from my hand, he nudges his head to the back entrance. “Go have a breather for a couple of minutes.”
I’m so dead on my feet, I’d donate a lung for a nap, but that isn’t possible. There’s no rest for the wicked. “I can’t. I have three orders waiting, need to prep tonight’s special, and I now need to remake two dishes.”
“And you’ve also been working for over seven hours without a break.” Ty forcefully stands me to my feet before he hip-barges me toward the exit. “Go call him and ask him where he is before I do, then maybe you’ll survive the next five hours of your shift.”
“I don’t have his number.” That was harder to articulate than it should have been. I’m not just embarrassed admitting I didn’t exchange numbers with the man I had a marathon date with. I hate that Maddox’s no-show has me so out of sorts, almost-strangers are noticing a change in my demeanor. Ty is great but other than the occasional chit-chat at work, he doesn’t know me at all.
Nobody knows of my struggles because they know it is the best way to stay out of trouble.
Ty’s eyes dilate with desire when the new head chef my cousin, Dimitri, hired last month, joins our conversation. Jude’s facial structure is as scrumptious as the Walsh brothers. He just prefers for it to be admired by men. “What time did you leave last night, Demi?”
After whispering a silent apology to the waitstaff I’ve left to clean up the mess, I pace closer to Jude. He’s preparing a Florentina steak on the grill. “A little before one. The late rush was crazy for a Thursday, but I had help.” Even with us being run off our feet the past several hours, the kitchen still gleams in several places. Maddox has a way of making filthy, used things feel shiny and new. And no, I’m not solely referencing Petretti’s.
“Then I not only agree with Ty’s suggestion for you to take a breather.” Ty almost melts to the floor at the knowledge Jude knows his name. “I’m telling you to take one for the rest of the day. I’ll see you tomorrow afternoon.”
“I can’t leave. I still have three—”
“Meals to make and preparation to do for tonight? I’ve heard it all before. I’m not buying it. You’re dismissed from my kitchen.”
“Jude—”
A man with a face as sinfully sexy as his shouldn’t be able to scowl like he does. It would have the brawliest man retreating like his momma took off her shoe.
“Yes, Chef. Thank you, Chef.”
“Will you please do wicked things to me, Chef?” Ty whispers under his breath.
I untie my apron and toss it into Ty’s face before gathering my belongings from under the counter, then spin to face Jude. “Are you su—”
“Yes. Go.” He shoos me away with a wave of his hand before he browns chunks of ground beef in a wok to replace the baked ziti I ruined.
The cool afternoon air of a fall breeze smacks into me when I push through the double doors at the back of Petretti’s. I stand in the alleyway for a couple of minutes, perplexed about what to do. Four in the afternoon is a little late for most people to make plans, but it’s rare for me to walk out those doors before midnight.
After sucking down a lung-filling gulp of air, I head toward my apartment building. I have several series on Netflix I’ve been meaning to binge-watch. Now is as good a time as any. I’ll steer clear of the romance series, though. The last thing I want to do is remind myself how much I suck.
The truth smacks into me hard and fast when I arrive at my apartment building in under twenty minutes. The same walk took Maddox and me two hours last night.
I sigh out my disappointment, jab my key into the front door of my apartment, push it open by a measly inch, then call out Sloane’s name. Just because there’s no noise projecting from our apartment doesn’t mean it’s safe to enter. Sloane’s quietness is usually the first indicator she’s up to no good.
When I fail to get a response after several shouts, I hook my coat over Maddox’s jacket he lent me last night, dump my keys and cell phone onto the entryway table, then flop onto the couch.
I’m only planning to hide from reality for a couple of seconds but soon discover my weary head needed hours when Sloane charges into the space like a bat out of hell. It’s dark outside, and there’s enough drool on the couch cushion to reveal I was out for a couple of hours. I have a problem with excess saliva when I sleep.
“Should I go for fuck-me-slowly pink or fuck-me-fast red?” Sloane holds up the two lipstick suggestions she wants me to pick from. “I want to be fucked fast, but that doesn’t mean I want it to be quick.”
Her facial expression replicates the time she had to put her beloved dog down when I mumble, “It’s called hard and fast for a reason, Sloane.”
“True, but…” When she fails to find an excuse, she dramatically tosses her hand to her forehead. “Just choose a goddamn color. I’ve been staring at them for ages.”
With my lips twisted in pure concentration, I take in the two unique colors before blurting out, “Pink.”
“Pink?” Sloane appears as if she wants to vomit. “I was leaning toward the red.”
I roll my eyes. “Red, then.”
I stare her deadpanned in the face when she mumbles, “But the pink is really cute.” When the painful bite to the inside of my cheek makes blush unnecessary, she finally concedes, “Fine. Pink it is.” She pivots away, struts two steps, then jackknifes back. I check my face for drool when she runs her eyes up and down my body. Nothing seems out of place, except what Sloane says next, “You’re not wearing that out, are you?” She nudges her head to my plain black trousers and white polo shirt. “Your boobs look great in anything, but a girl has to occasionally let her hair down.”
Confusion is heard in my tone when I ask, “Are we going somewhere?”
For a woman smarter than all the men in her pre-law class, she looks really stupid when she answers, “Dancing. Remember? I told you this morning.”
“Was this before or after I had my morning coffee?”
Sloane taps the pink lipstick tube against her unpainted lips. “I think it was before. Saint needed whipped cream. I went to the kitchen to fetch it…” Her eyes brighten like a light inside her head switched on. “It was before because you dumped your full mug into the sink when I asked if you wanted cream in your coffee before we used it all.”
“That’s right,” I reply, suddenly clicking on. “You stole my right of an early morning pick-me-up. No wonder I’ve been so dead on my feet today.”
Sloane smiles like I’m praising her. I’m not. She’s grinning because she knows I never back out of an agreement—unlike Maddox Walsh.
“How long do I have to get ready?”
She twists her lips while mentally calculating if I have enough time to go from dishwasher sleek to nightclub ready. “Saint left around ten minutes ago, so he should be here in around thirty?
”
After putting two and two together remarkably quick for how woozy my head is, I ask, “Saint is coming clubbing with us?” I don’t know why I’m shocked. Sloane has no issues getting friendly on a first date, but she never ‘dates’ more than one guy per weekend.
Sloane pulls a ‘duh’ face. “How do you think we’re getting to Ravenshoe?”
“We’re going to Ravenshoe?” That was articulated as loud as you’re thinking. We make trips to Ravenshoe all the time. It has better shopping than Hopeton, better restaurants, and far sexier men. I just wasn’t anticipating a trip so soon after being ‘ditched’ by one of Ravenshoe’s most eligible bachelors. “Will Saint be the only Walsh in attendance?”
It’s an effort to keep my shoulders square when Sloane answers, “Maybe.” She saunters back into the living room before flattening her hands on my shoulders. “Why? Are you hoping for another run-in with bachelor number four?”
“No.” Her brow doesn’t even arch halfway before I withdraw my lie. “He was a lot of fun to be around yesterday. I didn’t realize he had such a cheeky personality. He always seemed a bit standoffish when we were in high school, but he was nothing like that last night. It was a magical seventeen hours, then he went and ruined it all by standing me up.”
Forever the romantic, moisture glistens in Sloane’s eyes when she slots the final piece of the puzzle into place. “He didn’t turn up for brunch?”
Unable to speak for the fear my voice will crack, I shake my head.
“Aww, honey.” Sloane plops her backside in the seat next to me before slinging her arm around my shoulders. “I don’t have an excuse for his actions today, but I know why he took so long to make the first move.” When my begging eyes lock with hers, she spills the beans. “Years ago, Saint made out he had a crush on you. Since he staked a claim first, Maddox couldn’t make a move. Saint said it’s in the bro-code.”