Grudge Match

by Jessica Gadziala

  It was unacceptable.

  Someone innocent got hurt because I slipped up.

  Maybe that was part of it too.

  Innocent.

  She gave off that vibe. She was clearly not from Jersey where that innocent shit got tossed out the window sometime around junior high. Tough, that was what you generally found in women from this area. They could handle themselves. They didn't need anything from anyone. Bad shit just rolled off their backs.

  She didn't have that edge to her.

  There was a sweetness there, a trustingness, a willingness to accept a hand when it was offered when you were floundering, without wondering if that hand was there to drown you.

  And, for whatever reason, that struck a chord with me.

  It wasn't something I often saw, especially given the people I associated with on a daily basis. There was no room for softness, for sweetness in my world.

  Yet there she was in it regardless.

  Wholly unaware, despite the shit that had happened to her, that there was more bad than good in the world.

  Usually, I figured that the world would sort that shit out. One thing after another would happen to prove the harsh reality to her. Then she would learn.

  But, somehow, I found myself not wanting that to happen. I wanted to protect that rare bit of innocence, of trust she had in the world and her fellow man.

  So to protect that, she needed a deadbolt.

  And a fucking security system.

  Taser.

  Gun.

  Personal bodyguard.

  But, at least, I could get her a lock on her door.

  Especially seeing as we had no idea who had done that to her, or why. Was she being stalked without realizing it? Could someone know or find out where she lived and try to do more than what he had already done?

  I would really prefer not to find out.

  So, with that, and figuring I was just going to stop thinking about the reasons, I had two of my men meet me at Hex, one to drive the car, the other to drive that guy back to Hex so they could go home, and all of us made our way to Oak Lane Apartments.

  After waving off the guys, ignoring their confused looks about the tools, I made my way up toward the door, getting let in by some young couple who thought nothing of how it was a terrible idea to let strangers into a building without being buzzed in, and made my way up to the fifth floor where her apartment was.

  As far as apartment buildings went, it wasn't horrible. The decor needed updates, and the soundproofing wasn't great, but it seemed relatively kept well, and there were security lights outside, and a decent lock on the front door.

  My hand raised to knock when I caught a sound from inside, a low, soft, but soulful voice singing a song I wasn't familiar with, no background noise, just her voice, followed by a small slam.

  I had to force my fist to make contact, so I didn't continue to stand there like a creep.

  "Coming!" she called.

  Then I kid you fucking not, she slipped the chain, and pulled the door open without asking who it was, or looking through the peephole.

  "Locks only work if you keep the door closed to unknown strangers."

  "It was you or Millie," she said with a shrug.

  "And if it wasn't?"

  "Who else would it be?" she asked, shaking her head.

  She looked better.

  She must have taken my advice and gotten some rest. The bruises under her eyes were gone. Her eyes didn't look so pained.

  She had showered and changed too. Her hair was still parted down the center, but then braided upward tight against her head where they met in the center and braided together. A few wisps were left free to frame her face. Her gray yoga pants were replaced with some kind of silky black linen pants. The grandpa sweater was traded in for a simple tan, satin tank top that dipped a little low in front, low enough that I had to force my eyes upward to keep focused.

  "The point would be that you don't know who it could be."

  "Why do you have a drill?" she asked, deflecting.

  "To install a deadbolt."

  Brows drawing together, her lips parted slightly. "Um, what?"

  "I got a deadbolt, and the supplies to install it," I explained, holding up the bag.

  "But... why?"

  Oh, the question I had no answer to.

  "I was coming back anyway." I shrugged it off.

  "You are an... unexpected man, Ross Ward," she said, shaking her head a little. "Can I offer you some coffee?" she asked, moving inward to allow me to enter.

  "Sure," I agreed, wondering when was the last time a woman who wasn't being paid to do so asked me that question.

  Maybe never.

  Her apartment was a studio with just one door leading to the small happy-yellow bathroom - the color too bright to have been there before her. She chose it. Which, well, seemed to suit her.

  Sunny.

  Bright.

  Those were words most people would likely use to describe the woman who walked over to the left side of the room where a single wall kitchen was situated with white beaded panel cabinets, faux swirled brown and gold marble counters, a small sink, a black apartment-sized fridge, and a black oven.

  She reached up into one of the cabinets above the sink, bringing down a bag of coffee from the shop where I got my coffee every evening on my way to Hex, and started filling the pot.

  I forced my attention away from her, realizing I was staring, and looked around the rest of the apartment.

  It was somewhat sparse, likely thanks to being there less than a year, and having a job that didn't allow for a quick home furnishing.

  There was a pair of small accent chairs around a round end table, all of which looked like they had likely been hand-me-downs judging by the somewhat dated brown and rose floral pattern, but in good shape.

  That only left some dressers where you could find a TV and an assortment of framed pictures, and, well, the bed.

  Where I tried not to focus too long.

  Even if it was the most dominant feature of the room.

  It was a queen with simple medium-wood head and foot boards, and a comforter set that looked intentionally bought to match the chairs, and fit the freshly coated beige color on the walls.

  All in all, she had seemed to do some good work with, seemingly, little. You had to respect that. She made a home out of almost nothing. Some people - me included - couldn't make a home out of millions. Hell, I never even tried.

  "Do you need any help?" she asked as I put everything down on a small, mildly wobbly table beside the door where she had a bowl for keys. I reached in my pocket, producing hers which had been at Hex, along with her phone which I put on the table as well - which had a small, silver, rectangular pendant with some geographic coordinates on it, and three keys, all topped with some kind of rubber key identifier, each one a different type of dog.

  "Nah, babe. I got it. Dogs, huh?" I asked when the silence followed that, unsure why I was bothering to. I liked silence. I liked not having to engage in useless fucking small talk.

  "Oh," she said, looking a little sheepish. "Yeah. I, ah, grew up with a bunch of them. But none of the apartments I've had allow them."

  The conversation lagged again as I started lining up the spots to drill, then did said drilling. But by the time I was screwing in the plate, then trying out the deadbolt, Addy had apparently had too much of the silence.

  "Can I ask you something?"

  "Sure," I said, wiping some of the dust off the handle before turning to face her.

  "Why underground fighting?"

  It wasn't an unusual question to ask.

  Especially when you were a normal person who wasn't involved in the criminal underbelly.

  It would never occur to a banker to think Hey, maybe I should get into the meth trade. Or an accountant to wonder Would I make a shitton more money opening up a barn of girls?

  "It didn't start out as Hex. It started out as taking bets for street fights," I admitted. "Tha
t became profitable, grew, and eventually became what it is today."

  "Are fight nights busy?" she asked, genuinely curious about the whole thing.

  "Most of them are busy. Friday and Saturday nights are usually packed."

  "How many shows a week are there?"

  Shows, not fights.

  Fucking adorable, that was what she was. And, as a principle, my ass never used that damn word.

  "Four, usually. If we're around a holiday, sometimes more. But four is standard. Thursday, Friday, Saturday, and Sunday."

  She nodded at that, moving away to go pour the coffee. "Black?" she asked, and took my grunt for an answer as I tossed the rest of the supplies into the bag. She walked back toward me with a steaming cup, pressing it into my hand, our fingers brushing as she did. And I swear to Christ, she blushed. "They're from my mom," she said, shaking her head as I looked down at the cup, a mismatch of images all seeming to stem from somewhere in Vermont. "She didn't want me to forget about home."

  Vermont.

  Well, that made a lot of sense then.

  I knew the sweet couldn't have stemmed from around here.

  "You left Vermont for Jersey?" I asked, wondering why. Unless you were from one of the bordering states, you didn't usually pick Jersey out on a map.

  "I needed a change. I like the beach. Sit?" she asked, motioning toward the chairs even as she moved toward them.

  And, no, I didn't need to sit.

  I needed to take my ass home and sleep or some shit because I was clearly exhausted if I was having coffee with some woman in her apartment in the evening after installing a fucking deadbolt on her door when I didn't even know her.

  "So, what do you do Monday through Wednesday then?" she asked as I sat down, noticing she did so with her feet up on the cushion under her ass, legs dipped to one side, cradling her coffee between two hands.

  Details I should not have been noticing.

  "I work." When her brows drew together, clearly curious, but maybe not wanting to pry, for some goddamn reason, I went on. "I am forever needing new fighters. Some just can't hack it. Others get hurt, and need to be on leave for a while. And Hex, while underground, is still a business. Supplies need to be ordered, staff issues need to be dealt with, paperwork handled, all that."

  "Paperwork," she mused. "Sounds like my day." I must have given her a questioning look, because she went ahead and explained. "I work in a doctor's office. Paperwork and phone calls, that's my life." There was another pause in conversation. She, no doubt, feeling a bit like she was talking to a brick wall.

  It had been so fucking long since someone even tried to engage me in conversation that wasn't work-related. I didn't know dick about navigating it.

  "Thank you again for handling the car situation for me. I really appreciate it. And the deadbolt. I guess I really did underestimate the need to be a bit more, erm, cautious around here."

  There it was.

  The harsh reality dragging her down.

  Exactly what I didn't want to see.

  But, I guess, inevitable.

  "It's nothing," I said, shaking it off, taking a long pull of the coffee, brewed a lot stronger than I would have guessed for someone all sugar and honey. Hell, if I didn't see it myself, I wouldn't have pegged her for a coffee drinker at all.

  "Too strong?" she asked, making a grimace. "My father always brewed it strong enough to put hair on your chest. I guess I picked up his habit."

  "It's good, Addy," I said, watching as her head ducked just as a smile pulled at her lips.

  The shy thing, yeah, it was fucking working for me.

  And that was a problem.

  I didn't need it working for me.

  I was trying not to think about the bed three feet behind us, and all the sounds she would make with my hands and mouth on her, with my cock buried deep inside her.

  Fuck.

  I needed to get laid or something.

  It had likely been a while.

  "I'm sorry. I'm not keeping you from anything, am I?" she asked, worrying her bottom lip, a trait that was way too damn distracting.

  And then the strangest fucking sentence I had ever uttered - and I had once needed to tell one of my fighters, who was also a gun-running biker at a local MC not to fuck girls on my desk anymore - came out of me.

  "You hungry?" I asked, realizing it was well after dinner time, and I hadn't eaten anything all day. "I was going to go grab something."

  What the ever loving fuck was that?

  I didn't take women out to dinner.

  Unless, maybe, it was work-related. And then, only if they came up with the idea first.

  "Oh," she said, looking surprised but, if I wasn't mistaken, pleased. "Actually, I was just thinking that my fridge was empty, and I'd have to take a trip to the grocery store."

  "Well, now you can put it off until tomorrow. You shouldn't be driving anyway," I reminded her. I knew very few people - my own fighters included - never followed that advice after a concussion. And, to be fair, most of my fighters never had the side-effects - aside from maybe a headache or tiredness - that came with them. But she did. She had nearly gone down just that morning again.

  But, I guess, when you had no one in your life to help you out, what choice did you have? Life had to go on. You had to keep functioning.

  "Okay," she said, and I swear to God, she lit up.

  And that, well, was not good.

  Not because I didn't like seeing it; it was just the opposite actually. But because she had no business lighting up over a man like me, someone who had nothing to offer her except his distance, his coldness, his guards.

  Which was why, after dinner, I was going to get a hold of myself. I was going to stop engaging her. I was going to keep my distance.

  She didn't deserve a man like me.

  She needed someone who didn't have to keep people at a distance, who could show her warmth, who wouldn't drag her down.

  Not that I was even thinking about being her man.

  I was never anybody's man.

  I had no business even entertaining the idea.

  Christ.

  Yeah.

  I needed food and sleep.

  Then maybe a good fuck to get this all out of my system.

  And then I needed to forget all about the beautiful girl with the innocent air, and the gorgeous green eyes, and the lips that were just begging to be kissed.

  "I should just slip into something--" she started, unfolding her legs from beneath her, then putting her coffee down on the table.

  "What you have on will work, doll. Just grab some shoes."

  I finished my coffee, taking it and her cup to the sink, then going back toward the table beside the door, fishing out the deadbolt keys, and sliding one on each of her key rings - the one I brought back, and the one she kept in her shoe earlier.

  "Okay, all set," she came back in a pair of spiky black heels that made her a good five inches taller, putting her lips much closer to where I'd need them if I wanted to...

  Get my shit together.

  That was what I wanted to do.

  I opened the door silently, waiting for her to step out, and lock both her locks before following me down to the elevator and into the car where I drove her to the only decent restaurant I knew of in town.

  Famiglia.

  It was actually owned by the local Italian mob and was an upscale Italian restaurant resting on stilts over the water with a wide wrap-around deck, floor-to-ceiling windows on the sides that overlooked the ocean, and a sleek, dark, upscale theme inside.

  "Oh!" she cheered, leaning forward in her seat as I moved to park. "I've always wondered about this place. Is the food as good as the restaurant looks?"

  "You're about to find out," I said, tone a little more clipped than it should have been for the sole reason that I was finding her enthusiasm charming, and I didn't want to keep having those thoughts about her.

  I opened her door, putting my hand to her lower back. Because she
was in heels and I wanted to make sure she stayed steady. That was the only reason. The stairs leading up were steep and often slippery from the spray of the water. It was just being careful.

  "Oh, wow," she hissed as soon as we walked in the door, looking around at the atmosphere, taking a deep breath that was filled with spices and a hint of good wine.

  "Ward!" A deep, smooth voice called, making both our heads turn to see Luca Grassi, one of the owners, the son of one of the biggest Italian mob families in the state, called. They could almost constantly be found at Famiglia, but also ran the docks - and therefore controlled all the black market shit that came into Navesink Bank, and Jersey in general. Luca was tall and fit with dark hair, dark eyes, slightly tanned skin, and classic features. He was seemingly - like myself - always in a suit. Tonight, a deep gray one with an expensive as fuck Rolex popping out of his sleeve.

  "Luca," I greeted, shaking his hand. "This is Adalind," I offered a second later than I should have because Luca's eyes went to her, then back to me with a question. That was a thing with the Grassi men, they were strict with their manners.

  "Adalind, welcome to Famiglia," he greeted her with a smile that didn't reach his eyes. Hospitality kindness aside, the man was almost as cold as I was. "Let me show you to a table," he offered, moving to take Addy's other side, then lead us past the tables into the back toward the highly desirable private booths situated on the far wall. Each of them had curved benches that had high backs. The edges that faced out into the restaurant curved inward slightly, almost making each booth its own little room. "Carmen will be over to take your order in just a moment," he said, producing menus out of nowhere as we each sat down. "And I will send over some wine. Ward, bourbon?" he asked, and waited for a nod. "Enjoy your meal." With that, he was gone.

  "Wow, everything looks good," she said as she looked over the menu. "Any recommendations?"

  Her. On the table.

  I could eat her all...

  Oh, for fuck's sake.

  "You really can't go wrong with anything," I managed to bite out, thankful when just a moment later, my bourbon was dropped down in front of me, even if I did need to go through the asinine ritual of approving the wine first. As if Luca would send anything but the best over.