Shift (Hearts and Arrows Book 2)

by Staci Hart

  Kiki sighed, shaking her head. “I’m so stupid. I shouldn’t have flipped out like I did. I’m just … I don’t know. He’s too good to be true, and I feel like I’m just waiting for something bad to happen.”

  “I don’t think Owen could hurt you if he wanted to. It’s not in his nature.”

  “I know. That’s the crazy part.” She didn’t say anything else, and she didn’t have to.

  “I wonder if that crazy bitch will be at the fight.”

  “I hope not.” Kiki scowled, folding her arms. “I will beat her ass.”

  Kat’s lips quirked. “So ballsy. Maybe you should leave your earrings in the car, just in case you need to throw down.”

  “Nah, I’ll just have you hold them for me,” she volleyed on a laugh. “I’m really glad you decided to come tonight.”

  “You and Owen have been working overtime on us, huh?”

  “It wasn’t all that hard. Really, we didn’t do much of anything. No amount of plotting can override Dillon’s dickishness.”

  Kat laughed. “Too real. Were you and Owen already going to the fight tonight?”

  “No. Owen doesn’t like to watch Dillon fight. I think it brings up too many memories. Plus — it’s not exactly legal. There are apparently quite a few unsavory characters at these things.”

  “Nothing I’m not used to.”

  That didn’t stop her mind from wandering to what Dillon had said about the fight and hoped it wouldn’t be too hard to watch. A knot twisted in her stomach at the thought of Dillon getting hit, hurt, beaten.

  She stopped herself.

  This is not a big deal. You aren’t interested. It’s just a fight, and you’ll be home and in bed by ten. Eleven, tops.

  It was strange that Owen didn’t go to Dillon’s fights, as close as they were, and she wondered why, thinking back to something Kiki had said as she pulled up to a light.

  “What did you mean when you said there were too many memories for Owen?”

  “Promise to act surprised if he tells you?”

  She glanced at her sister, curious. “I promise.”

  Kiki looked down at her hands as they flipped her phone over and over again in her lap. “Dillon’s dad used to beat him. It’s how he got started fighting. He’d been fighting since he was a kid, for his life and Owen’s.”

  Someone honked behind her, and she realized the light had changed, her mind still turning over what Kiki had said. With that bit of information, the separate pieces of Dillon clicked together, and the picture finally made sense.

  She imagined him as a boy, those eyes like icy-hot fire, his body small and determined and coiled, fists up to defend himself against a grown man.

  The vision made her feel sick.

  She took a deep breath but couldn’t dismiss the image. She couldn’t feel anything but sadness for him and wrongness for judging him, not knowing where he’d been, what he’d endured.

  “Makes you look at him differently, knowing,” Kiki said, her eyes out the window as they pulled onto Dillon’s street.

  “I can’t even begin to understand what that was like.”

  “Me either. All we know is love and devotion from our parents. Owen and Dillon lived in fear every day from the moment their mother died until they moved out on their own. And Dillon bore the brunt of it. It’s no wonder he’s broken.”

  Kat had no words to respond, and fortunately she didn’t have to. They pulled up to the curb, and Owen trotted out to meet them. When Kiki opened the door, she stepped into him for a kiss, and then they were climbing into the car — Owen in the back, Kiki in the bucket.

  And just like that, they were thundering toward the warehouse and into the arms of the dark of night to the place where Dillon waited to use the sins of his father as currency for survival.

  The warehouse was dark and quiet where Dillon sat, winding a wrap around his wrist and palm, the strip of fabric slipping through his fingers, mimicking a hum he felt in every cell, every atom. It was second nature, a rhythmic routine that quieted his thoughts, brought the world down to a pinhole, small and distant.

  Around the fabric went, around wrist, around palm, back again, leaving his knuckles exposed.

  He watched his hands weave the fabric in a dance, thinking of nothing else with a still, quiet mind. Further he slipped into his mind, to the cage.

  He let the beast out on its thick, heavy chain, and it roared its freedom under the surface of his skin. His control was paper-thin as always, his hand on the chain owning only the illusion that it was strong enough to hold on.

  And the beast paced and watched.

  Kat’s palms were damp, hands shoved into the pockets of her leather jacket, the sound of her heels clicking on the cement warehouse floor ominous, garishly loud, like a death march. Kiki and Owen were ahead of her, moving from light to dark to light again under the industrial bulbs that hung from the ceiling in cages.

  The tension was almost unbearable.

  She could feel the anxious energy from the crowd at the end of the tunnel, carried on the buzz of their voices.

  It agitated her. She knew the energy well enough, but always when she could temper it with confidence and trust of her skill. Here, she was at the mercy of Dillon without knowing he would overcome, without the assurance and understanding of his skill.

  She wanted him to win. She wanted him to win so badly, the thought of him losing made her want to crawl out of her skin.

  The tunnel opened up to a warehouse space filled with people clustered in the darkness around the ring. Floodlights on posts were the only lights in the warehouse, and they shone so bright, so intensely, everything in their beams looked white, blown out, overexposed. As her eyes adjusted, she saw the ring wasn’t white at all but blue with red ropes. Folding chairs sat in opposing corners. She wondered which would be Dillon’s.

  As they approached the edge of the crowd, Owen cast a furtive glance at Kiki before pulling her into his side. Kiki passed the look back to Kat, reaching for her hand. And then they were part of the throng, weaving their way through as faces turned to watch her and Kiki pass with shark smiles and dark eyes.

  They came to a stop near the edge of the ring, standing close to each other as Kat’s anxiety mounted. She’d brought her gun — it rested in the back of her jeans, hidden by her jacket — only out of habit, sure it wasn’t necessary.

  She was certain now she’d been wrong.

  The noise grew as the time came closer to the fight, and Kat scanned the walls, looking for entrances, wondering where Dillon was, where he would come from.

  Owen leaned between the girls’ ears. “He’ll be on this side. You okay?”

  They nodded, and he did the same, his face drawn as he pressed a kiss into Kiki’s hair and turned to the ring.

  Cheers rose like a tidal wave when Dillon emerged from a passage on the far side of the room, moving like a cat, emerging from the darkness and into the blinding lights of the ring. His hair shone, his broad, naked chest glistening with a thin sheen of sweat. His eyes were points of ice under the eaves of his low brows, his lips flat, jaw square. She followed the curves of his arms, her eyes catching on the tattoo winding its way around his biceps and to his forearm.

  A diamondback snake twisted around the thick cords of muscle, the rattle near his shoulder and head on his forearm, mouth open to strike.

  He was terrifying. Terrifying and magnificent and as deadly as the snake on his arm.

  Dillon moved to the corner near the chair, hopping in place, stretching his neck from side to side, while Brian looked on. Kat did too. Her eyes were locked on Dillon, but he didn’t see her. He didn’t seem to see anyone at all.

  A referee stepped into the ring, and from across the room, another fighter emerged. He was huge, a mass of muscles, his face scarred in a tear down one side. Every step he took was menacing, the curl of his lip and glint in his eye telegraphing intent to destroy. When he ducked under the ropes and into the ring, the din of the crowd climbed higher
.

  He was bigger than Dillon, which was crazy in itself because Dillon was a beast. Dillon had said he never lost, but as he stood in the ring with that giant, she wasn’t sure if his streak would last. Because all streaks had an end; it was a law of nature.

  Owen’s voice was in her ear. “Don’t worry. He hasn’t lost in years.”

  She jumped, smoothing her face. “I wasn’t worried.”

  He laughed and stepped back behind Kiki.

  The referee waved both men over and spoke to them, though she couldn’t hear. Through the speech, Dillon and the giant, whom she’d learned was named Boon, stared each other down, shaking hands with no friendship between them.

  And then the fight was on.

  They circled each other with focus so intense, a bomb could detonate nearby and they’d never know.

  Boon made the first move. He swung heavy, the arch of his hand through the air fast, but not fast enough. Dillon leaned back and out of the way with absolute sureness, and Boon’s fist sliced through the air and into nothing.

  Dillon moved almost too quickly for her to see, stepping into him with a hook to the kidney. Spittle flew out of Boon’s mouth, and when they circled again, she saw his skin from the blow was already an alarming shade of red-violet.

  Around they went, Dillon’s fists near his jaw, dancing around Boon, who couldn’t seem to land a punch. His fists swung big and slow — no, not slow. It was just that Dillon moved so fast, everything else seemed to be in slow motion. With every swing, Dillon ducked and bobbed out of the way, anticipating every move. And every time Boon’s fist flew past, Dillon would throw a punch in the rebound, fast as lightning.

  Boon shook his head, blood flowing freely from his cut-up face, and when he narrowed his eyes, Kat’s stomach dropped. He feigned a punch, and when Dillon dodged, Boon’s other fist flew, connecting with Dillon’s nose. He wheeled back, the crowd screaming and whistling and whooping, but Dillon almost instantly caught his balance, spinning around to face Boon, unfazed, even with blood spilling down his face.

  But it was Boon’s turn to anticipate with another punch, an uppercut that sent Dillon arching backward from the force.

  He staggered back — Kat wasn’t breathing, couldn’t move, couldn’t blink, couldn’t look away — and when he caught himself, when he turned again, he was determined. He was raging. He was murderous.

  His body tensed, coiled and indomitable, lips bent in a sneer as he stepped into Boon, stepped into a punch perfectly timed, perfectly placed into his temple.

  The giant spun a hundred and eighty degrees and fell like Goliath, landing flat on his stomach.

  He didn’t get up.

  He didn’t even move.

  The crowd’s roar was deafening.

  Dillon paced around him in a circle, stalking him like an animal, his eyes never breaking the connection to the man on the ground as Boon’s manager and the referee closed ranks, checking the man’s pulse. No one seemed alarmed. They just rolled him over and waved a few people over to help. And then the referee snatched Dillon’s fist and held it up in the air.

  Kat took her first real breath since he’d stepped into the ring. When she glanced at Kiki, her sister’s mouth was hanging open like a fish, and Owen’s face was tight, lips flat, brows knit together. And then she looked back to Dillon.

  But he was gone.

  For a millisecond, she thought it had all been a dream. She craned her neck, scanning the crowd, catching sight of his wide back as he made his way through the crowd across the ring from them, Brian on his heels.

  The crowd around them quieted down as they began exchanging money, with bursts of occasional obscenities or names shouted and eruptions of raucous laughter. A group of men broke into a fight near them, and Owen grabbed the sisters, hauling them toward the back of the warehouse and away.

  Dillon’s ears rang.

  He was back in the room where he’d started, feeling like he’d lost time, though he remembered everything. The lights, blinding. The smell, acrid and bitter. Every swing. Every hit.

  He ran his towel over his face, distantly surprised when he saw it was smeared with his own blood. Then he was at the sink, running his hands under the cool water, splashing it on his face.

  When he looked in the mirror, he saw only the beast, like he was watching himself from a long way away, tugging on that chain to put him back in his cage, to come back. But he dabbed at his face out of habit, wiping away the mess, making him look a little more like himself.

  In appearance at least.

  He stripped down and redressed automatically, pulling on his shirt last.

  Footsteps behind him. A burst of adrenaline.

  He swung around, his body an arch, fists clenched, eyes savage.

  But Owen stood in front of him with a cheerful face and worried eyes, his body tight and ready to move just as well as Dillon’s.

  “Hey, buddy.”

  Those words. His brother’s voice. A tentative hand on his shoulder.

  And the beast turned and walked into the cage on his own.

  “Let’s see your nose,” Owen said, relaxing as Dillon relaxed, his adrenaline thinning out with every heavy heartbeat. “Broken?”

  “No.” He tilted his chin, moving his face to display his profile from both angles.

  Kat stood behind Owen. Dillon hadn’t seen her, but when he did, when he finally did, she was all he could see. Everything was in high relief — the tiny freckles on her nose, the curve of her lips, the sound of her breath, as if he could hear it from across the room. But it was her eyes that held him — jade green, dotted with flecks of moss — as she watched him like a cat, a black cat swathed in leather and warning and wild, regal silence.

  She was a beast in her own right.

  He grabbed his bag without looking away from her — her eyes, those eyes — and moved to her side, closing his hand around hers, not surprised when she didn’t pull away.

  “Come with me,” he said, a command that wouldn’t be ignored.

  And she didn’t. She followed him out into the night where they belonged.

  They sped through the streets in silence.

  Kat’s heart thumped hard enough to send tremors through the fabric of her shirt as she listened to the hum of Dillon’s GTO. She could feel when he was about to shift every time, up and down, finding herself satisfied when he did just as she would. There was something poetic about the way he moved — from the ball of his gearshift to his wheel, the motion of his feet. The way he touched that GTO like he was seducing it, like he was worshipping it, and she wondered if he would tune to her as he did his car, if he would know just when to shift, if he would speed her away into the night.

  The streetlights lit his face, only to pass it back into darkness every few seconds. Her eyes traced his profile against the black night outside the window — disheveled blond hair; the bridge of his long nose, bent slightly where it had once been broken; the angles and curves of his lips; his square chin, and the line of his jaw smattered with stubble.

  He was more than a man, in a league and a class something all its own, and no man could ever hold the raw power and command as the one sitting next to her.

  Dillon pulled into his garage, killed the engine, and turned to her, the leather of his seat squeaking quietly.

  His lips turned in the smallest of smiles. “I told you I didn’t lose.”

  She found she couldn’t quite breathe with him looking at her like that, with him leaning toward her like he was.

  “Dillon, I’ve never seen anything like you in my life.”

  His eyes, so sharp, so hot. “I could say the same about you. Even if you did doubt me.”

  “Respect earned,” she said softly.

  “That means a lot, coming from you.” He leaned closer, his eyes on her lips.

  “Does it?”

  “More than you know.”

  He slipped his hand into her hair, stopping her heart, her lids fluttering closed as he pulled her towar
d him —

  Kat’s car rumbled up to the curb behind them, sending the two away from each other and nearly out of their seats, heads swiveling to look through the back window.

  And just like that, the moment was gone.

  He offered a smile as they turned to open their doors, and Kat sucked in a deep breath, adjusting her leather jacket as she climbed out.

  Owen and Kiki were walking up the drive, his arm slung around her shoulders, his other hand in his jacket pocket.

  “Hey, you crazy kids. I think it’s about time for the obligatory celebratory drink.” He slapped Dillon on the shoulder when they walked past to the stairs. “Say that three times fast,” he called over his shoulder.

  Kat and Dillon smiled at each other over the roof of the car, and they walked around it together, arms touching when they met, the two only parting when they had to.

  Owen stood in a beautiful kitchen, gathering supplies for drinks, and Kiki took a seat at the island bar. Everything in the place was brand-new. The hardwood floors gleamed, the cabinets and counters were modern and sleek, and the furniture was expensive and simple. He had money and plenty of it, not particularly surprising if he hadn’t lost in years. Plural. She wondered if he bet on himself. She would if she were him.

  It seemed they had winning in common; that much was certain.

  Kat took the stool next to Kiki, but Dillon hitched a thumb over his shoulder. “I’m gonna take a quick shower. Don’t have too much fun without me.”

  “We’ll try to hold back,” Owen said as he poured Jameson over ice into three glasses. “You ladies need a mixer?”

  “Yes, please,” Kiki answered sweetly.

  “I’m good,” Kat said.

  Owen raised an eyebrow. “Ah, a woman after my own heart.”

  He offered her a glass, and she took it with an accepting nod.

  Owen popped open a can of root beer and poured it into Kiki’s glass.

  She eyed him. “You’re kidding, right?”

  He handed it over. “Nope.”

  Kiki took the glass, and when she tentatively sipped it, her eyes opened wide in astonishment. “Wow.”