Candy Boys

by Raven, Jo

  ***

  I wake up in Riot’s arms in my bed. Can’t remember how we got here last night. I only remember talking, crying, more talking and then mind-blowing sex on my couch.

  No more secrets.

  A fight that could end in life or death.

  I carefully extricate myself from Riot’s hold and turn around to study his face in the morning light. The swelling in his jaw has gone down, but the bruising has spread, darkening one side of his face. His dark hair falls over his eyes. He looks so young.

  Too young for all that violence and pain, for a past so troubled.

  I climb off the bed soundlessly and grab a house robe, then pad to the kitchen. I stand at the window, twitch the curtain aside, gaze at the buildings. It’s a bright winter day, the sun hitting the shiny façades in blinding reflections.

  Fear taps icy fingers down my back, making me shiver. Learn to live with your fear. Don’t let it stop you.

  Okay. But even if I trust Riot, if I believe he can make it, I don’t trust the guys who set this up and beat him up.

  I don’t trust them not to rig the fight somehow to make sure he loses.

  He has no allies but me right now. We need more allies. Someone with money and contacts. Someone powerful.

  Ellen Morris. The elderly lady he visits sometimes. She comes from an old, powerful family, Gale said.

  And Riot said he would call her, which means her phone number has to be in his cell phone contacts.

  Pushing off the window, I start toward the living room before I even know what I’m doing. Or what I intend to do.

  Call her? And then what? Ask her for what exactly? Her money? Her influence to put a stop to an underground fight?

  Why should she care? Why should she involve herself in something illegal on behalf of an escort, no less, who missed their last appointment because he was beaten up so badly he’d drowned the pain in booze?

  But the doubts don’t stop me from going through Riot’s leather jacket and pants until I locate his phone and scroll through his contacts until I hit gold.

  There. Ellen Morris.

  Can’t call from his phone. And he might overhear me. So I grab for a pen and paper and quickly jot down the number and hide it under a snow globe my parents sent me from one of their trips.

  Just in time, too. A shuffling noise, and then Riot is standing at the door, rubbing his face, his dark hair standing up in all directions.

  Naked. Perfectly gorgeous.

  He shakes his head, blinks and gives me a heart-stopping smile. “Morning, beautiful.”

  Shucks. “Morning.”

  He comes over, takes me in his arms. “Come here.” He kisses me, deeply and thoroughly until I’m slack in his arms, then sighs as he draws back. “Time for a coffee before you run off to classes?”

  “Yeah.” Though the last thing on my mind right now is classes. He drags me off to the kitchen and puts his arms around me as I prepare the coffee. “And you? What are your plans for the day?”

  “Feed the boys. Take Batman out for a walk. Train.”

  I turn in his arms. “I want to see you fight. I want to be there.”

  His expression shutters. “Babe, you can’t. It’s only thugs and mafia there. It’s dangerous.”

  “I don’t care. I’m coming with you.”

  He opens his mouth, closes it, and for a moment something like panic flashes through his gaze. “Those men, Elliot and Oliver, told me that they’ll hurt you if I fuck up. I don’t want you anywhere near them. Please, Pax. If I see you there, I’ll lose what courage I have. All I’ll be able to fucking think about will be you. Do you understand?”

  Crap, yeah, I do. I nod. “Yes.” I put my arms around his waist, pull him closer. “Can I at least see you before you go to fight?”

  “You’re seeing me now.”

  No, no. “I need to see you—”

  “Pax.” His throat works. His eyes are too bright. “Saying goodbye will fucking kill me, don’t you get it? I can’t say goodbye to you.”

  “Then don’t say it.”

  We stand like that, not speaking, holding on to each other.

  “I will come back,” he says in the end.

  “I know.” But my eyes burn. “I know.”

  He releases me. “Why don’t you make the coffee and I’ll go get dressed.”

  “Sure.”

  A shadow crosses his features, like a wince of pain, and I wonder if his ribs hurt, but before I ask, he backs away and leaves the room.

  Afraid, worried, faintly panicking, I set about finishing the coffee and setting two mugs on the table. I call his name, but I get no reply.

  I putter around, putting the sugar and cookies on the table, check the fridge for cheese. Call his name again.

  He doesn’t answer.

  It’s not until I’ve walked through the apartment, looking for him, that I understand what he meant when he told me he didn’t want to say goodbye.

  He’s gone.

  ***

  “Take a deep breath,” Corey says over the phone. “Did you try calling him?”

  “Of course I did! He won’t reply.”

  “How about going around his place? I can come with you.”

  “I don’t know.” I’m pacing a furrow into my living room carpet. “God, he didn’t want to say goodbye, Corey.”

  “I know,” he says gently. “For some people it’s hard.”

  “But he promised he will come back, so why—?” I swallow back tears. “He doesn’t believe he’ll come back, does he?”

  “One never knows with these things, right? Even if he does all he can, a bit part is up to chance.”

  Christ.

  “I don’t know what to do,” I confess, dropping on my sofa. “I’m terrified he’ll die there and I won’t ever see him again.”

  “And in that same fatalistic vein, darling,” Corey drawls, “he could be hit by a truck while crossing the street and you wouldn’t see him again. How’s that different?”

  “Corey!” I smack my hand on the sofa cushions. “It’s not the same and you know it. He’s going to be in a deadly fight. With no legal protection. No boundaries. The chances of getting a fatal injury are far more than…” I choke. “God.”

  “Not sure about that.” Corey sounds thoughtful. “You said Riot fought this Crusher guy once, and he obviously survived to tell the tale.”

  “But Crusher killed Markus!”

  “Yeah, but Riot isn’t Markus, sweet pea. Think about it. Riot faced Crusher once, and hit his head and lost the game. His boss decided to put him back in the ring with this Crusher dude soon after. His boss thought Riot could take Crusher down. Why can’t you?”

  I wipe my sweaty hand down my leg. “Do you believe that, Corey? You’re not saying it just to make me feel better? ”

  “I think it makes sense. Of course, Riot’s been out of the game for two years and—”

  “Stop. Don’t make me change my mind again.”

  “Sorry, darling.” Corey is quiet for a few beats. “You know I can hear cogs turning in that sharp little brain of yours, right? What are you up to?”

  “Nothing.”

  “You can’t lie to me, Paxtyn Pauline Page.”

  “I’m not up to anything.”

  I don’t even have a plan. Which sucks.

  “He’ll do fine. If I was in his place, I’d want my girlfriend to think I can do it.”

  “But that won’t help, Corey. How can that help?”

  “Trust me,” he says. “And trust him.”

  ***

  “Mrs. Ellen Morris?” My heart is racing like a train with broken brakes. “This is Paxtyn Page speaking.”

  “Hello?” She sounds uncertain. “Do I know you, Ms. Page?”

  “We have a common friend. Riot Gallagher.”

  A moment of silence.

  “How did you get this number?”

  “From Riot’s phone. Please, Mrs. Morris, don’t hang up. Riot’s life is at stake.”
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  She produces an incredulous sound, half cough, half laughter. “His life?”

  “He’s facing Clay the Bone Crusher tonight at the Hellfire fighters club, against his will. Please, please tell me there’s something you can do to help him.”

  “The Crusher,” she repeats, as if she knows him. “A vengeful move.”

  “Yes. How do you know that?”

  “It doesn’t matter.” She harrumphs. “Riot can take him.”

  “He killed Riot’s friend.”

  “Yes, yes.” Impatient. “But not Riot. Riot’s a hard one to kill.”

  Oh God, this old lady and Corey have more faith in Riot than I do. Or else I’m more scared for him because I love him more and I care if he ends up dead.

  “So there’s nothing you can do to help?”

  “Help. What kind of help—? Ah! Of course.” She chuckles in the phone. “Give me your address, sweetie, and I’ll come pick you up.”

  “Pick me up? To go where?”

  “To see Riot fight, of course. I can get us good seats. Oh yes,” she hums faintly a tune I don’t recognize, “I’ve waited for this a long time.”

  ***

  It’s frigging cold. The scent of snow is back in the air, the clouds low and white. I jump from foot to foot, feeling it even through my thick coat, boots, woolen mitts and scarf.

  A limo cruises by, shiny and black, and I watch it go.

  It stops. A gloved hand reaches out of one rolled-down tinted window and beckons.

  I stare.

  It beckons again, imperatively.

  The glove is pink, I realize as I approach, dragging my feet. It can’t be…

  The door opens. “Ms. Page, please come in. Sorry for the small delay.”

  Wow.

  I climb into the limo, close the door and we’re off before I even settle on the leather seat. A slender old lady is sitting there with the air of a queen. She’s dressed in a long black coat, a pale pink dress peeking underneath, and pink pumps. Her gray hair is styled in an elegant coif, swept back from her face. Huge diamonds glitter on her ears and around her neck.

  “Nice you meet you, Ms. Page,” she says and tends a gloved hand.

  I take it automatically. “Please call me Pax.”

  “Pax.” She smiles, deepening the wrinkles in her cheeks. “Please call me Ellen. So you’re Riot’s friend.”

  “Girlfriend.” Again, automatic responses. I’m too weirded out to engage my brain properly, the truth coming out of me without prompting.

  “I thought as much.” She smiles contently. “It was about time that boy found some happiness in his life.”

  “He wasn’t happy before?”

  “Not really. He smiled a lot on the surface, but his job was wearing at him, I believe.”

  “And yet you paid to pet his hair.”

  “Someone had to get through his defenses, and it was the only way I could think of. He wouldn’t let anyone near. So I paid him so he’d allow me.” She tsks. “Boy needs affection. Hasn’t had enough in his life. He’s like a wild animal sometimes. You need to take your time to let them smell you and accept your touch.”

  Like what Riot said about his pets. And me.

  “Why would you want to show him affection? And get through his defenses?” I narrow my eyes at her, suspicious all of a sudden. “What are you hiding?”

  She laughs, a bright sound that has my mouth twitching. “Oh dear me,” she gasps. “I love it. You’re so protective of him. That’s good.”

  “You haven’t answered my question.”

  “Indeed.” She cuts me a sideways glance out of wide blue eyes. “Maybe I wanted some affection myself. Riot’s like a son to me.”

  “You don’t have children?”

  “I do. That’s the problem.” She looks away. “My son is nothing like Riot. Riot is the son I would have wanted, if fate cared at all.”

  ***

  The limo stops in a narrow back street and the driver comes out and helps Ellen out. He’s dressed in an immaculate blue uniform and has a mustache that could be used as a lethal weapon.

  I feel as if we time-traveled as we drove here.

  The driver leads Ellen to a heavy metal door and rings a bell in the panel beside it. The panel only has The Club engraved in it.

  I shiver in my coat and wonder if I was supposed to dress better. More elegantly, like her. I always thought underground fights took place in a pit with sweaty half-naked men yelling and dogs barking and women in skimpy bikinis slithering down poles.

  The door cracks open and a suspicious face appears. The driver tells him something in a voice so deep and low it lifts the hairs on my arms, and the door opens wide.

  “Mrs. Morris,” the man at the door says, a huge guy, at least six feet four, his craggy face set in lines of great shock.

  “In the flesh,” Ellen says as she walks into the club, her head held high. “Thank you, James, you can go now. I’ll be fine. Come along, Pax, my dear.”

  James. I snicker as I enter, because come on, a driver called James? Can you get any more clichéd? But then my snicker turns into a gasp.

  Because the inside of the club is nothing like I imagined. It’s like an amphitheater with seats going down in rows to the ring. Around the perimeter there are raised platforms with couches and tables laden with bottles and glasses. And although not everyone we pass is dressed like they’re going to a gala, they sure have taken care with their appearance.

  Gelled-back hair, flashy jewelry, fancy brands flashing on clothes, smartphones glittering with Swarovski crystals and God knows what else.

  Holy crap, the place is packed.

  “No way we’re getting a seat in here,” I mutter as I follow Ellen down the steps between rows. “I can stand, no problem, but—”

  “Stop worrying, dear.” She turns to me, links her arm with mine, and leans in as if to confess a secret. “Everything will be all right.”

  Not so sure about that, but her confidence gives my frail hope a boost and I nod.

  A woman clad in a dress so tight I wonder how she can breathe accosts us and smiles brightly at Ellen.

  “Mrs. Morris. Welcome to the Hellfire Fight Club.” Her accent is foreign, a little musical. “We were not expecting you.”

  “Of course not. I have never come before, have I? Not since Sergei died.”

  The woman’s smile falters. She has huge blue eyes and her blond hair is in a ponytail so long it reaches her ass. “Your seats are right this way. If you’ll follow me.” She turns and walks down on her sky-high stilettos, her ponytail swaying hypnotically, and we follow. “Should I alert—”

  “Only when I tell you, girl,” Ellen says in a tone so icy I flinch. “Your name?”

  “Natasha, Mrs. Morris.”

  “You stay close, Natasha. There’s a few things I may need.”

  “I am honored,” she says as she leads us onto one of the raised platforms, and I can’t tell from her tone if she’s being sarcastic or not. “I will be right here.”

  “Very well.” Ellen takes a seat on the white leather couch and sighs. “Come sit, Pax. We have a few things to talk about before the match begins.”

  My mind reeling, I sit beside her. Natasha leans over to pour us both a narrow, tall glass of amber liquid, then retreats to the side like before.

  “I’m all ears,” I say, my voice raw. I lift the glass, take a sip, and warm sweetness glides down my throat.

  “Riot left the fight club two years ago, right after his friend Markus died.”

  “Was killed,” I correct softly.

  “Killed,” she concedes with an incline of her head. “Since then he has been working at Bad Boy Escorts and sending all his profits to a single-mother family. Markus’s family. Now the club has found an opportunity to have him fight again, because the Crusher is back in town.”

  “Why didn’t the Crusher come back these past two years, then?”

  Her blue eyes flash. “Killing people isn’t acceptable in th
e club, not if everyone agrees it was done on purpose.”

  “He killed Markus on purpose?” I put down my glass, my hand trembling. “Why would he?”

  “Because the Crusher is an angry young man and violence is his only outlet. His father wasn’t like him at all.”

  “His father?”

  “Sergei Baran, or the Enforcer as he was known in the underground scene.”

  “Russian?”

  “Yes. All this,” she waves a hand with a flashing diamond ring, “is the Russian mob’s business.”

  “What’s your role in this?” I narrow my eyes at her. “How do you know so much about the fight club and the mob?”

  “Long story.” She lifts her glass, takes a dainty sip. “We’re not here to talk about me, but about Riot.”

  “The reason I called you in the first place was to ask if you could spare him this. If you know people in the scene, maybe you could ask them to cancel the match, let him go.”

  “I cannot do that.” She turns the glass in her long, thin fingers. “They wouldn’t agree. You see, this is an honor debt. Riot stepped down, forfeiting the match, and if the boss hadn’t replaced him with Markus, the club would have been the ridicule of the scene. You don’t just walk away from a fight. From a club. This is the mob.”

  “But why—?”

  “If he doesn’t fight tonight, they’ll probably kill him, and everyone he cares for as well. A show of power to appease the other clubs. But if he does fight, no matter the outcome, then he’s free to go afterward.”

  “As long as he survives.”

  She tips her chin in a nod. “Yes.”

  Somewhere a whistle sounds. People crowd around the ring.

  “Can’t you buy them out? You’re rich, aren’t you?” I’m being rude, but the match will be starting any minute now, and here I am, playing my last card. “If you care for him like you claim.”

  “You can’t buy out the Russian Mob. At least, I can’t. You can’t imagine the sums needed for that, girl.”

  She’s angry. Of course she is.

  “I’m sorry, Ellen.” I scrub my hands over my face. “I don’t want him to die.”

  “Neither do I.” She sighs. “That boy never let me give him a cent more than I owed him. He’s stubborn and proud, or I’d have helped him long before now. He never told me about himself. And…” She puts down her glass and leans forward, staring at the ring. “Here they come.”