by Mazzy King
Connor trails off, swallowing.
“You think they got to him,” I finish.
He nods again.
“Shit,” I mutter.
“They told me that if I lose one more time—lose them money—they’ll get rid of me,” he says, a note of desperation in his voice. “And they will. I know they will.”
“So you can’t lose,” I say simply.
"Normally, I wouldn't be worried about that, but…" Connor swallows. "The guy I'm going up against is from New York. He's huge there. Never lost. And he's backed by the New York mob."
My stomach tightens for Connor, but I reach out and grip his shoulder. “You won’t win anything with a negative attitude. Come on. Game face on. It’s time.”
He bobs his, looking totally defeated, but slides behind the wheel. I push his door shut and hold out a fist.
Connor looks up at me, then taps his fist against mine.
“Ride out,” I say simply, stepping back.
Connor pulls off, honking his horn, and the crowd parts to let him coast to the starting point.
“Working, huh?”
My heart freezes in my chest at the sound of the hurt, acidic voice behind me. I turn around.
Imogen stands a few feet away, her eyes full of anger and betrayal.
7
Imogen
Why am I surprised? Why am I so shocked at this?
Tristan Black lied to me. Tristan Black is a criminal. Tristan Black never changed. Tristan Black isn’t someone I can trust.
It shouldn’t surprise me. It shouldn’t shock me.
It shouldn’t hurt me so fucking bad.
But it does.
He at least as the audacity to look shocked to see me, shocked and ashamed. But before he can open that beautiful mouth of his and spew more lies, I turn on my heel and stalk away.
I followed him here after he left. I had to know. My gut was screaming at me that something wasn’t right, and I was done ignoring it. And apparently, Tristan hasn’t learned his lesson. It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to know and understand how illegal street racing is, and there’s always extremely dangerous and unsavory people at these races. Drug money, trafficking money, illegal money tends to fund these drivers, the organization of these races, the winning pots. There’s nothing innocent about this. This isn’t work.
I just came here to confront him. To look him in the eye and let him know I know. That’s all.
I only make it a handful of long strides away from him before a large hand closes around my elbow. “Im, wait!”
His grip is firm, but I whirl around, flinging it off. “Don’t touch me, Tristan!”
“Just wait,” he pleads, holding his hands out but respecting my wishes. “Please, Im. Just listen to me.”
“You’ve said enough.”
“No.” He steps toward me, quickly closing the gap between us. “This isn’t what it looks like.”
“Oh, come on,” I cry, flinging my arms out to the sides. “This illegal street race isn’t what I think it is?”
“Imogen.” He takes my hands. “I’m working for RCPD. I’m here undercover, trying to get intelligence.”
I stare at him. Either he’s taking his lying to another level, or…
Tristan gazes at me earnestly, directly. He looks harried and worried, but he seems …sincere.
Honest.
“You can’t be serious,” I whisper. “You’re a cop?”
He shakes his head. “No. I’m working for them. With them. It all started when I was locked up. Do you know why I got less than a year? Because they recruited me. The last several months of my sentence, I was training with them. I’m here because the driver I was just talking to is someone they want as a witness.”
“Against who?”
“The mob,” he says quietly.
“Shit,” I whisper.
“I couldn’t tell you. I’m still not supposed to tell you. But I love you, Imogen, and I am the man you want. I’m not a criminal. I guess I’m just playing one at the moment.”
I gulp, my heart pounding. “So what happens now?”
He tilts his head toward the race. “I have to keep an eye on him. I have to meet him at the finish line.”
“I saw your car back there,” I tell him. “I’m closer. Let’s go.”
“Imogen, I can’t have you—”
“No,” I say firmly. “Let’s go.”
Tristan thinks better of arguing with me, and we jog to my car, then he directs me to the location of the finish line. Another huge crowd is gathered there, and in the distance, I can faintly hear the scream of those souped-up car engines as they race toward us.
We park and hop out. Tristan grabs my hand, and we muscle our way through the crowd to the front, just in time to see the two cars tearing down the road toward us. I clutch his hand. This just feels so wrong. Not only the racing—it's illegal, but that doesn't bother me nearly as much as the sense of dread I have, that I feel hanging over the crowd does.
A white car and a blue car speed toward us.
“That’s him, the white car,” Tristan says to me. “My guy. The witness they want.”
The cars are neck and neck, if cars can be neck and neck. All of a sudden, the white car shoots ahead.
“The nitrous!” Tristan yells. “He’s going to do it!”
But like something out of a racing movie, the blue car shoots forward, catches up to the white car…and surpasses it. It streaks across the finish line, slamming on the breaks.
The white car rolls over it just a beat later.
“Fuck!” Tristan yells. “Fuck!”
The white car screeches to a stop. A second later, a tall, built guy practically falls out of the vehicle, hitting the pavement with his knees.
This is more than just losing a race.
“What’s going on?” I ask Tristan.
But before I can wait for his answer, across the street, I see a man wearing a black T-shirt and black pants step out of the crowd. He walks toward the two cars.
No, he’s walking toward the white car.
And he’s holding something.
My heart stops.
“Gun,” I utter. “Tristan, gun. That guy has a gun!”
People next to me take up the cry, and it spreads like wildfire.
Tristan pushes me down the ground. “Stay here!”
And then the man I love sprints away—toward the driver who lost the race. Toward the man who lifts the gun and aims it at that same driver.
“Tristan!” I scream.
He barrels into the driver, tackling him, just as a gunshot tears through the night.
People scream, dropping to the ground.
Out of the crowd, a handful of burly men push and shove, racing toward the shooter. "Drop the gun! Police!"
But I can only spare them a nanosecond of my attention.
Tristan and the driver are lying on the ground. Three of the men tackle the shooter.
I leap to my feet and race over to him. My heart is lodged in my throat. “Tristan?”
I see the pool of blood and stumble.
A loud groan comes from him.
No, wait. Not Tristan—the other guy.
Slowly, Tristan sits up. The skin on his arms is scuffed, but I don’t see any pouring blood or gunshot wounds.
The driver is hit, clutching his arm and moaning in pain.
Tristan leans over. “Connor, you’re gonna be all right, man. EMTs are on their way.”
“Move, please!”
The shout from behind me makes me jump—several EMTs carrying a stretcher jog toward us. I scramble out of the way as Tristan steps to the side.
The driver—Connor—looks pale, but alert. He looks up at Tristan as they strap him to the stretcher. “Thank you.”
Tristan just nods.
After they cart Connor off, Tristan turns to me and pulls me into his arms.
I can’t help it. I burst into body-wracking tears.
Trist
an murmurs into my ear, soothing me with murmurs as he holds me close.
“I thought that was you,” I choke out. “I thought you got shot. I thought you were dead. That’s my biggest fear, Tristan. I told you before—I can’t see you get hurt. I won’t watch you die!”
“Shh,” he whispers, holding me tight. “It’ll never happen. I’m not that guy anymore. I’ll never be that guy again.”
“But now you’re a guy who runs toward bullets.”
“I got lucky. Trust me, I don’t plan to make a habit of that.” He pulls back and kisses me on the forehead.
“I’m sorry to interrupt…”
We turn. A tall, muscular guy with two arms full of tattoos stands behind us, and I realize he was one of the guys who took down the shooter.
He nods at Tristan, then smiles at me. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a wallet-like object, then flashes me a badge. “I’m Detective Saint Rivers, RCPD. Tristan, I was wondering if I could have a word with you?”
I’ve seen enough cop shows and movies to know, especially since he’s involved in all this, that he’s going to have to go with them and talk about everything that happened, to give them all his information. It’ll probably be a while. I hate the idea of not being with him right now, but he…has work to do.
Amazingly, a streak of pride goes through me, underneath the confusion and fear. I’m proud of him. Proud of what he’s been doing, even if I don’t fully understand it yet.
“Wait,” Tristan tells me, holding up a finger. He and Detective Rivers step away a few feet and speak earnestly for a little bit. Then the detective nods, claps Tristan on the shoulder, waves to me, and turns and walks off.
Tristan walks toward me, and without missing a beat, winds an arm around my waist and guides me away from the crowd, back toward my car.
“What… Don’t you need to go with him?”
“I told him you needed me more right now,” he says softly, smiling down at me. “And that I need you. And that my information can wait until the morning. He understood.”
At my car, I turn to look up at him. “What about your car?”
“I told him to keep an eye out for it. They’re going to take it back to my place for me.” He strokes a thumb down my cheek. “Are you okay to drive?”
“No,” I admit, handing him my keys.
Our hands grip each other as he takes the keys.
"I'll explain everything," he says earnestly. He pulls me into his arms. "I need you to believe me. I'm sorry for all of this. This, and our past. I'm so sorry I put you through any of it. I can't lose you, Im. I won't lose you again. You're all I want. I love you. Forever."
I smile up at him through my tears. “Tristan?”
“Yes?”
“Please just kiss me.”
He gathers me against his chest and kisses me with a bottomless well of passion and emotion. Of love.
He’s right. We do have a lot to talk about, but I know we’re strong enough to withstand it.
Forever.
Epilogue
Tristan
Three months later
I ball my fists and wince against the pain as the buzzing and white-hot scratching go on and on and on and on.
Almost done. She said we’re almost done.
The next few minutes feel like hours as Imogen puts the finishing touches on the back piece she just tattooed on me—the beautiful, fierce phoenix from her sketchbook I saw the first night I walked back into her life. I wanted her art on my body forever, and I could think of nothing more fitting than the image of the phoenix rising from the ashes. Rebirth, after destruction.
"All right," she says, and the buzzing and white-hot scratching mercifully stops. "You're all set. Let's take a look."
I push myself off her table, wincing at the feeling of my sandblasted skin. I was hoping I’d go numb at some point, but over five hours of work, that didn’t happen.
But when I see it in the mirror, all that pain—every last bit of it—was worth it.
The phoenix is shades of red and black and gray. The proud, widespread wings stretch from shoulder to shoulder, bright fire rippling at their tips. The ostrich-like tail-feathers spread across my lower back, curling around my waist and hips, and in the middle is the mighty phoenix, white eyes, beak open in a fierce scream.
It's breathtaking artwork, and it's hers, and I'll carry it with me forever.
“It’s stunning,” I tell her. “Just—wow.”
Imogen looks exhausted, but she smiles proudly as she pulls off her gloves and tosses them into the trash. “I love it. I’m so glad it went to the perfect person. Nobody but you could have that tattoo.”
I turn to face her and lean in for a kiss. “How about one more quick one?”
She draws her head back. “What, a tattoo?”
“Yeah.”
“What is it?”
I pull the scroll of paper I printed out earlier and slowly unfurl it. "I was thinking of some lettering. Across my chest. My heart."
Across my left pec, facing her, I hold the scrap of paper with bold lettering.
She reads it once, then twice, then lifts shocked eyes to me.
WILL YOU MARRY ME? the scrap reads.
I drop the paper and pull something else out of my pocket.
A black diamond ring.
“Tristan,” she breathes.
“I need to ask you something I should’ve asked you a long time ago,” I tell her, reaching for her hand. “Because I’ve wanted to marry you since the day we met, Imogen. But I know I had to walk through fire to deserve you. To deserve this moment. And I would gladly walk through it again to hear you say yes, to hear you tell me I can spend my life making you happy.”
“Yes,” she says, tears streaming down her cheeks. “Yes, Tristan. Yes!”
She flies into my arms, taking care not to touch my back. Instead, as I pull her close, her hands land on my chest, over my heart, as we kiss. I need her to feel it pounding. I need her to know that every beat belongs to her. Has always belonged to her.
And always will.
The End
7 | CONNOR
1
Connor Cavanaugh
I sit in a windowless conference room with a cup of terrible coffee in front of me, while a couple of detectives talk.
It’s a surreal moment because not too long ago, I was in the same position, minus the shitty coffee.
Only this time, a few months later, I’m not sitting here with handcuffs on, confessing to the terrible choices I made in my life that almost got me killed. As if on cue, the mostly healed gunshot wound in my left bicep throbs once, gently but painfully, reminding me of how close I did actually come to dying, had it not been for a stranger.
A stranger who came before me, who once sat in this very same room.
The door opens, and a built young African American guy steps in. He’s wearing a T-shirt that says “RCFD,” which I’m pretty sure stands for Ridge City Fire Department. What’s a firefighter doing here?
“Connor,” one of the detectives says, lifting a hand toward the firefighter. “We’d like you to meet Khalil Robinson. He’s a firedog now, but he used to be a Recruit. And, he used to run an underground network of informants too. You might’ve heard of it—the Harbinger?”
I stare at Khalil. “You’re the Harbinger?”
He smiles. “Used to be. We still maintain our intel, but we’re not publishing much these days.” He pauses, then stares meaningfully at me. “You tell anyone, I will kill you.”
I glance at the detectives. Neither of them even blink at the not-so-playful threat. “Um, sure, dude. No problem. So you’re here to help with intel on the Mortenson operation?”
“Sort of. I still have a day job.” He looks wryly at the detectives.
One of the detectives nods as Khalil takes a seat. “We’ve asked him to look into some things for us. Khalil?”
Khalil leans forward. “So, my fiancée and I were able to uncover some informat
ion about the trafficking ring run by Robert Mortenson. We tapped into our sources on the dark web, and there’s some chatter that there’s going to be a private gala where attendees can meet some of the women they’re holding. It’s being advertised as a fundraiser, but that’s bullshit. They’re displaying the women before a big auction that’s going down in a couple of weeks.”
“Auction?” I reply, frowning. This is fucked, and what makes me feel sick is that when I raced, I was backed financially by an organization that did this shit. They got punished and dismantled, but they’re not the only ones who do this shit by a long shot.
Khalil nods. “These women are going to be sold overseas for top dollar. I mean, top dollar. Their potential buyers can do absolutely anything they want with them. I don’t even want to talk about what that could entail, but the punchline is, the women will never be seen again, one way or another.”
“Fuck,” I say through clenched teeth. “I’ve got to get into that party.”
“You’re in luck,” Khalil says. “Mortenson wants bouncers. All the help for the ‘gala’ is by referral only. We can forge some credentials for you that make it look like a trustworthy source has recommended you.”
The detective looks at me. “Tonight’s intel only, Connor. We need to know what the Mortenson gang has planned, but we don’t want to arouse their suspicions. If all goes well, we’ll get them at the auction, but we need hard intel on that.”
I nod. “You got it.”
Khalil flicks his head at me. “You’re going to need a suit.”
Later that night, wearing an expensive black suit I don’t get to keep, I stroll around the first floor of an enormous estate. People mill around, wearing tuxes and evening dresses like this is some actual fancy ball. Men and women alike. I wasn’t sure what to expect, but seeing so many wealthy people walking around with champagne flutes and canapes like this is legit blows my fucking mind.