Rafe

by Jo Raven

  I’ll check later, I tell myself, trying not to read anything into this, and throw myself into work. Hours pass, and I’m thankful for the traffic that keeps my mind off a certain someone.

  Until that someone walks into the coffee shop and orders a latte to take out.

  Oh Jesus. I back away into the kitchen, my heart hammering. Does he know I work here Sundays, or is it a coincidence?

  As my mind scrambles for an explanation, I look down at my stained purple shirt and apron, and suddenly wish I’d worn something sexier.

  This is so wrong, I can’t even.

  I watch from my hiding place as he settles back against the bar to wait for his drink, gaze flicking right and left. There’s a gaunt air about his face, his cheekbones too sharp and prominent. He taps his fingers on the bar, then shoves his hands into his jacket pockets. Never seen him so nervous before.

  A bang sounds from somewhere inside the coffee shop—I recognize it as a chair falling over—and he jerks back, cracking his elbow, then almost falls off the stool.

  Then he’s rushing to the exit, his order forgotten.

  Holy crap. What happened here? I push the kitchen door open, step out.

  Jessie, who’s been preparing it, yells at him to wait, but Rafe doesn’t look back. He lets the door slam shut behind him, and through the windows of the café I see him running as if the hounds of hell are snapping at his heels.

  Worried, sorry I didn’t come out to talk to him instead of hiding, angry at myself for caring, I walk to the bar and take the latte in shaky hands.

  “I’ll have it,” I tell Jessie who’s fuming.

  “Suit yourself. That fucking asshole.”

  “I think…” I replay what happened in my mind. “I think he got spooked by the noise.”

  Which makes no sense. I mean, this is Rafe we’re talking about. Always strong, impassive, the rock of the Inked Brotherhood. But now I remember moments when I sensed something was wrong. He’s good at hiding his pain, it seems. At putting a brave front to others and pretending he’s okay, when deep inside he’s not.

  I should know. I do the same. Because there are some wounds that are so deep they never really heal.

  “Stupid freak.” Jessie throws his rag on the counter. “If a chair falling spooks him so much he forgets his order, then he should be locked up.”

  “Seriously?” His words seep through my daze and anger flares. “You have no idea what you’re talking about, so just shut up, okay?”

  “And now you’re on his side?” He huffs and turns his back to me. “Enjoy the latte.”

  “Why can’t I be on his side?” I whisper, clutching the paper cup in my hands.

  Crap. I wish I knew more about Rafe’s past. I try to imagine where he’s heading now. Home? To his friends at Damage Control? Does he have someone to talk to?

  I think he’s already locked up, inside, and it makes me so damn sad it’s all I can do not to break down and cry.

  ***

  Tuesday arrives with no sign of life from Raylin, the rent is five days away, and my boss keeps dropping hints about firing me, twisting my stomach into knots.

  Plus I have a date with Greg for a drink—because yesterday I canceled on impulse and don’t have the heart to cancel for a third time in a row—and Rafe is here.

  Usual place. Usual attitude. Acting as if he didn’t run out of the other coffee shop yesterday. As if absolutely nothing’s out of the ordinary. As if it’s normal for him to come where I work, instead of hanging out with his friends.

  I honestly don’t understand why he keeps returning. What he wants from me.

  We have to talk. I have to talk to him, figure out what is going on, and if he gets up to leave, then that’s it, I quit. I’ll ignore him just like he ignores me, and pretend it’s not tearing me apart, until it doesn’t.

  Until he stops coming to the coffee shop, or until I find another job. Anything to stop this uncertainty and misery.

  I tighten my ponytail until my head hurts, lick my lips, suck in a deep breath, and head to Rafe’s table. His wide shoulders are hunched, his hands flat on the table top. His golden hair is messy, curling at his temples and the vulnerable pale stretch of his neck.

  I swallow past a knot in my throat and approach, preparing the words I will say—ask how he is, what he’s doing here, where his friends are—

  —only to be stopped by a voice calling my name, a male voice I recognize a split second later.

  A split second too late, as it turns out.

  “Megan!” Greg is advancing toward me. A cute, chestnut-haired boy with an easy smile. Somehow I forgot how tall and rail-thin he is, all gangly arms and legs. Memory is a funny thing.

  Or else I never cared before. Never compared him to the six-foot-something, broad-shouldered frame of Rafe. Never compared his wide baby blues to narrow golden eyes, or his soft-featured face to a certain angular, hard-jawed one.

  Greg is heading right at me, and before I snap out of my stupor, he grabs my hand and leans in to kiss me. As if nothing happened—as if we haven’t been going our separate ways for months now.

  At least I manage to turn my head in the last possible moment, so that his lips brush my cheek instead of my mouth.

  “What are you doing?” I jerk my hand out of his sweaty, weak grip. “Slow down, will you?”

  “Sure.” He shrugs, smiles. “Let’s take it slow.”

  Easy as that. An easy shrug, an easy smile, an easy statement. I watch him curiously, as if seeing him for the first time. Why not be with Greg, indeed? It’d be so easy.

  Too easy.

  The screech of a chair being shoved backward breaks through my thoughts. Rafe straightens, his brows drawn together. His gaze is hard as steel, cutting through me. His hands clench and unclench at his sides, and I think he’s going to tell me something.

  But he doesn’t. He throws some money on the table for his coffee and brushes by me, his smoky scent trailing behind him, a ghost of his presence.

  I stare at him go, numb.

  Nothing’s easy about Rafe. Nothing’s clear. Smoke and mirrors. I wanted him to stay away, since he obviously doesn’t want me to be near him, and yet... Yet now he’s leaving, I feel cold. I rub my arms, fighting the sudden chill.

  “Listen... maybe we could meet some other day,” I tell Greg. My heart is pounding in my ears, and my eyes feel hot.

  “Okay.” Greg’s smile fades. “You sure?”

  “Yeah.”

  Absolutely. I mean, my boss is glaring at me again, and again he got to see the whole show. And, dammit, I care even more about the fact that Rafe saw Greg kiss me than my boss, and how screwed up is that?

  “You know I wouldn’t do anything to hurt you,” Greg says.

  I nod, because that was what I thought about Rafe before realizing I’d fallen so hard for him. “I know.”

  Greg can’t hurt me, because I feel nothing for him. The only one with the power to hurt me is the man who’s just left the coffee shop.

  That’s it. Megan, my girl, you’re sick.

  Now how can I pretend that everything’s fine?

  Chapter Six

  Rafe

  Days pass, wrapped in fog. No reply to my pleas about the shop from Armin. No word from Ash, no word from the streets.

  No glimpse of Megan.

  She has a boyfriend. I knew that, but knowing and seeing are two very different things. The image of that motherfucker kissing her is branded on the inside of my lids, lodged in my brain like a bullet.

  Better this way, I tell myself. Better for her. I’m not what she needs, that’s for sure.

  Fuck.

  “Goddammit, Rafe, what are you doing?” Zane’s in my face, standing between me and my opponent—Jesse, one of the Damage Boys. “Hey, are you even awake?”

  Good question. I blink bleary eyes and glance around. I’m at the gym, training the guys—or, as it turns out, letting them use me as a punch bag.

  “Fucker, I’m talking to you.”
Zane frowns, and shakes a fist under my nose. “You’re letting him beat you up like... Shit, did you even feel anything when he punched you? Just how out of it are you?”

  Now that he mentions it, I feel the pain radiating from my middle. So what? I’m used to pain. Obviously wasn’t bad enough to snap me out of my zoned-out state.

  “I’m okay,” I say, my voice so rough the words are barely understandable.

  “The hell you are. Forget awake, are you even alive?” Zane grabs my arm and steers me away from the fighting area. “You look like hell.”

  “I said I’m okay.” I jerk my arm free of his hold, but the asshole grabs it again. “Leave it be, Z-man.”

  “No fucking way. We need to sit and talk about this. Something happened and you’re gonna tell me what it is even if I have to drag it out of you with fucking forceps.”

  Dammit. I don’t have the energy to argue, especially not with Zane who’s on a mission to get the truth out of me.

  “Talk to me.”

  “Fuck you,” I croak, exhausted, as he hauls me into the changing rooms. I stagger along, a buzzing in my ears.

  “What do I have to do, hold your head underwater? Try Chinese torture?” Zane stops, and I stumble, my balance shot to hell. “Talk!”

  “The shop,” I blurt, still trying to keep upright. “It’s gone.”

  “What shop? Wait… Are you talking about Damage Control?” He pushes me backward until I hit the wall inside the changing room. “What do you mean, ‘gone’?”

  “Gone. I…” So fucking hard to say. I swallow hard, try again. “He’ll sell it. I fucking tried to convince him, but he won’t listen, and—”

  “Slow the fuck down, man. What are you saying? Sell Damage?”

  “It’s not mine. You know it. Won’t be until I turn twenty-one and get the money to buy it from my uncle Armin. He owns it and he wants to sell.”

  “The hell he is. Tell him no.” Zane’s dark eyes blaze with fury. He pushes me back, and my head hits the wall. “Just tell him no.”

  “Get off me.” I shove him back, my heart booming too loud in my ears. “You think I haven’t tried all I could? Fuck you. It’s not up to me, don’t you get it?”

  Zane pulls away, his eyes flashing wide. His shoulders stiffen. “You serious? We’re gonna lose Damage?”

  I swallow hard and nod. Knowing this has been a knife in my chest, twisting every day. But hell, telling Zane hasn’t made it any easier, hasn’t taken the pain away.

  Especially when he kicks at the door and storms out.

  Goddammit.

  I groan. What a shitstorm. Zane must hate my guts for letting this happen. I don’t know how I could have prevented it, predicted it even, but this is my mess, and now my friends are caught in it.

  Always the same shit. Always letting my people down.

  I kick back with my heel, smash my fists into the wall, leaving bloody smears. Why can’t I do anything right? Find a solution when it’s needed—save everyone for once?

  With a jerk, I push off and head to the lockers. I almost break the key as I unlock mine and grab my stuff to go. My heart thumps so hard I think it’s gonna break out of my chest.

  I stand for a moment there, my bag and jacket in my hands, wondering what the hell I should do.

  Megan’s face flickers in my mind, the need to see her overwhelming, but I shake my head at myself, heft my bag and get the hell out.

  ***

  Haven’t been to college for days, blowing my classes, unable to concentrate, unable to do a single useful thing. Lost time. Instead, I pace my room as the last light fades outside, fists clenched at my sides, the gauze taped to my torn knuckles wet with blood.

  Blood fills my thoughts. I sleep and dream of it. I wake up and remember it. There’s no escape. No forgiveness.

  In a moment of clarity—or insanity?—I went and bought sleeping pills. Probably insanity, because once I start on pills again, I’ll get hooked before you can blink and all the damn effort I put into getting rid of the addiction will go down the drain.

  All my efforts are heading that way, from the looks of it.

  Pacing up and down isn’t helping calm the storm inside me, and exhaustion turns my feet to stone. I sink on my bed and lean back on the pillows, an arm folded behind my head, my mind turning in circles.

  Wish the shop were mine. Wish Zane would return my calls. Wish… Wish Megan were here.

  Don’t know why the hell I’m so fascinated by her. She’s hot, that’s for sure. Luscious. All that caramel skin and the dark eyes, the roundness of her tits and that ass...

  But that’s not all.

  Absently I unzip my jeans and reach for my hardening dick that’s trapped painfully inside. No, that’s not all. There’s a cloud in her eyes, a dark undercurrent in her words and bearing that reminds me of myself. Like she’s also trying to outrun the ghosts of her past.

  I curl my hand around my cock, tug on the piercings and hiss at the jolt of pain/pleasure that shoots up my spine. I have an Ampallang, a straight barbell going through the head of my dick, and a Frenum, a silver hoop on the underside. They’re supposed to enhance pleasure, but I tug on them hard, the jab of pain grounding me.

  I need the pain. I stroke my cock, pumping slowly, always returning to the barbell and hoop when it gets good, stopping the pleasure. Seeking the burn.

  However, as I picture her in my mind, the pleasure keeps building. I hiss, dragging my fist up and down my aching length as I imagine her leaning over me. Skin glowing, breasts threatening to spill from her bra, dark hair hanging forward, brushing over my skin.

  Oh fuck.

  I pull my dick out, hissing at the drag of cloth over the oversensitive skin. My back arches on the mattress as I squeeze harder. She’d be smiling, her eyes gleaming under her lashes, as she reaches up and tugs down the straps of her bra. Her breasts spill out and sway. She bends lower, and her nipples brush over my stomach.

  The muscles below my navel contract at the image, and I suck in a sharp breath. I imagine her breath warm on my dick, her fingertips teasing me as they slide down my thighs, and my balls tighten.

  Goddammit. No. Not like this. Not without her.

  But I can’t fucking have her. She’s with someone else. She doesn’t want a loser like me.

  Gritting my teeth, I still my hand. A heavy vein on the underside pulses rapidly against my fingers. What the hell am I doing? I should be getting her out of my mind, not jerking off to fantasies of her.

  Only problem with that is... if I can’t even have this, this fantasy, then I might as well jump off a bridge. I warned her to stay away from me, but the warning was for myself. I’m the one who can’t keep away, who can’t stop thinking about her.

  The shadows creep in until I can’t take it anymore and pluck on the hoop behind the head of my cock, seeking the sting of pain.

  It’s almost as good as the pleasure. White flashes go off in my vision. I wrench the barbell and jerk, the pain taking my breath away.

  This is what I need. This is what I deserve. Again and again I do it, my jaw clamping, my teeth grinding together. Sweat breaks on my brow, drips into my eyes, stinging. My muscles strain, my legs kick against the covers. My harsh breaths fill the room. The ceiling spins. I close my eyes and unclench my fingers, releasing my softening dick.

  God fuck. Yeah, this is all I’ll ever hope to get. Pain and more pain.

  At long last my locked muscles begin to relax. My mind still fizzles, blessedly empty. The respite will be brief, I know. So I throw an arm over my face and try to catch some sleep while I can.

  ***

  The gym is packed. I watch the guys train, standing a ways off, my mind a thousand miles away.

  Megan.

  I did the only thing I could and stopped going to the coffee shop where she works. But if I’m not there, who’s gonna keep an eye on her, make sure she’s okay and that nobody has come after her, as she fears? Her pansy of a boyfriend?

  Keeping away fro
m her is eating at me, but I’m not going to follow her around when she doesn’t want me to. I have Apples, one of my street kids, keeping an eye on her, and reporting to me. That should be enough.

  Not enough for me, though. All I want is to grab her, kiss her, rip off her clothes and fuck her senseless. She’s a goddess made of sexy and sweet—milk, coffee and chocolate with a dash of caramel. She makes my mouth water, and my dick hard.

  Fuck... I can’t have her.

  Now the other stuff, the bad stuff, is all I have. Worrying about the shop. Waking up in cold sweat. Spending dark nights pacing my room. Punching walls, trying to shove them away, find a path through the ruins. Find the truth.

  But the only truth is that I’m fucking lost.

  I sigh, rub my itchy eyes. Focus, Rafe. I have a plan of sorts. A plan to protect Megan. A plan to get into the underground fighting ring and look for the man with the hand tattoo.

  Asher has been avoiding me, as if he knows what I want to ask of him, or maybe I am imagining it. After all, his girlfriend is very pregnant, and Tessa says she’s having some problems with the pregnancy.

  So I’ve put out word to the street urchins, the gangs and illegal betting joints. I will find a way in, one way or another. And I’ll keep an eye on Megan without imposing my presence on her.

  I slide my hand under my shirt, touch the names inked in my side—my dad, mom and sister. I will avenge you, I promise silently. I swear it.

  A slight girl enters the gym and heads straight for me. Lost as I am in thought, it takes me more than a fucking second to recognize Apples.

  “Hey, boss, can I talk to you for a sec?” She shifts from foot to foot, eyeing everyone in the gym as if they’re potential killers. Her dirty sneakers squeak, and her blond dreadlocks swing back and forth.

  “What’s up?” I do my best to unclench my taped hands and relax my shoulders. Look unthreatening.

  I wonder sometimes why I bother.

  Apples shoots me a grin and rolls her eyes as if she knows what I’m trying to do. “Been watching your girl for you.”

  “So spill.”