by Jo Raven
He slams his hand down on the table, and I almost jump out of my skin. “Marnie spoiled you rotten, brat. She felt sorry for you, for the whiney, self-destructive kid that you were when your parents died. Woo, poor boy, he’s doing drugs, so we give him a shop to run. She was fucking insane.”
Guess he didn’t love his wife much. Bastard.
“Damage is doing fine,” I snap, because it’s the damn truth. Fuck, I’m supposed to be begging him, not getting in his face. “Just…please. Do I have to get on my knees?”
From the way he’s looking at me, I bet he’d love to see that. He’d probably be the only person in the world to ever witness it, and as much as it grates, dammit, I’d do it if it meant keeping Damage.
Suddenly he laughs. I blink heavy lids at him, wondering what’s so fucking funny. I feel like I’ve dug a rusty knife through my chest, ripped it wide open, and he’s laughing.
“Okay, boy,” he says, and leans forward, placing his hands on his knees. He has my mom’s hazel eyes, her auburn hair. “Okay.”
The word finally sinks in and I jolt. “Okay?”
“Okay, I’ll think about it, since it means so much to you.”
God, I’m so tired. Has to be why my eyes burn and sting, not because of this unexpected kindness. Since that night with Megan, I can’t keep my head straight, can’t find the shield I used to hold against the world. Every word, every action hits me right through the chest and I feel ready to crack in two.
“Thanks,” I whisper, fighting to keep my voice steady. “Thank you, Armin.”
“Don’t mention it. Like you said, Marnie would have wanted you to have Damage.”
I frown. He said the exact opposite just a few minutes ago, didn’t he? Even through my gratitude, I feel a twinge of suspicion at the sudden turnabout. But my head hurts too bad to ponder this further.
“You should get some sleep,” he goes on. “You look sick, boy. Go on.”
Unsteadily, I rise and nod. I’m shaky. This isn’t good. The anniversary’s looming over me like an axe, and today’s the day that may change my entire life. Clyde is waiting for me right now in a back alley, and I can’t miss this meeting.
“Oh, before you go. Here,” he says and pushes a document on the table. “Sign this.”
“What is it?”
“A standard authorization letter for the lawyers to start the transfer process of the shop to your name. We’ll call you in for the official deed, of course.”
I glance at the paper. That easy? “Armin…”
“You’re blood. Sign the damn paper before I change my mind, Rafaele.”
So I do. I sign the damn paper and leave, wondering what the hell I’ve just done and what I’m about to do.
***
Night settles on my shoulders like a blanket as I stride from my car to the alley. The cold air and the adrenaline shooting through my veins has cleared my head enough to shake off the exhaustion—for now. I’ll pay for it later, but it’s not as if I could sleep even if I wanted, and the main thing is to convince Clyde I can fight in the cages underground.
A shadow flits behind a dumpster. Mage, or Apples. Not sure which one. I’ve warned them to stay away, but they live by their own rules, mostly. Fucking kids. They’re awesome. Wish they’d let me help them more.
I slow down, rub the back of my neck. My skin itches, my muscles ache. The inside of my head is a black eddy. The anniversary coming up tomorrow weighs on me like a boulder.
Fucked-up timing. All I wanna do is hole up in a bar somewhere and get filthy drunk, pass out and wake up days later with no recollection of what happened or what date it is. Zane has dragged my drunk ass back home plenty of times over the years. It’s become a goddamn birthday tradition.
Hell, no such luck, not this time. No chance to hide.
Sucking in a long breath, this time making sure my switchblade is tucked in my back pocket, easily accessible if needed, I square my shoulders and enter the alley.
A group of guys is standing in the shadow of a metal fire escape, arms folded over their chests, beanie caps pulled low over their faces. Ralph, my contact, is nowhere in sight. No surprise there, although he said he’d come by.
Chicken-shit.
Well, here we are. The opening bars of “Straight Edge” by Minor Threat ring inside my skull, and the drumming rises to a crescendo.
I head up to the silent group of men. They stare at me with suspicion, brows low over their eyes, jaws set. Despite the cold, some of them are dressed in short-sleeved vests, showing off their gang tats—striking in white and grey hues, like silver, the name of their gang.
We don’t have that many gangs here in Madison, but things are getting worse, fact that prompted the Downtown Safety Initiative. Drugs, weapons, stolen car and motorbike trafficking, illegal fights and pimping. Silver Gang is relatively new, started up a couple years ago—and specializes in illegal fighting and weapons.
Joy. At least I’m meeting with the right people for this job.
“You Rafaele Vestri?” a lean, tall guy with a shaved head and tattoos swirling over his skull asks, lifting his chin at me.
“Yeah, that’s me. Here to talk to Clyde.” When they remain silent, I add, “Ralph said he talked to him, said Clyde could help me out. Is Clyde here?”
Dammit, shut up. Just nerves. I’m sweating in spite of the cold. Their non-too-friendly expressions raise my hackles.
Suck it up. They don’t have to like me, and it’s not like I’m fond of them, either.
“Clyde ain’t here,” one of them says. “Said to take care of you, though, dickhead.”
Okay, this doesn’t sound good. “Wait as sec. He said he can get me into the underground fight—”
Something hits me in the back of my knees, and I go down, dropping like a stone. I hit the ground with a jarring thump, hands and elbows smashing to the asphalt, sending fire up my arms.
Dammit. I twist and draw my knees under me, but a boot kicks my ribs and pain explodes down my side.
“And you think you’re ready for the fight club?” Another kick. “Pussy.”
“Fuck you.” I roll away, only to be grabbed in a steel grip and hauled to my feet, set up as target for the rest of the group.
The guy who grabbed me shakes me. “Have at him.”
A mistake. Not only did he help me up—thanks, asshole—but I now have my back covered by him. Stupid asshole.
I relax, let myself go limp in the guy’s hold, so that he’s forced to hunch over me a bit, and wait. The drumming in my ears intensifies, until I can’t hear anything else. The pain in my side fades in the rush of adrenaline. I can see the four of them approach with perfect clarity. Time slows down, stretching, as my training takes over.
I’ve been preparing for this ever since my family was murdered. I shouldn’t have been taken my surprise, granted, but now…
Come to me, bitches. I’m ready.
They hesitate for a moment, and I wonder what expression they see on my face to make them pause. Then they slam into me, punching and kicking.
Hanging in my captor’s hold, I can use both legs to defend myself. I twist sideways, delivering a roundhouse kick that smashes into one guy’s face, then the next’s.
The other two freeze for one long second, and I take the chance to swing back and slam my boot heel into the shin of the man holding me.
He yelps, lets go—and I elbow him in the gut. As he doubles over, I push away—and into the blows of the two guys still standing. I throw my arms up to block them, but they get a few punches in. One lands on my jaw, and I stumble back, dizzy.
Getting beaten up. A fitting birthday present.
Fuck. My. Life. Lucky thing I like pain. So damn funny, and I start to laugh.
“Did I miss a joke?” Goatee guy snaps.
“Do you know,” I gasp for breath, “that my family was murdered when I was fifteen? The killer came at me with such force, he drove a butcher’s knife through me and pinned me to the door. By the
time I woke up, my parents were dead and my sister dying.”
I wipe at my watering eyes, not laughing anymore. “I thought to myself, if I survive, I’ll learn to like the pain. Pain makes you strong.”
Or so I thought.
“You’re nuts,” Goatee guy say and spits at me.
Yeah, that’s true.
With a yell, I launch myself at him and see the shock on his face. I’m under his defense before he even knows what happened. Barely avoiding a vicious kick to my knee from the other guy, I punch Goatee guy solidly in the solar plexus, then the jaw, snapping his head around. He drops like a sack of bricks.
Before I can catch my breath, I’m hit from behind. A blow to my back, and then a punch to the side of my head sends me down, on top of my unconscious opponent. My chest hurts like a motherfucker, my ribs are on fire, and blackness teases my vision. I try to move, but my body feels like a lump of lead.
I’m so fucked.
Which is probably why I think I hear my attacker cry out, then see a shadow drag him away, dumping him next to a dumpster and returning to stand over me.
Hello, hallucinations. A bad sign, if I’ve started imagining things. Concussion? A good probability. This is gonna suck ass.
When hands haul me up, I struggle, but I’m merely propped against a graffiti-covered wall, staring into a guy’s face, mere inches from mine.
Whoa. What the hell?
“What do you want?” I rasp.
He frowns, his gaze dark and intense, then lets go of my shoulders and steps back. “I was just helping you out.”
“Thanks.” Come to think of it, he has to be the shadow who pulled my last opponent away. “Saved my ass, I guess.”
A crooked grin cracks over his face and he spits on the ground, wipes his mouth on his arm. “I like your fighting style.”
“That wasn’t…” I try to get my bearings. How the hell did I end up talking about fighting techniques with an unknown guy in a back alley, with five unconscious guys lying at our feet? “I was taken by surprise. Didn’t think about what I was doing.”
“That’s what I mean. In underground fighting, there are no rules, and you took those assholes down. That’s what you want, isn’t it? Join the underground fighting club?”
“How the hell do you know about this?” I blink. “Are you Clyde?”
He rocks back on his heels and laughs, a deep, full belly sound. “You kidding? I’m not with these losers.”
“Then how the fuck do you know all this? What are you doing here?” Dammit, I hate being in the dark.
“Followed you here.”
Sounds like I’ve found my stalker. “And why?”
“Overheard Ralph talking about you. He’s a decent guy, he’s been helping me. And I can help you get into the fighting ring.”
My head is about to split. Feels like my eyeballs are about to pop out. “Why would you help me?”
“Ralph says you’re looking for someone.”
I squint at this guy. A lamp flickers overhead, mounted somewhere on the fire escape. “Say what?”
“You told him you’re after someone, someone with a specific tattoo, and that’s why you want into the underground. I just hope it’s worth it.”
“And the fucker told you all this about me? What the hell?”
“As I said, he’s been helping me. And he thought maybe you could use some help, too.”
Takes me a moment to wrap my mind around this. “Have you seen the hand tattoo?”
“I might have. Lots of people in the club.”
“You’d get me in?”
He shrugs. Tattoos climb up his neck like black snakes. “I may be able to.”
Mays and mights. This can only mean one thing. “In exchange for what?”
He grins like a shark. “I’ll tell you if I manage to get you in.”
I ponder this. I don’t like open-ended deals like this one, but what choice do I have? “Okay. Sure. When will you know if you can help me out or not?”
“Call me tomorrow morning.” He pulls a pen from his back pocket, grabs my hand and writes a number on my wrist. “Around six. I should know by then.”
I snatch my hand away as soon as he’s done. Not sure I can trust him. “Who are you anyway?”
“I’m Colt,” he says. “Call me, Rafe. And may we both find the people we’re looking for.”
I watch him leave, striding out of the alley and vanishing into the night. If I didn’t hurt so badly, I’d pinch myself to make sure I’m not dreaming.
Seriously… Who is this guy?
***
The anniversary is dawning. I toss and turn in bed, bruises flaring to life with every movement. The fear of nightmares keeps me awake through the night, but in the early morning hours, exhaustion finally drags me down and I sink into darkness.
Crimson drips from the walls. They bleed. I touch the warm, sticky liquid. Smells like copper and it coats my finger, spreading down my hand, my arm, like a malignant fungus. The light is dim but I can feel it crawling over me, eating my flesh.
Then I hear her scream.
“Carla.” I stumble in the dimness, trying to find her. “I’m here.”
But I can’t see my little sister. Fear roils in my stomach. Something terrible is going on. I trail my hand on the walls, in the blood, searching, searching, and not wanting to find.
Then I’m there, right where my memories and nightmares take me every time—in the living room. The blood is everywhere, splashed on the walls, the floor, puddles and pools and fucking lakes of it.
And I see them.
My dad with a bullet hole on his forehead, his dark eyes wide open. My mom lying on the floor, crimson spreading around her. And my sister… She’s looking right at me, gasping my name, clutching the long kitchen knife stuck in her belly.
A match for the knife stuck through my shoulder, nailing me to the door. Every move I make to free myself tears through my flesh, causing broken bones to shift and grind, and I keep trying, desperate to get to her, because she’s still alive.
But I fail. The murderer turns to look at me, the black tattoo of a hand on his arm flashing like a beacon, and grins at me.
“Enjoying the show, boy?” he drawls. “Don’t worry, your turn will come.”
My body jerks.
It’s my fault. My fault my family died. If I hadn’t opened the door. If I had thrown myself at that fucker before he drew the gun. If I’d been suspicious.
It should’ve been me in their place.
With a shout, I jerk upright in my bed, drenched in sweat. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Bile rises in my throat. My heart booms.
Throwing the covers off me, I stumble into the bathroom, drop to my knees and puke my guts out into the toilet, burning heaves that make my eyes water. Then I brace a hand on the wall and pull myself to my feet.
Fuck this. Need this to end. Tear down the nightmare, catch the murderer.
I splash my face, rinse my mouth, swallow some water. Then I go and pull on my clothes from yesterday, jeans and a sweater.
Need to wake up. Stay alert. Stay focused. Call Colt.
My shoulder hurts, the old scar burning like fire, eclipsing the pain from the bruises. I rub it as I pace my room.
No. Stop. Focus on the now.
The gray morning light hurts my eyes. I draw the curtain shut and rake my hands through my hair.
The light is gone, but the black core of my past remains, ruling me. I might as well go after it, seek it, touch it. Kill it if I can. And if that leaves me without a center, without a goal, then so be it.
I can fucking live with that. Or die for it. One way or another, I’m going down.
I wander into the living room and grab my cell from the sofa where I dropped it last night. Twenty missed calls. Fifteen voice mails. Forty messages.
Who cares? More important things on my mind right now. Colt’s phone number written on my wrist winks at me. The clock mocks me. The minutes trickle by too fucking slowly. Four. Four thi
rty. Five. Five forty-five. Five fifty. Five fifty-five.
I mark the number and bring the cell to my ear.
Come on, Colt. Answer. Come on, Colt. Get me into the fight club.
Let us both find the people we’re looking for.
The phone rings and rings, and I pace the room like a caged tiger. Come on, come on. I kick at the bed, bang my fist on the wall. My ribs scream at me. My head is pounding.
“Hello?” a man’s voice says, and I stop in my tracks. “Hello?”
“Colt?”
“Yeah.” A rustle. A cough.
“It’s me, Rafe. Rafaele Vestri. Got something for me?”
The pause that follows is like a vise being screwed around my head. Come on, Colt. Come on, dammit.
“Sorry, man.” His voice drops. “The answer is no.”
No. “The hell you say.”
The line goes dead.
I drop on the bed, the cell bouncing beside me on the mattress.
This can’t be. I’m so close. I put my face in my hands. Hell, I can’t take this any longer. My last threads of sanity are unraveling.
Surging to my feet, I stagger out of the bedroom and into the living room. The furniture is cast in shades of pale gray in the cold morning light.
Cold. Like ice.
I grab a small coffee table and throw it against the wall. I plow into the bookshelf, sending books and statuettes crashing to the ground. I kick a chair, then the polished mahogany table, smash my fist into its surface. Again. And again.
The pain in my ribs and back leaves me breathless and blinking black spots from my eyes. I bend over the table, brace my hands on the edge, feeling sick.
“Fuck you!” I push off, dizzy and aching somewhere so deep inside I don’t know if I can’t ever be all right again. “My fault. Why didn’t you kill me instead?”
I stumble to my drum set, grab the switchblade from my back pocket, flick it open and slash the drums. I stab and tear and shred, again and again.
Then I sink to my knees, clutching the blade. The doorbell rings, but I ignore it. I’m not here. I don’t exist.
A ray of sunlight slips through the window, hitting the blade. It glints in my hands. I lift it, run it over my skin, feel its sweet sting. See the blood well.