Her Release (One Night Stand Book 3)

by Toni J Strawn

  “Talia.” Terry’s whisper drew my attention back to the gathered crowd. Everyone was looking at me.

  I blinked and shook my head. Oh yeah.

  “All bets in?” I put the husky quality in my voice down to the effects of the cold. No one made a sound as I waited for last minute calls. When none came, I gave a half-shrug and nodded toward the fighters. My job was done. At least until the blood flowed and one of them lay on the ground.

  “Hell yeah.” Kilkenny bounced on his feet, straining forward like an eager pup on too tight a chain. His knuckles were strapped in tape, and he banged his fists together with a sharp smacking sound.

  Nixon drew back his hoodie, revealing a black mask that started at the end of his nose and rose up to hide his brow. Short, black hair completed the illusion of mystery. Darkness. His hair was ruffled, as though someone had dug furrows through it with their fingers, but I could tell it was a good cut. Expensive. Once groomed, it would fall perfectly back into place.

  I let my gaze slide further down his body. He too, had his hands wrapped. Stark white tape that looked incongruous amongst the kaleidoscope of shadow. His grey T-shirt did nothing to hide the slab of pure muscle that lay underneath. He swung his arms in a circle to loosen his shoulders and my mouth watered as muscles popped and rippled beneath the fabric. Then he stood. Waiting.

  There was a stillness about him that spoke of danger, one that Kilkenny ignored as he bounded around him, throwing taunts. The crowd edged back to make a rough circle. The two fighters bumped fists and the fight was on.

  Kilkenny got in a few jabs before Nixon even had his arms up to defend himself. The Irishman was quick. Damn quick. My stomach tightened, then I blew out a breath and relaxed a little. I’d seen Nixon fight before, and I knew what was coming. Kilkenny did not. His friends let out a cheer, and he flashed a grin, obviously pleased with himself.

  That’s when Nixon struck, hammering a blow into the Irishman’s liver. Kilkenny lost all color to his face, and I watched as Nixon checked his need to pummel him some more, letting him regain his balance. A quick, clean fight wasn’t a good fight as far as the punters were concerned. No rules. No mercy.

  Kilkenny honed in on Nixon again, letting loose with a combo—a good solid punch with his right, followed by a left hand jab that glanced off Nixon’s shoulder. Nixon stiffened for a moment, then shook it off, his eyes slitted watchfully behind his mask. Emboldened, Kilkenny snapped out with a punch followed by a push kick, his foot slashing toward Nixon’s groin. Nixon dodged it easily and sunk in a quick punch mid-torso. The air whooshed from Kilkenny’s lungs and he recoiled back. His gaze flickered around the crowd and I saw comprehension dawn as he realized he might not win this bout so easily. Usually this was where fighter’s made the critical decision, whether to go on stamina, or end the fight. Fast. Resolve tightened Kilkenny’s jaw and he barreled forward, letting loose with a barrage of quick jabs.

  Nixon deflected the blows with his forearms, making no attempt at retaliation. I’d seen it before. This is what he’d been waiting for. His opponent became the single object of his focus and he was going to hurt him bad.

  I gathered on the balls of my feet, half way to stopping the fight, even though it would be a helpless gesture—even if I did manage to stop Nixon’s momentum, no one would let me into the circle. Money would be lost. Jet would bear the brunt of the blame. In the second it took me to process this, everything turned to chaos around me. Nixon’s anger exploded outward like a furnace of heat, consuming everything around him. He hammered out a blow, connecting with the side of the Irishman’s head, sending him reeling. Kilkenny toppled to the ground at exactly the same moment I heard the flickering wail of a siren close by.

  “Cops!”

  “Give me my money.”

  People surged toward me, more interested in their winnings than the appearance of the police. They weren’t the ones who would land in jail. I wondered briefly whether it was the kitchen hand who had dobbed us in. It certainly wasn’t Kilkenny, who lay crumpled and silent on the ground.

  Shit. I wavered between the press of dirty fingers scrabbling for money, and the knowledge I would have to deal with the downed fighter. Leaving him to the cops wasn’t an option.

  “Here, I’ll take it.” Terri ripped the wad of notes from my hand, and waved it in the air. Like sausage to a bloodhound, every one turned and followed as he ducked through a metal door at the end of the alley.

  Over the heads of the fleeing crowd I caught sight of Nixon. He remained motionless while everything else whirled in a maelstrom around him. Our eyes met and for a moment everything stilled as I sunk into the deep dark depths of his gaze.

  “Go. I’ll bring him,” he called.

  I swung around, scanning the near empty alley. The waver of sirens sounded louder and I swore I could see the flash of red and blue piercing the gloom at the entrance.

  “Go,” he yelled louder, bending to pick up the dead weight of his opponent.

  I flicked my gaze between Nixon and the door Terry had disappeared into. Car doors slammed at the top of the alley. Scuffling feet. Low murmurs. My decision on whether to run was cut short when I saw Nixon’s head snap back. He went down and Kilkenny stood, a piece of bloodied timber in his hands.

  “That’ll teach you, ya fucker.” The Irishman rounded off his assault with a well-aimed kick, then stumbled through the door.

  Nixon grunted in pain, and the sound made me feel better. At least he wasn’t unconscious. I glanced towards the mouth of the alley, my shoulders tightening when flashlights skimmed the first few feet, illuminating dumpsters and bins. I ran to bang on the door.

  “I need help.” I called out roughly, trying to not to yell and gain the cops attention.

  A young Asian chef in dirty whites poked his head out. His eyes widened when he saw me, then narrowed on Nixon, who was slowly dragging himself to his feet. Nixon’s mask was sitting askew of his face, blood running in a dark rivulet down his cheek. I grabbed his hoodie and thrust it in his hands.

  “Here. Take this.” I dug into my pocket and pushed the remainder of my cash into the chef’s hands. He helped me get Nixon to his feet and we hauled him into the kitchen, his weight dragging on my shoulder. The heat of the kitchen hit me, plumes of steam rising from the woks being worked over a bank of gas cookers, the smell of rice and cabbages assaulting my nostrils. As the door clanged shut behind me, I heard the cops running up the alley, calling for us to stop.

  “Go out the side door. You can’t go out the front.” The chef pushed me towards the takeaway area where an entrance opened up to yet another back alley. He let go of Nixon and I staggered under the sudden weight.

  “I can’t carry him,” I gasped. He wasn’t resting on me fully, but he wasn’t exactly helping either.

  The chef pulled Nixon’s chin up and slapped his face. Nixon’s eyelids flickered open.

  “Can you walk?” the chef asked.

  Nixon nodded, his eyes closing again. But he pulled away from me a little, staggering toward the door. We made it outside and I propped him against the nearest wall.

  “Do you want to rest while I get my car?” I asked, peering in at his battered face.

  “I can’t let anyone catch me like this. Please.” With an effort Nixon pushed away from the wall, his ragged plea tugging at my chest.

  It was stupid to feel pleased that he needed me, but I put it down to the adrenalin I’d used up in the last five minutes. Together, we struggled to my car and he sunk gratefully into the passenger seat, breath rasping through bloodied lips. I jumped in beside him and pulled away from the kerb, driving past the two cop cars that had stopped in the mouth of the alley. I snorted under my breath. No wonder Jet had wanted me to work tonight. He had a sixth sense for danger and somehow always managed to miss the excitement.

  “Where can I take you? Nearest hospital is about twenty minutes away.” I shot a glance toward my unwanted passenger. He had slumped against the door, but his eyes were open an
d he appeared to be taking note of his surroundings.

  “No hospital,” he rasped.

  “You need to get checked out. You could have concussion.” Last thing I needed was for one of Dad’s fighters to drop dead. Definitely not good for business. But I was talking to deaf ears and I knew it. The dumb ass fighter’s always thought they were indestructible.

  “No.” His refusal came out strong and sure this time.

  It was his funeral. I shrugged. No matter how curious I was about Nixon, this had been my last time. I had to keep reminding myself of that before I got sucked back in. Just like I always did.

  I pulled over to the side of the road. “Where’s your place then?” At the moment I was heading in the direction of my dingy eastside apartment, but I had a feeling I was headed to the wrong part of town.

  “I can’t go there either,” he said, still not looking at me. He groped in the depths of his hoodie pockets and pulled out a phone. His thumb swiped the screen and he slowly brought it to his ear, wincing as he did so.

  “Josh. Call me now.” He left a message when the call didn’t connect, and lowered his cell. My breath caught when his dark gaze swiveled to me, pinning me to my seat.

  “Can you take me to your place?” he asked.

  I licked suddenly dry lips. “No. No way. I’m not doing that.” The car seemed to be rapidly shrinking and I sucked in a gasp of air. “I, ah, I don’t even know what you look like,” I finished lamely.

  Nixon said nothing, just considered me for a long moment. He nodded slightly, as if reaching a decision, then he pulled off his mask and revealed his face.

  I blinked, my mouth falling open. “Holy fuck. It’s you.”