by Eliza Marsh
“Hey, bro!” It was one of the fight club regulars that he’d gone a few rounds with before in the past. The man was attempting to get his attention and starting to look worried as the task became more difficult. “They’re calling you. You’re up next.” Dean stumbled to his feet, bracing himself against the table unsteadily as the world around him swirled. “Are you good?” The middle-aged fighter looked at him in concern, noticing the pile of empty shot glasses and the plastic baggy. “Maybe you should sit down.”
“I’m fine,” Dean replied, his voice like gravel and barely discernible over the noise of the room. He shoved past the good samaritan and slowly headed to the cage, for once to a slight cheer from the crowd as they had started placing money on him to win.
He stepped into the ring, his eyes barely able to focus on the large man in front of him. They usually tried not to pit two heavy hitters against each other in the first round to prolong the profits as the contest progressed. But sometimes the last-minute sign-ups left them no choice. So here he was, facing one of the biggest guys of the night, and he was still trying to process his narcotic rush.
Shaking his head, Dean cracked his neck and bounced around a bit, trying to get the adrenaline to clear his senses. The whistle blew, and immediately his opponent was on him, giving him no chance to get his bearings. Throwing left hooks and right jabs, the man quickly backed Dean into a corner and continued to pummel him. Dean’s first instinct was to grapple him and, with a turn to the side, toss the other man to the ground. With room to breathe momentarily, he wiped the blood dripping from his lip with the back of his hand. Back on him in seconds, his opponent was quick to get close and start swinging once again.
Dean’s reactions were slow, hampered by the drugs bogging down his system. A hard right swing straight to the face had him hitting the mat with a loud thud. He blinked rapidly, trying to clear his vision as he felt a cut above his eye open and begin spilling blood onto the canvas. He was temporarily stunned to see the red color pouring into a small puddle, something he certainly wasn’t used to.
He stared at it, hypnotized as drop after drop added to the pile. There was something oddly freeing about the whole thing, some kind of out-of-body experience Dean felt he was having.
It was almost as therapeutic to be the one getting hit as it was to be doing the hitting. He hadn't encountered this situation in quite some time, not since he’d shot well past the six-foot mark.
The official kneeled to check on him, Dean watching his lips move, but hearing none of the words he said as a ringing set in his ears. He shoved up off the mat and staggered a bit before catching himself against the cage, nodding to the referee to signal he wanted to continue the fight.
His opponent was grinning arrogantly, but Dean just stood there and let him advance. He went for the torso this time, as Dean put up a meager attempt to fend him off as blow after blow landed on his ribs. He was actually enjoying the assault, the pain giving him a different kind of release that anger could not. His ego would rarely let him take a beating like this, but away from the prying eyes of the club, he didn’t always have to be the mighty enforcer.
The fight went on for a while before a knee to the ribs and a sickening crack had Dean back on the mat. Throwing his hands up, the referee immediately stopped the match and proclaimed his opponent the victor. Dean groaned and used the chainlink fencing of the cage to get to his feet, arguing with the official that he was okay to continue.
“No can do,” the man said. “Any serious injury, like the, at least, cracked rib you now have, and we stop.”
Dean swore and shook his head, though he couldn’t argue that his side wasn’t on fire. He staggered from the ring, frustrated that his abuse was already over. Blood continued to pour from the wound on his brow, staining his white t-shirt with crimson patches. He grabbed his leather jacket from next to the cage stairs, his vision spinning as he rose too fast.
He stumbled out of the bar, the cool night air feeling fantastic on his overheated system. Balancing himself on the parked cars as he moved down the side of the building, he tried to remember where he had parked his bike. A couple walking nearby gave him a wide berth and a weary stare.
Dean was halfway to where he thought his bike was when he felt the hair rise on the back of his neck.
The drugs and alcohol made his vision swim, but even in his less-than-stellar state, he could see a few guys making their way through the cars strategically to surround him. The orange color stood out from the black leather kuttes, telling him these guys belonged to the Dead Saints.
On a good day, he wouldn’t be too concerned with a couple of guys trying to jump him in a parking lot. But considering he was already profusely bleeding and probably sporting a few cracked ribs, he wasn’t exactly in top fighting condition to be taking on multiple assailants at once.
One of the guys appeared a few feet in front of him, forcing Dean to stop. If he could just get to his bike and grab the nine-millimeter stored under the seat, he could turn this into more of a fair fight.
“You’re looking a little rough there, Red King,” a mocking voice said from behind him.
Dean turned around slowly, squaring his shoulders as he observed the two bikers that had blocked him from the back. He recognized one as the asshole whose nose he had broken on the top of a car and knew the man was likely itching to return the favor. The other was Cassius, the stocky dark-skinned leader of the Dead Saints Atlanta charter. A massive third guy was slowly creeping up on Dean’s right and gave him the most cause for concern due to his sheer mass.
“You fuckers would wait until I was alone to make an appearance.” His voice was steady as he observed them, trying not to give away his injuries more than he already had. “But hey, at least now, it’s a fair fight.”
Cassius scoffed as he casually put his hands in the pockets of his dark jeans and smirked. “Is that right? Well, we saw you take quite the beating in there, so my money says you’re probably hurting pretty good right now.”
“So, naturally, you thought you guys should do the cowardly thing and jump a guy.”
“You say cowardly. I say strategic.” Cassius shrugged his shoulders with feigned innocence, an arrogant expression melting onto his face.
Dean was never nervous for a fight, but he knew statistically that this wasn’t necessarily going to end in his favor. Hell, even if it did, he was still going to walk out of here more banged up than he already was. He inched back a little, trying to get closer to his bike gleaming in the glare of a street light not too far away. The guy behind him tensed, and Dean knew he would have no choice but to go through him to get to the motorcycle.
“Well fellas, let’s get this started.”
With that, he launched for the guy closest to the bike, connecting with a right hook before shoving the man at the pair quickly coming up from the side. The big guy charged him, and they fell to the ground in a struggle of limbs as they grappled. Dean tried to roll them ever-closer to his bike bit by bit. Wedging his arm between himself and the large man, he finally got a grip on the knife stashed in his boot. He wasn’t usually one to bring a knife to a fistfight, but now was not the time to be overconfident with his current abilities.
He thrust the small knife upward, catching the man in what he hoped was a non-vital part of his abdomen. The last thing Dean needed was for the cops to suddenly show up while there was a fresh corpse on top of him. The man howled, throwing himself off the King as he clutched the bleeding wound. Looking on at their fallen comrade, Cassius directed the remaining two to join the fray.
Pulling out their own knives, they advanced towards Dean as he regained his footing. He watched them carefully, waiting for the first to charge. When he did, Dean knocked the outstretched weapon to the side with ease, then swung the butt of his blade into the guy’s face. Delighted by the sound of a dull crunch, he then turned to take on the other goon with the same efficiency, leaving him on the ground bleeding from a shallow slash wound.
Cassius hesitated to engage, giving Dean enough time to dash to his motorcycle. He could hear the guy behind him curse and quickly follow, realizing his plan. But Dean was faster, adrenaline giving him a much-needed boost, and he yanked the gun from its secure storage space. He turned and raised the weapon just as the Saints' president skidded to a halt in front of him.
The two lesser-injured gang members scrambled to their feet and pulled out their own guns, unsure of how to handle the situation. Dean smirked, now much more confident of how this was going to end. He turned his attention to the armed pair, knowing the guy at the end of his barrel wasn’t going to move an inch.
“Y’all aren’t gonna shoot me,” Dean said with a knowing raise of his brows. “A murder charge and a vengeful MC? Not exactly what you need if you’re really trying to expand your territory.”
The two waited nervously for some kind of direction from their boss, who merely stood there glaring. However, the tension was interrupted by the sound of police sirens in the distance, the group’s disturbance having caught the attention of a concerned bar patron.
“I think that’s our queue to wrap this up,” Dean said with a tilt of his head, knowing neither party was interested in getting the cops involved. The man in front of him took a cautious step back, then another, as everyone slowly lowered their weapons. The pair of lackeys carefully picked up their wounded friend from the ground and helped him towards a nearby group of bikes.
“We’ll finish this later,” Cassius said with determination as he too backed away.
“Can’t wait,” Dean growled, sliding his gun into the back of his pants to keep it within reach, just in case. He hopped on his bike as the sirens grew closer but thankfully managed to make it out of the parking lot before they arrived.
With an entire bottle of tequila and a sizable amount of heroin still in his system, he headed home. All he wanted was to crawl into his bed and pass out before his buzz wore off and the pain set in.
30
Jackie woke with a start as the front door slammed, and Oliver began to wail. Turning on a nearby lamp, she grabbed the baseball bat from behind the bedroom door and marched down the hallway, not sure what she was expecting to find. A figure moved in front of her in the dark room, and she brought the bat up, only to have it immediately yanked from her hands.
“Gimme that,” Dean growled, tossing the bat onto the couch with a roll of his eyes as he continued down the hall, ignoring the cries of the baby in the living room.
“What the hell, Dean?” she asked in a loud whisper, following him back towards the bedroom in hopes that Oliver would cry himself back to sleep in a few minutes. “Why are you coming in so loudly at- oh my god!” They hit the light in the bedroom, and the blood covering him gleamed viciously. “What happened to you?”
Jackie reached for him, but he swat her hand away in annoyance. “Nothing, lost my fight.” With that, he entered the bathroom and swung the door shut behind him with a loud thud. She huffed as the noise triggered another round of wails from the baby in the other room. Shaking her head and internally cursing him for picking such an awful time of night to have this kind of fight, she barged into the bathroom.
Dean was standing at the bathroom sink. His hands were braced on the counter as he stared at himself in the mirror, though his eyes moved to her in the reflection as she entered.
“Sit down,” she ordered, using her hand to forcefully shove him towards the edge of the tub as best she could. When he didn’t immediately comply, she glared up at him. “Sit. Down.” Grabbing the washcloth off the counter, she wet it and began wiping the blood from the now seated man. “What happened?” she asked again, examining the large cut above his eye that was still bleeding.
“Lost my fight,” he replied in annoyance, hissing when she hit the cut. Dean grabbed her hand, pulling the offending limb away from his sore head. “Stop, I’m fine.”
“You need stitches.” She glared down at him, knowing full well he wouldn’t set foot in a hospital.
“I’m fine,” was his stubborn response.
“Then sit still and let me bandage it up,” she replied sternly, yanking her hand from his. Jackie grabbed the first aid kit from under the sink and ignored him as he rolled his eyes.
“I just wanna go to bed, Jack.”
Turning back to him, antiseptic in hand, she raised her brows. “Well, you shoulda thought of that before you went and got yourself beat up. But you’re not gonna bleed on the carpet, so sit there and shut up.” Dabbing the soaked cotton ball onto his wound, she ignored his curses as she intently tried her best to clean it. “You don’t normally lose your fights,” she mentioned after a minute, trying to be casual and not make his attitude worse. He ignored her comment, so she began adding butterfly bandages to the cut, hoping they would keep it closed and help stop the bleeding. “Were you high? Is that why you-”
Dean smacked her hand away angrily, rising from the tub and staring down at her. “Enough,” he growled before exiting the bathroom.
“I’ll take that as a yes,” she grumbled, then followed him into the bedroom. “Now where are you going?” He was shoving things into a duffle, his back to her as he stayed silent. “You can’t keep running away from these conversations.”
He whirled around, his eyes on fire. “You wanna have a fucking conversation?” he shouted, towering over her. “Say whatever you wanna say so that I can get the fuck out of here.”
Jackie put her hands on her hips, not intimidated by him at this point in their relationship. “Don’t you dare yell at me. All I want to do is help.
“I don’t need your help!”
“You clearly need someone’s help. You’re an absolute train wreck!”
The volume of the conversation had Oliver making just as much noise in the other room. However, neither parent was aware enough at the moment to console the baby.
“Yeah, well, if I’m such a wreck, then maybe I should just leave.” Dean grabbed his bag from the bed and stormed down the hallway, cursing when he heard Jackie follow right behind him. He should have headed straight to the clubhouse after the night he’d had instead of coming home.
“Maybe you should, 'cause I’m honestly done with your shit.” He stopped but didn’t turn around as she crossed her arms over her chest. “If you’re gonna spend your nights getting high, then I don’t need you around me or my child.”
He turned at that, glaring harshly at her as Oliver continued to cry in the background. “So now he’s your kid? I get to pay for all his stuff and put a roof over your heads, but now he’s not my kid? I’ve worked my ass off to provide for this family!”
“Providing doesn’t just mean money. It means actually being here for us!”
Dean smiled sarcastically, throwing his hands up. “I guess I just can’t do anything right then, can I?” With that, he headed out the door.
Jackie growled in frustration, running her hands through her tangled mass of dark hair and closed her eyes. After a few deep breaths, Oliver’s cries finally filtered into her brain. She collected herself and tried to calm her voice as she picked him up from the crib, cradling the baby in her arms carefully.
Just as she was getting him settled a few minutes later, there was a knock on the door. Her brows furrowed as the clock on the wall told her it was almost two in the morning. She set the sleepy baby back in the crib, hoping whoever it was wouldn’t wake him. Making her way quickly to the door, she was less than surprised to see two uniformed police officers on the other side. Cracking the door open before they could knock again, she tried to smile politely at them.
“Morning officers,” she said quietly, recognizing the dark-haired one, Officer Hines, from the last visit the police had made. Dean’s neighbors were not big fans of the couple and would readily call the cops any time they heard a noise.
“Ma’am,” Officer Hines replied, his stern gaze trying to peek through the crack in the door to see into the apartment. “We received a call about a domestic disturbance. I
s everything okay?”
Jackie rolled her eyes but opened the door a bit more for them to get a better view. “Everything is fine, just a minor argument. Our neighbors are a bit high maintenance if you can’t tell.”
“And is Mr. Rockwell home?”
“No, he left. My son is asleep, though, so I’d rather you didn’t come in.” The officers exchanged skeptic glances, not sure if they should believe her given the history of the calls to this address. “Look for a motorcycle outside. If it’s not here, then neither is he. I promise we’re not that kind of couple. We just get a little loud sometimes.” But she also looked fine, and under no duress, so they had little reason to enter the property.
“Very well,” the officer said reluctantly after another few seconds of silent communication with his partner. “We’ll do a driveby later just to check on things. If he does show up again and you need assistance, don’t hesitate to call us.” He handed her a business card, pointing at a direct number that she could use.
Jackie accepted the card and smiled at them both. “Thank you, really.” They bid her goodnight, and she closed the door, leaning against it with a sigh.
Her life was really getting ridiculous.
31
Dean woke with a start much later that morning to a loud banging on the bedroom door. Squinting his eyes against the bright sun, the clock on the side table told him it was after ten.
“Yo, D, you gonna come help us get shit done at some point today?” Murphy yelled through the door in annoyance, rolling his eyes when he received no response. Even he was fed up with the lack of work ethic of his best friend lately, tired of picking up the slack. “Let’s go! We’re busy.”
Picking up a boot from the floor, Dean chucked it at the door and was quite satisfied by the loud thud it made. He buried his head into the pillow and groaned, his brain pulsing behind his eyes painfully. After laying there for another few minutes, he finally decided to get out of bed, knowing the next person to come looking for him would probably be Luke. He’d be less polite with his request.