by Monica James
I could go to the cops and tell them everything I know, but I can’t because I’ll never see Jordy again if I do. Jaws was close by this entire time, and I didn’t even know. Imagine what he’d do if he wanted to remain hidden forever.
Bull has asked around, but no one wants to talk.
In short, we’re on our own.
Going back to teaching ballet is the last thing I want to do, but I have to do something. I can’t sleep. I can’t eat. All I can think about is Jordy and how I failed him. If I don’t teach and keep busy, I’ll drive myself insane. And I refuse to do that because I need to be ready for whatever Bull has planned.
He promises we’ll get Jordy back, and I believe him. I have to.
Subtly peering at my silver watch, I see that it’s time. Not bothering with goodbyes, I tuck Avery under my arm and walk out the door. No one misses me because they’re too busy attempting to absolve themselves of whatever guilt they have for not showing Avery the respect she deserved when she was alive.
The moment I step outside, I take my first real breath. I feel like I’ve been holding it all day. Seeking him out, I see his black truck parked in the distance. He is my beacon, the only thing stopping me from slipping into a depression and never resurfacing again.
My heels dig into the snow as I march toward Bull’s truck, so not ready for what tonight holds. Yes, I’ve seen him fight before, but this is different. So much is riding on other people. If they don’t deliver, I don’t know what to do.
But I refuse to think that way. This will work. It has to.
When I open the door and see Bull, the heavy weight pressing against my chest begins to ebb away. But I mask my happiness because the only thing I’m focusing on is finding Jordy and not my growing feelings.
His mismatched eyes drop to the urn under my arm, but he doesn’t say a word. I get in and quickly buckle up. The drive to Chicago is long, so I don’t want to waste any time. The engine roars to life, and we’re on our way.
Placing the urn in the middle console, I reach over my shoulder for my backpack in the back seat. I packed a change of clothes because I never want to wear this black dress ever again. Hunting through it, I grab my skinny jeans.
Kicking off my heels, I slip my legs into the jeans and shuffle into them under my dress. Raising my hips, I zip them up. Without thought, I lift the dress over my head and stuff it into the bag. I’m only in a black silk bra as I hunt for my gray slouchy sweater.
I slip it on, aware of Bull’s subtle glances, but I’m too tired and broken to give way to any bashfulness. Untucking my hair from the collar, I unsnap one of the hairbands from around my wrist and tie it into a high bun. I decide to wait and put my sneakers and jacket on when we arrive.
Sighing, I apply some honey lip balm but soon realize since the moment I’ve entered the truck, I haven’t been able to sit still. I’m a ball of nerves, but I am also so restless.
“How long till we get there?” I ask, tugging at the seat belt because it’s suffocating me. The question is ridiculous. I’ve been to Chicago before, so I know how long it takes. But if I don’t fill the silence with noise, I will resort to thoughts, thoughts of where my son is and if he’s safe.
Bull humors me regardless. “A few hours.”
His bruising has faded, but he’s still injured. And that’s to be expected, seeing as he was attacked by a stun gun my brother used on him. He said it’ll make throwing the fight all the more believable because he’ll just blame the loss on still being hurt. But I know he will have to make it realistic, which means I’ll have to witness him spill more blood.
“How was the funeral?”
“It was a nice send-off. I just wish I wasn’t so distracted. I wanted Avery to know how much she meant to me.” Peering down at the urn, I run two fingers over the top.
“She knew,” Bull says with regret.
Of course, he has firsthand experience with losing a loved one, so he knows what I’m feeling right now. The wave of anger threatens to drag me under, but I subconsciously snap the elastic around my wrist. The sharp sting quiets the voices roaring within.
“I know me asking you to stay in the truck is out of the question,” he says, and I nod once, glad we’re on the same page. “But stay in the shadows, all right? The fewer people who see you, the better. José can’t know who you are. You will just be another pawn to add to his growing collection. We got no business with the cartel.”
“If Bianca was someone of importance to”—I inhale, needing a moment before I speak his name—“to Jaws, then maybe she’ll know of his whereabouts.”
“That’s exactly the reason you need to stay hidden,” he counters, nostrils flared. “If they find out who you are—” His pause reveals the severity of his warning. “Just please, promise me you won’t draw any attention to yourself, regardless of what you see.”
His cautioning has me turning to look at him. “What am I going to see?”
His attention is riveted to the road, but I can see how my questions are irritating him. Something bad is sure to go down, but he doesn’t want me to know. I find out what that is. “To throw the fight, I have to make it believable.”
“Meaning?” I encourage, not wanting to go into this blind.
His cheeks bellow as he exhales. “Meaning, things are going to get bloody for me. The fight will only be called when I’m either unconscious or dead.”
I gulp.
“I don’t know what’ll happen, but if there is any trouble, you take the truck and get out of there, okay?”
“I’m not leaving you,” I stubbornly argue. But he’s clearly not willing to negotiate on this.
“Goddammit, Tiger!” His jaw clenches. “I can’t do this if I’m worrying about you. I need to keep a clear head, and if I—”
“Okay, I promise,” I quickly interrupt, mentally crossing my fingers as there is no way I’m leaving him behind. He just admitted he’d worry about me, which means he cares.
I still don’t know what I am to Bull. Thinking of my confession in the cemetery, about how my feelings for him are growing every day, I wonder if he feels the same way. In light of what’s happening, I know it’s trivial, but knowing I’m not alone in this gives me hope.
Placing my head back against the headrest, I close my eyes and give in to the silence, allowing myself a moment of reprieve as I’m unsure when I will do so again.
“Tiger.”
Groaning, I open my heavy eyes, wondering where I am because I had the most god-awful dream. I dreamed Christopher took Jordy…
My heart suddenly constricts, the sharp pain a reminder that it wasn’t a dream. It’s my life, which I am currently staggering through.
“We’re here.” Bull’s voice is my only tether. Without it, without him, I would have floated away.
“Okay,” I reply, focusing on where here is. We’re in the middle of nowhere. The only thing I can see in this winter wonderland is a large run-down church.
The stained-glass windows are still intact, but the weathered exterior has seen better days. Flashy cars are parked in the snowy field. A few people are smoking cigarettes on the front steps, their plumes of smoke filling the starless sky.
“You go in,” Bull instructs. “I’ll follow a few minutes later. I have to get ready, so I won’t see you until I get into the ring.”
I nod, knowing he uses the term ring lightly. This is a free-for-all. A blood sport for the rich assholes with too much money on their hands.
There is no protocol for this kind of thing, so I quickly put on my shoes and socks. When I slip on my knitted beanie and reach for the door handle, Bull reaches out and grips my forearm. I peer down at his fingers and then back up to meet his eyes.
“Be careful, Tiger.”
“You too,” I reply softly, suddenly questioning everything.
Something shifts, something electric, and goose bumps instantly coat my skin. I am suddenly terrified for what the night will bring.
Bull lets me go, but
I watch with interest as he reaches under the collar of his shirt and gently slips his fingers under his necklace. He slides it over his head, the silver medallion catching the shine of the full moon.
“Keep it safe for me?” He offers it to me with a slight tremble to his fingers.
I accept, fingering over the medallion with care. I see it’s Saint Christopher.
“It was Damian’s,” he reveals with soft sentiment. “His good luck charm.”
I can’t hide my emotion as I put it on and tuck it safely beneath my sweater. I want to say so many things, like how I’m afraid for him, for me, for us. If something were to happen to either of us, what becomes of my son?
Failure isn’t an option.
Tipping my chin, I attempt to conceal my tears. Crying isn’t going to solve a thing. But with the gentlest of touches, Bull grips my chin and coaxes me to look at him. When we lock eyes, I allow my vulnerability to show. I’m so tired of hiding.
No words are needed as we remain in a wordless embrace. He thumbs over my trembling bottom lip, before wiping away my tear. He is lending me his strength, and right now, I need it more than ever.
“It’ll be okay. I promise.”
Before I have a chance to reply, he bends forward, and with a whisper of his warm, hesitant lips, he places a kiss on my cheek. The gesture is filled with so much concern and tenderness, I almost forget to breathe. These moments are rare for Bull. He is still coming to terms with being able to show vulnerability or emotion.
We’re both learning how to walk before we run because when we do, there will be no stopping us.
He pulls away sluggishly, gliding his nose across my skin and inhaling before leaving me to deal with this enormous weight pressing against me that’s robbing me of air. I zip up my jacket, then open the door and step outside. I don’t look back as my feet sink into inches of snow because each step takes me closer to getting Jordy back.
Craning my neck, I see the steeple of the church still has a silver cross attached to the top. Maybe an omen of things to come? The white paint has long chipped away, hinting this place hasn’t been used for prayer in a very long time. The stained-glass windows reflect colorful patterns across the snow, but the deep reds leave me envisioning what I will soon see spilled inside.
The three men on the front steps stop talking when I approach them. They’re dressed in expensive clothes and not masking their judgment on why someone like me is here. But I do as Bull told me—I act like I belong.
With head held high, I push past them and open the heavy wooden door. The lights are bright courtesy of the generator running in the corner of the room. About two hundred people are crammed inside, hollering and cheering as two men circle one another in the middle of the room.
The pews have been removed. The altar is all that remains, draped in a red silk cloth. The sight is unnerving, as it appears they’re preparing for an offering. The wooden floor is dirty, littered with debris and cigarette butts.
Bull gave me a wad of cash to use for bets because this isn’t a spectator’s sport. Everyone is here to win. If I don’t lay down some money, they’ll sense something is amiss. A man in suit pants and a blue shirt saunters over, notepad in hand. No doubt this is one of Stevie’s bookies.
“How much, and who you betting on?” he asks, pushing his silver glasses up the bridge of his slender nose.
Reaching into my pocket, I give him the rolled-up stack of bills and reply, “Tiny.” This is a sure bet, seeing as I know who the winner will be, so I don’t feel so bad giving away all this cash.
The man doesn’t ask any questions. He simply dumps the money into a small bag and gives me a pink ticket with some scribble on the front. I’m thankful when he doesn’t linger.
After finding the darkest corner as Bull instructed, I stay hidden, watching the two men beat the living shit out of one another. Each time their fists or feet connect with the other, the crowd roars in delight while I flinch, my stomach turning.
This world is so foreign to me. Before meeting Bull, my life had structure, but now, here I am, caught up in an illegal fighting syndicate in order to find my missing son. My fingers drift to the elastic around my wrist, and I begin to flick it, the sting calming the roaring demons within.
Subtly peering around the room, I take in the masses. They’re a mixed bunch, but overall, they all share one thing—they’re here to win. I wonder how someone comes to know about these events. I know it isn’t advertised, so are they listed in some illegal newsletter swap?
When my gaze lands on a well-dressed man with a deep scar down his cheek, I take a guess this is José. He is surrounded by three men. Their eyes scan the room, and when I lock gazes with one of them, I quickly avert my eyes.
I need to be more careful.
Feigning interest, I watch as the fighters attack one another, staggering and bleeding all over the floor. The smaller of the two finally puts an end to the fight when he headbutts his opponent out cold. The crowd erupts into cheers, hands raised in celebration as they drag the lifeless man away.
The winner hobbles toward a door left of the altar. I guess that is where Bull is.
The bookie does a last sweep of the crowd, hinting the next fight is about to commence. I bite my thumbnail, anxiously awaiting the next few minutes. A man smoking a cigar saunters through the door the fighter entered, and from Bull’s description, I know this is Stevie, the asshole who wants to exploit Lotus’s hard work.
Technically, we don’t need to play nice with him anymore. He’s played his part. But Bull said until we find Jordy, Stevie may be an ally we need—the lesser of two evils. And the same goes for José. We are siding with evil to defeat evil it seems.
A thunderous roar brings my attention back to the middle of the room where a man, or rather a beast, is bouncing on the spot. He is well over six feet and has biceps the size of my head. Instantly, my palms begin to sweat. He is going to kill Bull.
He’s topless, his muscled physique glimmering under the lights, showcasing just how much damage he can inflict. If this were a fair fight, then I wouldn’t be so worried. But watching this animal attack Bull is going to be hard to stomach.
The air is tense with an electrical pulse, and that only increases tenfold when the crowd begins to chant Colmillo over and over again. I know a little Spanish, so I understand what they’re saying.
Fang.
And when Bull emerges from the doorway, his fangs flashing brutally on his face shield, I realize they’re chanting out to him.
He pushes through the masses, not interested in praise as his eye is on the prize—Tiny. He knows what he has to do; yet, his arrogance knows no bounds as he sports a winner’s walk.
Wearing a long-sleeved top that clings to his defined muscles, he has his hands bound with white tape as well as his feet and ankles. He looks like he’s ready for war. His tattooed legs are his only distinguishable feature as he has in his blue contact. I now understand why he goes to the trouble to conceal his identity.
In that ring, he isn’t Cody Bishop or Bullseye. He is Colmillo. He has a part to play. We all do. And when he advances toward Tiny, throwing the first punch, it seems he’s eager to get this show on the road.
Tiny’s head snaps back before he wipes his bleeding lip with the back of his hand. Bull got in the first punch because he knows Tiny will get in the last and he needs to put on a good show in the meantime. They begin to circle one another, Bull’s focus never wavering from the animal in front of him.
Tiny’s tattooed back of a demonic Mickey Mouse blocks Bull from my vision, so I stand on tippy toes, needing to keep my eyes on him the whole time. Tiny strikes out, but Bull reads his move and ducks before delivering a sharp punch to his flank.
A pained oof leaves Tiny, who buckles, and Bull takes full advantage when he connects with his jaw.
Bull is fierce, and the crowd explodes into pandemonium as they push each other, wanting to get closer to the action. Tiny shakes his head, appearing to focus o
n the wild beast in front of him. Bull’s fists are raised in front of his face, ready to strike, and I suddenly wonder if he is having second thoughts about losing.
He definitely doesn’t look like loser material when he dodges another of Tiny’s punches before kicking down on his knee. Tiny’s leg collapses out from under him, and he drops. Bull then delivers a succession of punches to Tiny’s face, ribs, and stomach, which has Tiny falling onto his back.
Bull doesn’t waste a second and dives on top of him, punching his face over and over.
The chanting of Colmillo only gets louder and louder, fueling Bull to punish Tiny brutally. Risking a glance at Stevie, I see he and José are huddled together, watching on intently. Stevie is nothing but confident, smoking his cigar with a smile. José remains untroubled, but surely, he must be thinking what I am—is Bull backing out of their deal?
Maybe he’s come up with another plan? I trust him and know how much is at stake if he wins this fight. We don’t get to Scrooge, which isn’t an option for either of us.
I breathe a sigh of relief, thankful I won’t have to witness him being beaten to a pulp, but that breath is taken in vain because when Tiny punches Bull in the stomach and a winded gasp leaves him, I know all of this was for show.
Tiny grips Bull’s wet hair, holding him in place before headbutting him. The hollow noise is horrifying, and I bite down on my tongue to stop my scream. Bull comes to a shaky stand, shaking his head, but Tiny is suddenly on his feet, towering over Bull. He punches him in the stomach, right over his wound from the stun gun.
The pained grunt isn’t staged, and I feel the walls closing in on me. Tiny begins to beat Bull senseless, who gets in a few punches, but it’s evident he’s hurt. He is sluggish on his feet, which Tiny takes advantage of. He hits him in the ribs, the stomach, and the face, but Bull won’t go down.
“No,” I whimper as each punch Bull takes rattles me to my core.
When Tiny’s meaty fist connects with Bull’s eye, it instantly swells as it still hasn’t completely healed from when Jaws attacked him. Yet Bull continues dancing around Tiny with his fists raised.