Wraith: A Second Chance Dark Romance (Masters of Mayhem Book 1)

by Renee Rocco

  Hey, have to keep up appearances. If I’m not an asshole, I’ll set off more alarms than if I try to waltz right out the front door. I pull up the groin guard and tuck my junk behind the shock supporter. Next is the shorts—no need for other protective gear when the goal is for one of us to die. But shots to the balls would put too many halts to the action, and Crane can’t allow that to happen. Have to keep the crowd happy, and lulls in the fighting make for bad business.

  “Turn around, Atticus,” Thomas instructs.

  I spin and press my wrists together. Soon as he tightens the zip ties, I face him and see worry etched across his face. “Stow that shit.”

  He gives me a curt nod and wipes his expression clean. “Let’s go.”

  I’m shuffled out of Elite and across the Hub. Adam, that asshole, gives me his customary thumbs-up from behind the safety of the control booth. I want to break off those thumbs and shove them up his ass.

  And then we’re in the corridor. Hurrying toward the arena as another threesome makes their way down toward the dungeon. Goddamn, the fighter is beat to hell. Barely upright, but alive. We lock eyes as we pass each other, two unlucky pricks who were in the wrong place at the wrong time when Crane’s men grabbed us.

  At the end of the corridor, Thomas bangs on the door. It swings open, and we walk by the guard. Lyle gets swept up by the crowd’s thunderous roar. He loves the adulation as he marches me toward the cage. He acts like he’s a superstar. The reality is that Lyle is a standard-issue jerkoff with an affinity for hurting people.

  Thomas stays by my side as we make our way down the aisle through the crush of bodies. The horde is nothing but a blur of faces. Their cheers are deafening, demanding blood. Mine or my opponent’s. Doesn’t matter. Either of us will do as long as one of us is carted out in a body bag. My heart is a jackhammer rattling my ribs, but I stay focused on the octagon that’s lit up by the overhead spotlights. The only time I drag my gaze from it is when I pass the front row. Part of me hopes I’ll see Jamie sitting there like she was last time. Part of me dreads the possibility. But she’s not. Crane is alone, that motherfucker, smug, like he’s already won.

  Prick lost the war the day he was stupid enough to take me captive.

  I just haven’t killed him yet.

  Lyle shoves me in the cage. Thomas steps in after me. The back door opens again, spilling light into the arena. Door closes, and curiosity gets the best of me as I search out my opponent through the crush. The crowd is on their feet, blocking my view, damn them. Anticipation gnaws at me, sucking the air out of the room. Twists my gut in knots. Lyle steps away for a better view at who’s coming up the aisle, and I use the opportunity to my advantage.

  “If this goes wrong, you get Jamie out,” I yell over the noise to Thomas.

  He shakes his head. “She won’t go without you.”

  “Bullshit. You make her go.”

  “You’re walking out of this cage, Wraith.” He emphasizes my name. Pulls something out that he has stashed up his sleeve. Can’t see what it is, but the pinch tells me it’s a syringe, and he’s jabbed whatever it is in my arm. Then it disappears back up his sleeve. “Whatever it takes.”

  The fuck?

  Oh shit. Trizapam. Shit got real. Fast. Well, okay then. Guess I am dying tonight. Figuratively only, I hope. I take another deep breath as Lyle comes strolling back toward us, wearing his customary shit-eating grin.

  “You’re in trouble now, boy.”

  His stupid juvenile taunt doesn’t work on me since I can practically taste freedom. Or is it trizapam? Who the hell knows? I want this over, and I want out. Only way that’s happening is through whoever gets locked in this octagon with me.

  I recall a book I read years ago. Something about mind over matter and manifesting an outcome. Seems like something to try right about now. And then the cage door opens, and I tense as my opponent steps inside. The guy has got a shock of red hair and freckles that reminds me of Irish. Original, yeah? But that’s the name Kevin O’Rourke was given the day he became an Unholy. Guy’s old-school Ireland, complete with a brogue. Good man. Loyal as fuck. Tough as the devil himself. Scrappy, too. If Irish is anything to go by, I won’t underestimate this fighter. He’s shorter than me, but he’s a bulky sonofabitch, with a thick neck and beefy hands. He’s not as wide as me, though, but I won’t have to throw the fight. This one looks like he can do some damage, so my loss won’t seem suspicious.

  “Good luck.” Lyle snickers.

  “Let him hurt you,” Thomas says from behind me as he cuts the zip ties.

  Not a problem.

  The four handlers rush out of the octagon and take their places outside the cage. Door slams shut. Spotlights flare on, illuminating the announcer perched on a platform outside the cage. Mic in hand, he’s the epitome of showmanship in his snazzy tux and slick black hair.

  For Christ’s sake, he’s wearing at least ten pounds of makeup.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, it’s time. What we’ve been waiting for. The main event. Tiernan versus Atticus. Underdog against favorite. Two men with a blood feud they’ll settle here. Tonight. Challenger and champion. Good against evil. Only one will leave this octagon the victor.”

  That’s some heavy-handed dramatic bullshit right there. But the crowd loses its collective mind, eating up the announcer’s theatrical nonsense like it is the gospel. Good versus evil, for fuck’s sake. Like we’re biblical adversaries instead of two captives forced to kill or be killed for a rabid mob’s amusement. Well, at least the idiot has flair. I gotta give him that much.

  The spotlight goes off.

  Bell rings. Mob goes crazy.

  Game on.

  Bell won’t sound again until one of us stops breathing.

  My hands go up in a conventional guard. I lead with my right and keep my other against my left cheek as Tiernan wastes no time charging forward. I dodge the first jab, but he’s quick and catches me with the second. Christ, he’s strong. His fist is a hammer to my mouth, smashing lips against teeth to draw first blood. I answer with an effective right-hand jab that snaps his head backward and follow up with a left cross. He’s rocked. I seize the opportunity and land a front kick. I catch him with an ear clap. Attempt a round kick. Fucker grabs my right leg. Pulls me in and executes the takedown. My back slams against the mat. He takes the mount and unleashes a brutal ground and pound. He’s good. Powerful. But I’m better. I break free and shoot to my feet. Guard is up. We stand and bang, landing solid strikes.

  Bloody and my vision blurred by sweat, I heave in a breath as we work the octagon. We’re both spent, exhausted, and fall into a clinch to dirty box. His heavy fists do some severe damage to my torso. Something gives inside of me, snaps, and sucks the breath right out of me. But the air rushes back, and I shake off the pain to land an uppercut to his chin. He comes in for another takedown. Not again, motherfucker. I lock him in a sprawl and force us back to our feet. On the attack, I wreck him with a volley of hits. He’s dazed, and I grab him in a guillotine. He batters my torso, and again, there’s a sickening give.

  My arms loosen around his neck enough for him to break my hold. He makes the mistake of taking a step back and puts space between us for me to land a spinning back fist. An overhand right sends a spray of blood from his mouth. The follow-up jab knocks out a tooth. Another left cross destroys his nose.

  He’s hurt but still standing, and his fists are fucking mallets that put me on the defense that sends me backward. Up against the cage we go. The metal links press into my back as we work our way around the octagon. It’s a struggle to fight my way free from another clinch. I bare my teeth in a snarl and take back domination. Shock him with a haymaker and follow it up with a rain of strikes. He answers me with wild, ineffective punches. When I know I’ve got him, I move behind him and grab him in a rear naked choke. If this were a typical fight, I’d go for the tap-out.

  This isn’t that kind of fight.

  First, he claws at my arms. Then slaps at them. We fall to our
knees, my grip relentless. He grabs at me, but I tighten my hold with my face buried in his sweat-soaked hair. I squeeze harder, applying enough pressure to his windpipe to put him to sleep. Only when he goes limp do I drag the unconscious man toward the perimeter of the cage—directly in front of where Crane is seated.

  He wants a front-row seat to a slaughter? Fuck it. That’s what he gets. I want Crane to see what I’m going to do to him.

  “Fuck you,” I snarl. Crane can’t hear me over the noise, but he knows damn well what I said—and he knows I’m about to be the last man standing in this cage. Then to Tiernan, “I’m sorry.”

  Movies make snapping a neck seem easy. Quick twist, and it’s over. Yeah, no. Takes effort, and as I wrap my arms around Tiernan’s head, I keep my glare on Crane and put all my weight, all the strength I have left, in the jerk of my arms. Tiernan’s head swivels in my hold. I tug harder, and his neck twists. The gross give of his cervical spine and the revolting crack etches itself across my brain. I open my arms, and Tiernan slips to the mat to land in a crumpled heap.

  Oh my fucking God.

  I drop to my knees and need a second to catch my breath and give silent honor to a worthy opponent. Tiernan gave as good as he got.

  Tiernan. I say his name again because it needs to be said and commit the man to memory. He joins the others who fell by my hand in this cage. He’s one more ghost who’ll haunt me for the rest of my life.

  The bell sounds. The announcer’s back up on his stupid podium, declaring me the winner and still champion. Thomas rushes in with Lyle behind him. Goddamn Lyle and his cattle prod. He lights me up without provocation, of course. It’s what he does, and what the crowd expects. What they demand. Electricity sizzles through me, knocking me forward. Luckily, my mangled face breaks my landing.

  “Once, asshole. That’s all I’m giving you. He’s a heavy bastard, and I’m not dragging him to his cell,” Thomas snaps. Ten bucks says Lyle will zap me at least once more before we reach Elite. Then I see a syringe appear like magic in Thomas’s hand. “Sorry,” he mumbles before sticking the needle in my neck.

  “No worries, man,” I grunt, glad I’m alive-ish.

  Whatever trizapam is doing inside me feels really not good.

  I close my eyes, a crooked grin playing on my chapped lips for the initial blessed seconds as ket skids through my veins. But the pain comes. Subtle at first. A slow build now that my body has grown used to this shit. But holy hell, I can still remember the first time they dosed me. Ket hit my bloodstream like ten seconds of pure bliss followed by instant agony. At least now I have a few minutes before I’m a mindless sack of shit, drooling all over myself as synthetic agony fucks me up for hours.

  Thomas shoves Lyle out of the way and secures my wrists. He forces the younger guard to lead us out. We descend the octagon’s platform, and hands grab at me. People call me by my bullshit fake name. I ignore everything around me as usual, reminding myself that one way or another, this is my last trip up the aisle.

  The guard already has the door open for us. The trek down to the dungeon is a melancholy and dishonorable victory walk.

  Lyle actually behaves as we continue past the gates, where Adam, as always, congratulates me on the win, but he’s not his usual giddy self.

  “Gonna miss you around here, Atticus,” he says through the speaker.

  He doesn’t mean my escape, obviously.

  I give him a playful pout, so tired and banged up that my legs are ready to buckle under my weight. “Hate to have to die.”

  “At least you went out on a win.”

  “Right?” I say with mock enthusiasm. “Could have been worse. I could have died an honorable death in the cage instead of being tortured to death because I fucked the boss’s wife.”

  “Open Elite,” Thomas snaps. The lock clicks, and he jerks me forward. “Come on. You look like you’re about to drop, you overgrown asshole.”

  “Eat a bag of dicks,” I mutter and shuffle past him into the cell.

  Holy shit, it’s hot in here. My mouth is a desert, thirst its own torment. I drop on the mattress, then cringe when ket amplifies what’s broken in my abdomen.

  “You can deal with him. I’m outta here,” Lyle announces as if anyone gives a shit.

  Thomas sneers at Lyle, selling the lie that he’s pissed he’s leaving. “Yeah, you do that, you lazy sack of shit. I’ll do both of our jobs.”

  Lyle shrugs. “Low man on the totem pole gets the grunt work.”

  Thomas flips him the bird as Lyle strolls out. He angles his head so the camera can’t see his face. “You okay?”

  “Not even a little.”

  “I said let him hurt you, not get beat half to death.”

  I snort out a laugh. “Sorry, my bad.”

  Thomas pauses, glances up at the camera, then back at me. “Just want you to know, you’re a good man, Wraith, no matter what you may think.”

  “Yeah, okay.” I’ve never been a good man. “What about you?”

  My words are slurring. Drugs are making it difficult to talk. Or is it pain making it hard to speak? The world is getting dark. Distant. My body feels too heavy. My brain too fuzzy.

  “Jamie wants us in Mayhem, but we weren’t sure if we’d be welcome.”

  “Fuck yeah, you’re welcome.”

  “Thanks. I’ll keep that in mind for when this is over,” Thomas says. “Roger’s staying here to keep an eye on Crane, and I have a family I can’t leave.”

  “Bring them to Mayhem.”

  “It would have been too suspicious to move them.” He walks to the door. “Sleep, Wraith. It’ll be easier for you that way.”

  And then he’s gone. The cell door slams shut, and the silence is all-consuming. The darkness is a living entity threatening to devour me. My nerves are on fire, the flames flickering through my body. More than ket. More than any pain I’ve known. Like my entire body is shutting down one organ at a time. Until I’m floating in a sea of agony, guided by my father’s voice, telling me it’s okay to go to sleep. A deep sleep. The deepest sleep.

  I’m falling into darkness, where a perfect serenity wraps around me and absorbs the pain. All the suffering is gone like mountain mist that burns off under the morning sun.

  If this is dying, I’m okay with it as long as I know Jamie will be safe. She might be pissed I died, but she’ll get over it. Jamie’s resilient. And I know Roger will get her to Jester and Malice, and they’ll get her to Mayhem. And me? I’ll ride this wave, and when I get to hell, I’ll look the devil in the eye and tell him to kiss my fucking ass.

  9

  Jamie

  The rap at my door turns my nerves to stressed bowstrings ready to snap. It can only be one person, and I shoot a worried glance at my closet. My overstuffed backpack is hiding in plain sight. I’ve jammed it with everything to get me through the next few days. I’d take nothing if I could. I want to leave as much of Gomorrah’s rot and misery here, where it belongs.

  I crawl off the bed, hiding my agitation and frown at the bastard filling the threshold. “What do you want?”

  “Still angry with me?” David’s words run into each other, and my stomach drops.

  A drunk David is a dangerous David.

  I plant a hand on my hip. “You hit me. Yes, I’m still angry.”

  He pouts like a little boy playing dress-up in his daddy’s Armani suit. “You promised to love me.”

  I would rather chew broken glass.

  “I need time,” I lie. “Go to Vegas. Have your fun. When you get home, I promise, we’ll start over. But you can’t expect me to switch gears so quickly after getting slapped. It doesn’t work that way.”

  His unfocused eyes narrow and take my measure slow and lazy. His lips twist in a nasty grin. “Well, if I’m already in jail...”

  David shoves his way into my room. He pushes me backward, and I land on the bed. When he tumbles on top of me, his weight pins me to the mattress. I fight beneath him, but my struggle amuses him and drains me.
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  “Get off me,” I grit out between gnashed teeth.

  He can’t rape me, but that doesn’t make him any less of a threat.

  “I want to kiss my wife.”

  I lean up and give him a peck on the lips. “There. Happy?”

  He steadies himself with one hand and grabs a fistful of the front of my hair with the other. “That’s not a kiss.”

  Our teeth bang as his lips punish me for all the times I denied him. The kiss is brutal. The tang of blood mingles with the flavor of tequila that flows from his mouth into mine. His hips grind against my stomach, and I stay so still beneath his flaccid body, I might as well be a dead body beneath him. He grunts in frustration and when he raises his head, I gasp for air and…

  …he cracks me across the face.

  “Cold cunt. Can’t even kiss your husband.”

  Not when my husband is you.

  “I said I need time to process my anger. This isn’t helping.” I swallow my fury and ignore the throb spreading over my left cheek. “We’ll start over when you come home.”

  A lifetime of practiced restraint keeps my words clipped and calm. What I want to do is murder him right here, right now.

  David slides off me and smooths his hands over the crisp cut of his clothes. “You better mean it, Jamie, because you and your friend? Your lives belong to me.”

  Not after tonight.

  I sit up and do my level best to portray the picture of serenity as a storm of emotion rages inside me. “Please don’t threaten me. I know I’m yours.”

  He glares down at me for a good long while before jabbing a finger in my face. “I’ll see you when I get back.”

  And then he’s gone, slamming the door behind him. I leap off the bed and bolt to the bathroom to assess the damage. My cheek will bruise. The inside of my mouth is cut, but it’s nothing too bad. It could have gone much worse.

  I return to the bedroom to wait and listen for the commotion marking when David leaves and the Coliseum empties. Only then do I snap into action. I dart to the dresser, my hands shaking as I power up the burner phone.