Raid sits quietly on the end of the line.
“What about the others?”
“Roc, I’m sorry… she doesn’t exist.”
I inhale deeply through my nostrils. “What the fuck do I pay you for?”
He attempts to speak but I cut him off.
“Two fucking jobs. You’ve come up empty-handed on both.”
“Sorry, man. Not through lack of trying. I promise you that.”
I roll my eyes. “Promises mean shit. I’ve had plenty of people promise me shit in my life, Raid, and you know what they’ve done with them? They’ve stomped on every fucking one. Promises are nothing but a collection of empty words, words that mean nothing to me. You’re fired.”
I hang up, throwing my cell onto the first surface I see.
Fist clenched, I yell into the empty loft, muscles pulsing with the need to be pushed to their limits.
I haven’t felt this useless life since my mom was killed. I’m flailing. Drowning in my own failings once again, and I’ll be damned if I let them continue.
My life is about structure. Determination. Master discipline and control and you can walk through the fucking depths of hell to grab your end goal with both fucking hands. Lose it and you’re like every other fucker walking this planet. Aimless.
I have the means. I have the power. Yet, the two people I need to find, the two people who shouldn’t have the first fucking idea of how to disappear, are like the fucking wind. They’ve outsmarted me. They’ve played me like a fool and I plan on ripping their jugular from their naked throats for the inconvenience.
Grabbing my cell, I flick through my contacts.
Rocco: Put me on the schedule
Carmichael: Throw three rounds and you’re in.
The weasel is working to win back his losses after betting against me last week.
Rocco: Whatever. Actually give me a fight this time. Not some wannabe.
He responds, but I ignore it, heading to my room to change. Rein didn’t say not to partake, she said chill out. This is how I chill out. Through pain and dominance. Through violence and release.
“Bruising is only just goin’ down, Shay, you sure you’re up to this? Hate for you to lose me any money tonight because you can’t pull it back.”
I flip Carmichael off as I shove past him, his bony body flying back against the wall.
The guy is the worst kind of scum. All greasy slicked back hair, acne-scarred face. He’d weigh a hundred-pound soaking wet, teeth missing, skin scabbed up from his incessant scratching.
The guy is a junkie through and through. It seeps from him like a neon sign. Bleeding in desperation and soaked in deceit.
If there’s one thing my dad taught me before he died—violence and hate aside—is that you can never trust a junkie. They lie. They cheat. They’d step on their own mother to secure their next hit.
Carmichael Woods is no exception. Tattered jeans, a shirt that’s likely older than he is and a leather jacket I have no doubt he stole, he’s made far too much money through me over the years. He knows I’m a sure bet. But you’d be forgiven for assuming he’s homeless. Truth is, he likely is. Every cent that falls into his pocket finds its way up his nose or into his veins.
“Four rounds,” he calls after me.
My feet pause, neck twisting to look at him. “You said three.”
His scrawny shoulders lift, an ugly grin showing off his gappy smile. “Things change.”
I walk away without so much as a glance.
Ass planted on the cold metal of one of the change rooms benches, I sigh in relief. There’s something therapeutic about the festering stench of blood and sweat. Like a kiss of anticipation. It seeps into your lungs like a vow.
Freedom.
So fucking close.
Chaos and pain. The stinging relief of a fist against your skin. Splitting it open to let the suffocating sense of failure seep out in rivers of blood.
The deafening crack of knuckles kissing bone. Jarring you enough to rid you of any coherent thought. If you’re lucky enough, sometimes a bone will break, gifting you the freedom from the shitstorm swirling inside you for that little bit longer.
My uncle taught me the salvation physical affliction can offer. Not intentionally of course. But after Mom died, I was drowning. My heart was broken. My soul destroyed. My life had all but up and left me without a fucking direction.
Then Marcus hit me, and for that split second in time, my heart didn’t ache as much. Truth be told, I forgot it existed. Every depressive thought was replaced by the sweet agony Marcus’ fists rained down on me.
I craved it.
Physical pain; that I could manage.
Emotional pain; that needed to be healed in a way I will never understand.
“You’re up,” Carmichael shouts into the room, the sound of his feet moving away as quickly as they came.
Standing, I roll my shoulders, shifting from foot to foot in a pre-game dance that builds my adrenaline. Cracking my neck one way and then the other, I run my tongue around my teeth.
One full inhale into my lungs and I move from the stench of defeat and victory, mixed together so potently, it’s likely neither actually exist, not in this world.
“Lost me a lot of money, Shay.”
Carmichael steps out from behind my car.
Opening my door, I throw my duffle inside, never taking my eyes off the fucker. “You should know better than to bet against me.”
“You said you’d give me four rounds.” He steps forward, spit flying from his mouth as he yells.
I raise an eyebrow. “I said three and I have somewhere else to be.”
I hear footsteps sound behind me, but I don’t let myself turn around.
“Don’t make an enemy outta me, asshole.”
He lets me see the glint of his knife held tightly in his hand by his side. A silver spark glowing in the gleam of the streetlight.
I can’t tell how many of his cronies have stepped up behind me, but I’m not stupid enough to turn my back on a fucking junkie, irate that they lost tonight’s hit.
“You pissed a lot of people off tonight.” He steps closer again, making it known he has a fucking death wish.
“Nah, fuckface, that was you. Now put your butter knife away and move the fuck on,” I growl.
He laughs just as the barrel of a gun pushes against my spine.
I blink slowly in irritation. More at myself than anything. I had to know the dickhead would do something unhinged after fucking him the way I did.
“Big, bad Rocco Shay knows he’s about to see Mommy again.”
My eyes flash open. “Bring up my mother again, cunt. I dare you.” I bare my teeth, a threatening growl cutting across the night air.
Shoulders pushing back, my fists opening and closing in anticipation, I have no doubt I look like a wild animal. Feral and unmanageable.
He steps back in fear.
“Wise decision,” I snarl, right as the fucker at my back lifts his gun, whipping it across the back of my head.
“Fuck,” I spit out, grabbing my head.
Carmichael takes the opportunity, my reflexes slowed by the bright yellow dots dancing in my eyesight. I hear his feet shuffle forward, the tip of his knife sliding into my abdomen like a hot knife into butter.