Growing up, Memphis was strong.
I watched the guy bench nearly double the rest of our baseball team for years, despite his leaner build. His swinging power was unmatched, to the point that the university he chose wanted him so badly, they allowed the little ultimatum disguised as a request he tossed their way—bring my “brother” on too, who has speed and build, but needs fine-tuning in mechanics, and I’m in.
It worked, got me a foot in the door at Avix U, after two years of busting my ass with Mrs. Franco, and when I was lucky, Davis, as my own personal tutors. Even years younger, she knew her shit well enough to guide me through mine.
We headed off to school together.
There were always little things he had that I wished for, but not to the point of hate or envy, simply ideals and dreams living in his world made me want to strive for.
His family pushed me to be better. Still do when I feel helpless and think back to what they taught me.
It wasn’t until Memphis started getting into deeper trouble out here that I witnessed for the first time something he had I didn’t want any part of, fear.
He was afraid his family would hate him for what he was doing and hiding.
Afraid he’d lose them.
Afraid he’d get kicked off the team, dropped from school, and have nothing and no one and so on and so forth.
His addiction preyed on his insecurities, and eventually, on his conscience.
It was a downhill battle there, and I was the rickety wheel on the front of the barrel, doing all I could to keep him from tumbling the rest of the way down.
That is, until he removed the screws himself and I was crashing to the ground on my own, no hand to lift me up, no shovel to dig me out.
Then I met Willie. His relationship with his brothers is what gave me the courage to call my own. Time and age might have pulled us apart—what ten-year-old would willingly walk away from their mom? Especially said mom paired with a manipulative son of a bitch called dad, a decision I know he regrets, but neither of us can change it. I know I would if I could, I sure as hell would.
Now I have a gang of guys, of family, at my side. People who will stand with me, not behind me.
People at risk of being hurt, if I don’t do what I’ve always been dangerously good at.
If I don’t fight.
But what will it cost me this time?
Another three years?
My girl?
My life?
“You owe me a free shot after this, but you already know this,” Willie snaps, his face blank, eyes facing forward.
The man isn’t talking about liquor. He’s more than mad, which means he might even knock me out when I give him that free shot.
If I told him I held back because Layla has been sick, and getting closer to delivery, he wouldn’t wait until after all this to swing. He’d whoop my ass right now.
Or I’d have to let him, I mean.
“You can get me on my good side.”
He frowns at the window but says nothing.
“Ready?”
He nods, and together, we step out, lifting our hands into the air to let the no-neck dipshits search us.
Across the empty lot, standing against a black El Camino is the bastard I beat unconscious on Davis’s living room floor. Did I say standing?
I meant balancing on a crutch, his right arm in a sling, a thick white brace wrapped around his neck, black-and-blue bruises coloring most of his skin. Mix that with the thick stitches laced across his face, and he looks like the redheaded doll from The Nightmare Before Christmas. A fucked-up version.
“That’s right.” A familiar voice speaks, and I face forward to find the silver-haired prick from the farmers’ market. The asshole responsible for destroying my bar. He smirks, waving a hand toward the guy glaring at me. “You met my brother. Doc says his hand might not be the same after this. Nephew ain’t looking too hot either, but he’s young, dumb, and needed a scar or two to dirty him up.”
He glances left and I follow his gaze to find the prick from the diner, his face still puffed and bruised—lucky he can stand. Willie pounced on me the minute I had the fucker by the throat, knowing I’d do worse to him for damaging the sense of safety Davis felt within herself. I only got a few hits in on him, lucky punk.
I say nothing, and the silver-haired asshole tips his head.
Picking his teeth with a knife he casually pulls out, he stares at me. “Don’t waste my time, son.”
“Then say what you want, so I can tell you to fuck off.”
A big dude with a fist tattooed on his neck steps closer, and I keep my head held high, my eyes locked with his. Big dudes fall fast, if you know where to start.
The silver-haired man laughs, flicking his blade closed and pushing to his feet with a grin. “One fight, that’s all I’m asking. This ain’t my territory, so I can’t stay long, but there’s a card coming up in a few days, about fifty miles from here, so we’ll be on common ground with two other clans, but see, I’m the only one without a fighter on this card. That’s a problem.” He steps closer, and Willie’s hands flex at his side. “The prize is too mighty for me not to have a hand in. That’s where you come in.” He grins. “You can thank your girl’s rat of a brother for that, if the little bitch ever comes out of hiding again.”
I survey him.
His being run out by who the fuck knows which gang is better than I could expect, not that dudes like this are always honest with the “help.” But he got what he came for in double with Davis’s truck, and he’s right, Memphis cut the second he had the chance, leaving no sign of him behind, other than a sad sister I’ll continue to comfort. That’s shit for another time, though.
“I know a lot of people, kid. Big people in big places. You’re good, son, one of the best I’ve come across and you can’t tell me you don’t love the rush.” He watches me closely. “Do this, help me walk away with what I want, and I’ll make a call.”
My eyes narrow, his words lost on me and probably complete fucking bullshit. Do I like to fight? Yeah, I do, but not at someone else’s command.
None of that matters right now, though, so I ask what does.
“How much?”
Willie stiffens.
“You win, I give you the three hundred grand you need to rebuild the damage someone caused on your little bar.” His lips tip higher. “And I skip into the sunset without batting a lash at the loss of fifteen percent.”
“Absolutely not!”
We whip around to find Julius battling Davis to keep the window closed.
“Ah, the princess is here.”
I dart forward, pushing into the man’s face, but two men with their hands under their shirts block my path. I pretend they aren’t there, guns ready at their hips. “Do not look at her.”
The man’s grin grows, and I want to carve it from his cheeks, Joker style.
“Davis,” I snap, not looking back. “Now.”
I don’t have to say more, the girl knows what I mean.
Get your ass back in the window and roll the shit up.
“Okay, okay, but if three hundred grand is only fifteen percent, which holy crap, that’s insane—”
“Davis!”
“Sorry, but that means he’s still getting one point seven million! Just so you know.”
Willie jerks away, and seconds later, a door slams shut and then he’s back.
Thank you, my little math nerd, but your ass is grass later.
Licking my lips, I lift my chin.
This guy isn’t in this for the money. He mentioned other plans and a price he can’t miss out on. What that could be, I don’t fucking care.
He’s looking for a win, and knows I can give it to him, which is why I say, “That’s not gonna work for me.”
His glare is sharp and instant.
I make him sweat a second before adding, “But I’ll tell you what will.”
The crew leader—Kaleb, according to Davis, when I’m pretty sure it’s nothing but the preppiest, prep-boy name they could think of as a cover for their “car service”—wasn’t joking when he said the fight was in days, the plural of that barely squeezing fucking by.
If she hadn’t hidden the cards from me, I’d have found them, and likely called him up just as he wanted, falling into his hands and securing his crews’ name on the fight card a few days sooner.
Fuck him. I’m glad he had to sweat a couple more days, if a man like him is capable of worry. If that would have happened, my girl wouldn’t have been there to drop math bombs on me, making this fight the biggest opportunity of my life—as twisted and fucked up as it might seem, since I don’t have a choice, even if the asshole pretended to give me one.
We both knew he could have threatened my friends and family, and I’d have agreed for nothing. But he also knew the fire it would light to know how going in and giving my all would benefit me as well, not just him.
I win tonight, I walk away with half a million dollars, untaxed… and my girl gets her truck back.
That’s three hundred K for the bar.
One to help get my best friend’s business off the ground—he doesn’t know this yet.
And one I’ll anonymously deposit into my parents’—the Francos—savings account, paying back all they put into their son’s failed recovery, and allowing them to settle into retirement without worry, just like they deserve.
I spoke to Garratt last night on FaceTime, and for the first time since I was nothing but a boy, when he asked how I was, I told him the truth.
I was tired, anxious.
In love with his daughter.
The way my muscles coiled at the confession was pointless.
The man actually choked up, and I felt the relief wash over him as if he projected it all on me. The creases along his eyes seemed to disappear, making him look younger in a single second. It was like he knew I would love her the way she deserves, and then some. That I would protect and care for her, the way he hoped a man one day would. By the end of the conversation, I almost wondered if he’d always quietly hoped that man would be me.
He didn’t resent me.
Never thought less of me.
“My children have done many things over the years that brought pride to my family, but son, I need you to know, I have never been prouder of anyone than I am of you, for all you’ve overcome and what you’ve accomplished along the way. You’re a strong man, Crew Taylor. A good man.”
The man loved me and my faults, and that’s an honor I’ll never take for granted.
Would he kick my ass for what I’m about to do? Yes. But that’s why kids don’t tell their parents everything, at least not until after it’s done. He’ll only do his best to talk me out of it and worry when it doesn’t work.
I’ll be the first to admit, it’s not ideal to have two lousy days to mentally prepare for a fight that will either give back all that was stolen from me and more, or leave me high and dry, like the punk kid I was at fourteen when my neighbors took me in—worthless, penniless.
Hopeless.
But even if I did lose, which I won’t, the rabbit hole won’t swallow me whole this time around because, no matter what happens tonight, tomorrow, or the day after, I’ll still have the one thing that means more than any damn dollar could bring.
I have the girl.
The girl who “refused” to stay in the suite we’ve been “guests” in—pretty sure guests don’t get locked in from the outside—the last forty-eight hours. Davis wrote, practiced, and delivered a three-minute—absolutely fucking adorable—presentation on why she should be with me tonight.
I didn’t have the heart to tell her there was no fucking way she was staying behind if she wanted to. No way in hell am I ready to leave her somewhere I’m not.
Maybe in six months or so, I’ll allow her out without me.
Maybe not.
From what we saw pulling in, in the RV they moved us to in the middle of the night, the fight is being held in the middle of nowhere, in a makeshift boxing ring set up behind an old broken-down mill. The floor is nothing but dirt, the rope, something you’d use for power conditioning, is woven through metal loops, welded to stakes likely hammered into the ground.
The lights run on generators, nothing but motorcycles and giant-ass trucks lining the yard, people piled all around them, yet a few feet of space between each large group, slightly segregating each club from the next. Weed, cigarettes, and cheap cigar smoke billowing all around.
We’ve been waiting around for hours now, Willie pacing anxiously as Davis chews her nails down to nothing. My fight is the last of the night, the best and worst spot to be. Best, because it means highest paid; worst, because every fucker around will be a six-pack past drunk by the time it begins.
The chaos of the crowd as we step out of the giant fifth wheel proves my thoughts correct. The place is drowning in drunks.
My hold on Davis’s hand tightens, and she grips my upper arm, standing tall and strong and facing forward, just like I told her. Kaleb walks us to the back corner, where a few of his guard dogs stand in a half-square near the wall, and we step behind them.
“No backing out now, kid,” he says, a grin splitting his lips, but a sharp warning in his beady eyes. “Ready to roll in two minutes. Do your job, and I’ll change your life.”
I lift my chin but don’t respond, tracing his steps as he moves to the camper across the circle. Me, Davis, Willie, and Julius stare as the dude I’m about to fight is let out.
The guy’s tall, broad in the chest, but no more than me. His body is covered in colorful ink, his bald head included. The dude doesn’t even have eyebrows. He’s greased up, roided up too, if I had to guess based on the unnatural bulge of his biceps. His arms are twice the size of mine, something Davis must assume is bad, if the way her grip tightens tells me anything.
All it says to me is my reach is better, maybe by a full two inches, and I’d like to see him try and choke a motherfucker with those balloons in the way—he could never sink it airtight.
Kaleb smirks my way, and my gaze instantly finds the man at his side.
The one I’d have happily ended if not for Willie’s decision to let him breathe another day. Kaleb called him his brother the other day, whether he meant that literally, I don’t know. Don’t fucking care.
It’s like I knew he put his hands on her before actually knowing—I cracked his fingers and busted the bones of his hand, before popping his shoulder from its joints.
Let’s see him try to ride a bike like that.
The man glares, and I stare at the hack job someone, likely someone in this crowd, did on his stitches.
Good.
He’ll have the scars to remember me by.
I turn to my girl.
Worry draws her brows in close, and my attention lowers to her arm, where the asshole’s fingerprints still torment me.
I’ve touched, kissed, and run my tongue over each small spot, more times than I could count, trying to erase the memory of how they got there… and convince myself not to go fucking mad and do something stupid, like kill the guy before I beat the other fucker’s ass and get my money.
Davis looks to me, and I step into her.
This will be the last time she’s in a position like this.
That’s a deal I’m making with my damn self.
Davis
Crew might not notice, but it isn’t my grip tightening on his, over and over again, tonight; it’s the opposite. He’s anxious, but not for himself, for my presence among this mob, but we’re going to run a bar together when all this is done, so really, there’s no better time to get used to a rowdy crowd.
Yes, these are our typical customers turned up to eleven, but still.
Crew releases my hand, facing me, his beaten expression immediately zoning in on the bruise on my upper arm.
Hazel eyes slice up to mine, fury swimming behind them. I sink into his embrace, and he tips my chin up, his thumb stretched along my throat.
“No one will ever hurt you again. Never, and no one can hurt me but you.” His promise is fierce and soul searing. A reminder any blow he may take, or blood he may lose, is only surface-deep. It will heal like the mark on my skin, like the scars on his. Only I have the power to make him ache, and it’s one I’ll relish yet never release.
Willie shifts beside me, and I know it’s time, so I press my palms to Crew’s chest, rise on my toes, and meet his lips with my own. “Kick his fucking ass, baby.” I move to his ear. “And come kiss mine once you do.”
Pulling back, I meet his gaze, darkened by my words and something far more sinister.
Crew’s lips twitch, but it’s quick, and only once I nod does the mask slip over his face.
In that second, he becomes a blanket of nothingness. He grows a foot taller, his dominance dripping from his very being.
He’s the picture of power. May someone, somewhere, watch over the man across the mat tonight. After mine takes him out, of course.
One wordless glance at Willie, and his best friend loops his arm through mine, leading me to the edge of the circle where Drew waits. He takes my hand and tugs, locking my back against the wall behind him. Julius joins us, both bodies creating one in front of me, allowing nothing but my eyes to peek through the slight curve between where their shoulders press to one another’s as Willie rushes ringside.
Poor Layla. She’s likely pacing a hole into the carpet, waiting for the second this is over, so she can hear her husband’s voice as he promised. If she weren’t pregnant, she’d be here, she swore it, but I didn’t need her to say it. I already knew.
It’s what friends are for.
It’s what family is for.
A sense of guilt-laced sorrow washes over me at the word, but I don’t shy away from it.
I realize now why I didn’t have any relationships in my life that truly mattered. I didn’t allow people in for fear of filling the spots left empty by the two most important people in my life when they left home, left me, and I don’t regret keeping them open until those people returned. Even if only one of them truly did.
How many years will go by before I meet my brother’s blue eyes this time?
My thoughts are immediately drowned out by the man with a megaphone.
“Ready for the rules?” the giant of a guy shouts, the crowd quieting instantly. His hollow laugh follows, and he lifts the heavy plastic to his mouth once more. “Well, baby, there ain’t none. Balls to the walls, and hold your bitches on your britches, boys. It’s go time.”
Just like that, the entire crowd shuffles backward.
A shiver runs down my spine as Crew bends, slipping under the thick rope, the man he’s set to fight doing the same.
His bald, tattooed opponent hops from foot to foot, rolling and cracking his neck, swinging out his right arm, followed by the left, stretching each one behind his shoulder blades.
Crew does none of this.
He stands perfectly still, straight, scary. He’s a stone statue, fierce and flawless, completely lax, unfazed in the middle of a boisterous crowd, who wants to see him busted and bleeding.
He’s breathing easy, the energy leaving him almost that of a bored man. If I wasn’t so terrified, it might be hilarious, how adorably cliché the complete coolness the bad boy from the bar has when faced with a fight.
Any thoughts of laughter disappear when the speaker man leaves the circle; Crew and “Snake” as they chant around me, shifting toward the center.
My heart pounds wildly in my chest, and I reach up, gripping both Julius and Drew’s forearms. Both flex the moment my fingers close around them, letting me know they’ve got me, that it’s going to be okay.
That Crew will be okay.
He has to be.
My heart is in my throat the minute the gun goes off, Snake having jumped a second early, his fists swinging at Crew before the smoke has left the barrel.
Crew doesn’t move his feet, his torso simply twists, the upper half leaning back and to the side, like some Mortal Kombat shit. Snake’s momentum is so strong, he stumbles into the rope. Crew capitalizes on the position, swiftly spinning and wrapping his arms around the man’s neck, tipping him back and kicking his feet out from under him, but the guy reaches backward, jabbing his fingers into Crew’s left eye.
Crew jerks, tossing Snake to the floor, and clamps the watering eye closed, but only for a second.
People shout as the fighters round each other, and heat brims along my skin, fear and anxiety warming the blood in my veins.
Snake swings over and over again, clipping Crew in the jaw, but it almost looks purposeful, as if Crew allowed it, because in the next second, Crew is dipping to the right, the exact way his head snapped, his dominant fist connecting with Snake’s kidney. His left follows, right against his opponent’s lung.
Snake’s chest caves and he jerks back, seeking the ropes for a moment of reprieve, which Crew doesn’t allow.
He attacks, his body moving swift and smooth, as if he’s the king of salsa and this pit in the dark, dirty clearing is his dance floor. I’ve never seen anything like it. Swing, swing, dip. Roll, spin, swing.
Swing, swing, swing.
My lips part, Julius’s body jerking in my hold, and I realize my nails are piercing his skin, but I can’t let go. I push closer, and they push back, smashing me between them and the wall completely, my nose buried between their biceps.
Blood pours from Snake’s nose and brow, from his temple and—
I jolt when Crew’s elbow slams into the side of Snake’s face, and a loud crack is heard, followed by a sharp scream, charging the air around us.
Blood gushes from Snake’s mouth now, and he chokes, coughing and spraying red into the air as he turns, the crowd jumping back with shouts to avoid the splatter. He trips into the rope, fumbling around it, and attempts to steady his feet.
I push onto my toes, my pulse bounding wildly in my chest as something changes.
Drew and Julius stand taller, both growing rigid.
Willie darts right, attempting to squeeze along the ropes.
To get a better view?
To get to Crew?
Why?
I try to shout, to ask what’s going on, but my voice is drowned out by the roar of the crowd.
That’s when I see them, two men shoving their way to the front of the spectators. They reach the ring’s edge, lean forward, and grab hold of Crew’s arms, pulling them back, his chest bowing forward.
Crew’s mouth opens with a loud shout, the veins in his neck bulging as he fights against the hold.
Panic flares in my chest, and I try to push through the boys, but they only push back harder, each chancing the quickest of flicks of their gazes toward one another.
“We have to help him! We have to help him!” My fearful screams fall on deaf ears but pulsate through my own.
Snake wipes his face along his arm, slowly coming at Crew, and Crew kicks out, nearly tripping him, but Snake catches himself, a sinister smile turning up his face.
That’s when I see it, when we all see it, if the jolt of Drew’s body tells me anything.
The hint of silver hidden in Snake’s palm flashes against the light, a single second before it’s thrust into Crew’s side.
I scream, shoving at the bodies in front of me, and in their moment of shock and worry, in the middle of Drew’s mind, torn between rushing to help his brother and doing the one thing his brother made him promise, keeping me safe, I dip down, squeezing between their legs and dart forward, freezing as the knife is yanked out and shoved into Crew’s other side.
“No!” I cry, my shout blending with Crew’s battle cry.
I run, but I’m caught around the waist and yanked backward, hard enough to knock the wind out of me.
I briefly register the sound of Julius’s voice in my ear, but I don’t hear a thing he says.
“Let me go!” I gasp, kicking and clawing. “Please! Someone, please!” I scream, but no one can hear me.
The crowd is cheering as they watch Crew’s head drop to his chest, his muscles stretched, body thrashing as he fights to get free.
Willie is shoved away, barricaded by a brigade of bikers, but continues to try and bully his way to his best friend.
That’s when I see him.
On the left side of the ring, a bottle of bourbon in his hand, he creeps closer, busting it along the cement post holding the rope in place, ducking underneath it and into the ring.
He’s noticed on entry.
Snake spins so fast, he can’t brace, but he doesn’t attempt to do so either.
Air whooshes from my lungs, my temple pounding as I stare, horrified.
Memphis shoves the broken bottle into the man’s neck… but not before Snake’s knife thrusts deep into my brother’s chest.
Time slows, then stops.
“No!” A tremor racks through me, and my muscles give, my scream loud and piercing. Deafening, yet, somehow, the slamming of Memphis’s body as he collapses to the ground reverberates around me. Choking me.
Snake falls next.
I look to Crew, now free of the bounds holding him back.
Struggling in the arms keeping me still, I try to yell, to shout, but somehow, no sound slips from my lips.
Dead silence falls over the crowd, but not a split second later, cheers erupt, and then they scurry like mice, bike after bike firing up, the motors rumbling through the air.
I manage to tear free, flying forward and falling to my knees, pain shooting through my legs as I crawl under the rope.
“Memphis! Fuck!” Crew is on his knees beside his old best friend, staring down at Memphis with wide eyes, blood seeping from his own wounds. He dips down, pressing hard against my brother’s chest. “Why the fuck did you do this?!” he shouts. “I’m the one who fights, Memph. Me. Not you!”
Snapping out of his unconscious state, Memphis’s head jerks toward Crew, and it’s as if he’s preparing for a second attack, because his hand flies out, bracing to shove the person coming near away. But then his barren eyes find mine, and the dread filling them has me trembling.
“Davis,” he croaks.
I scramble closer, gripping Crew’s arm for support, but then my eyes fall to my brother, pale and sweating, blood pooled all around him, and my hand flies up, trembling as I go to touch him but fear to.
“Oh my god…” Tears blur my vision as I stare at him, my eyes quickly locking on Crew’s torso. “Crew, you’re—”
He shakes his head as if to say he’s fine.
Slowly, Memphis’s hand lifts off the dirty ground. “Davis—”
I jolt, taking his fingers in mine, my lips quivering as I try to smile.
“Shh, I’m here.” I push his hair back, holding his cheek. “It’s okay, you’re going to be okay.” I nod, fear heavy in the pit of my stomach.
“I’m sorry,” he rasps, trying to swallow. “For everything I-I did and didn’t.”
“Stop, it’s okay. You’re okay. You’re going to be okay.”
A small, sad smile curves his lips. “I love you, baby sister.”
A cry escapes before I can bury it, and I shake my head. This can’t happen.
It can’t.
I just got him back.
I thought everything was better.
Memphis’s eyes begin to close, and I gulp. “Memphis!” I scoot in, squeezing his hand tighter. “Memphis, please. Help! Someone help!” I shout. “Please help!”
Familiar keys are tossed in the dirt at my brother’s feet, and my head jerks left to find Kaleb. His face is blank, eyes on Crew, but my brother’s coughs draw my attention back, his entire body jerking, and I scream, gripping his shirt.
“We have to do something! Someone, please!”
Feet shuffle closer, and I look up into Julius’s wide eyes, at Drew, who drops his chin to his chest, Crew’s warm hands wrapping around my biceps in the next second, his body cocooning me from behind.
“No.” I shake my head, refusing to believe. “No, no, no,” I croak, looking down at my brother.
“It’s okay,” he rasps, a faraway look in his light eyes as they flutter half open. “Davis…”
“I’m here,” I sob, tears soaking into the blood on his shirt.
His smile returns, his grip on my fingers fading. “Nothing hurts anymore.”
“Fuck,” Crew curses, one hand gripping me tighter, the other leaving my arm and pressing into his old best friend’s cheek, gaining his attention.
Memphis looks to him, his chest deflating as a single tear slips from the edge of his eye. “I love you, brother. Forgive me.”
My hand slaps over my mouth, my breath lodged in my throat as the man at my side gives a single jerky nod. “Always, my man. Always,” Crew breathes, his body shaking.
My brother’s eyes flutter closed, a slight jolt racking through him.
“Memphis.” I push up on my knees. “Memphis!” I shout, shaking him. “Memphis, wake up!” I cry, my head falling to his chest as I tug on him. “Please—”
“Get her out of here.”
I jerk up, gripping the hem of my brother’s shirt, tearing the soaked cotton as I’m lifted off the ground. “No, I can’t leave him, please! I can’t…” I go limp with silent cries. “I can’t leave him…”
Please.
Memphis, please.
Don’t go…
