With Saint’s annoyance as obvious as mine, we complete the two-hour trip in silence. It isn’t all bad. I listen to some songs I haven’t heard in months, and Saint gets in a little nap. It could only be better if Maddox were snoring in the back seat instead of his brother.
“Come on, Max,” I say after unclicking his doggy seat belt. He joins me ringside every match. I feel safe with Saint, but it’s nice having a fanged backup for when he’s on the canvas. My family name already makes people hesitant in approaching me, so you can imagine how rarely it occurs when Max is at my side.
My steps falter when we break through the crowd circling the ring. I’m not shocked about the number of people out of their seats, clapping and cheering, but I am stunned by the man causing the ruckus. Samuel, the fighter I signed two months ago, is in the middle of the canvas, brutally punishing his opponent with the left swung hook I had him sign on the dotted line for.
“Who organized this tournament?” I ask Saint, shouting to project my voice over the loud crowd.
Saint stops partway down the bleachers before cranking his ear my way, wordlessly advising he missed what I said.
When I repeat my question, he shrugs. “I was given this contact last month. It’s a solid lead.”
While shaking my head, I attempt to push him back out of the warehouse. “We need to go.”
His footing is too solid. No matter how hard I shove him, he barely budges an inch. “It’s a twenty-thousand-dollar fight, Demi. We need that money.”
“You won’t haveanythingif you stay here, Saint! He will take it all away.” Conscious he is as stubborn as a mule, I switch my shouted words for pleading ones. “Please trust me on this. I wouldn’t say it for no reason. I want Maddox free as much as you do, but we need to leave, now!”
“Okay. All right. Calm down.” Anyone would swear he hates my tears as much as Maddox. I usually loathe them as well. Tonight, they give me no shame whatsoever. If it gets Saint out of here before his ankle is snared in one of my uncle’s vicious traps, I’ll wear them with pride. “We’ll go.”
We make it halfway to his car when Max announces we have company. He growls at a shadow under the awning of the warehouse before he bares his teeth. He’s only ever responded to one man as viciously as he is now. It was the night Col punished Justine instead of me.
“Run!” I don’t give Saint the chance to dig in his heels this time around. I push him with everything I have, kick-starting his feet before I yank on Max’s leash to ensure he follows us.
Saint, Max, and I barrel into Saint’s car at the same time. The tension in the air is so high, Max doesn’t protest to Saint helming his car. He’s too busy staring at the shadow of death floating toward us, aware of the real danger facing us.
The dust Saint’s tires kick up when he plants his foot onto the gas pedal should hinder the image of my uncle stepping out of the shadows, but the smug grin on my uncle’s face is impossible to miss. It exposes he doesn’t just want one Walsh brother under his command. He wants as many as he can get, and Saint was a hair’s breadth away from falling for his ruse.
The knowledge has me reaching for my prescription canister hours earlier than required. Confident a one-off double dose won’t become a problem, I tap four pills into my shaky hand.
I need something to take the edge off.
Something to calm me down.
This won’t become an issue.
I’m surviving, and survivors do whatever it takes to stay alive.
The following Friday, I crunch my teeth through three oxycodone tablets before pulling open the single glass door at KC’s gym. It takes straying my blurry eyes across the entire gym before I spot Samuel in the far back corner.
Although I am grateful he’s alive, I’m also mad. He killed a man last week, so how can he smile and joke today as if another man’s blood isn’t on his hands? He’s prancing around like a tomcat, lapping up the attention of the women who book classes here merely for the eye candy.
My frustration about Samuel’s lack of remorse is heard in my tone when I storm to his side of the gym to demand the phone I gave him when I signed him on to be one of my uncle’s fighters. “Thephone, Samuel. The one that advises you the location and time of your fights.”
“Oh.” He rakes his teeth over his lower lip. “I thought perhaps you wantedmyphone so you could give me your number.”
I chewed on my painkillers with the hope they’d reach my system quicker. I’m conscious now that my theory may not be accurate. If oxycodone were tracing through my veins, Samuel would be more tolerable, wouldn’t he?
After rummaging through his bag next to the boxing mat he was prancing around on, Samuel hands me his phone. “Here you go.”
Since he’s too busy showboating to his friends my supposed desperation to give him my number, he misses me logging into the iPhone settings to forward his messages to my number. It’s an old trick I learned from my uncle during my first recruitment drive. All the iPhones in his arsenal are set up with the same Apple ID to ensure a fighter can’t use the excuse that they never got a message if they fail to arrive for fight night. My uncle has proof of every message both sent and received.
When I hand Samuel back his phone, minus my number, he clutches his chest like he’s heartbroken. “Don’t do it, Demi. My heart may shatter.”
“Good, then perhaps it might make room for compassion.” After hitting him with a stern glare, I twist on my feet and walk away.
Samuel is on my heels two seconds later. “Come on, Demi, you can’t be mad at me for gloating. You signed me because you knew I’d be a moneymaker, but now you’re mad because I’m proud of my victories.”
“Being proud about an accomplishment and showboating about murdering someone are twoverydifferent things,” I snap out before I can stop myself.
