Page 3 of Quake
Turning into the unit block, my hands shook as I unlocked my front door, my entire body trembling. I couldn’t be sure no one was watching. What if it was the same guy who’d taken Mel from me? What if he wanted me, too? As I pushed into my flat, my mind swirled with every possible scenario, all of them bad.
Locking the door, I rattled it to make sure the latch had caught. Then I flicked on the lights and moved into the bedroom to check the windows were locked and the blinds drawn. I did the same in the bathroom and then the kitchen before dragging my tiny two-seater dining table in front of the back door, wedging the back of one of the chairs under the handle.
Pulling the biggest knife from the block on the kitchen counter, I stilled, listening to the sounds of the city. The muffled chattering of the neighbor’s television filtered through the brick wall, and the tree out in the yard rustled as a cool breeze began to pick up.
The day had been hot, reaching thirty-five degrees Celsius, and I could try to fool myself that the sweat trickling down my back was due to the dry heat of an Australian summer, but it wasn’t.
Kicking off my sandals—the pair I’d bought on sale at Target the day before in an attempt to upgrade my power outfits—I padded into the bathroom and closed the door behind me. A thump from next door made my heart skip a beat, and I slipped into the bathtub, clutching the knife in my hand. Curling up in the corner, I tensed, my shuddering breaths sounding like a brewing storm in my ears and my heartbeat the peals of thunder.
He came for my sister, and now he was coming for me. I closed my eyes, and all I could see was blood and her eyes…her open eyes that held nothing.
People always tell the story of the ones who were taken too soon, but what about those who were left behind? Who helps the living?
No one. No one helps us.
2
Caleb
Looking through the office window, I watched the front door of the studio with dread.
The message I’d gotten half an hour before had ruined an otherwise brilliant morning, and now all I could see was a swamp of despair when I looked out over the boxing studio that had become my second home.
Beat was probably the most infamous fighter gym in Melbourne, Australia. Many a fighter had come out of this place and gone on to become champions. Not only in boxing but mixed martial arts. Both sports were funded by high rollers and brought in a lot of cash for the big hitters.
The studio was small, but it had a great setup. Separate rooms for weights and cardio, a large matted area with bags, a full-sized boxing ring, a galley kitchen with an in-house nutritionist, and kitted out change rooms. It was a fighter’s wet dream in here, and I was the guy who oversaw the lot. With a twenty-year legacy of brilliance behind the place, it was hard to stuff it up.
Being the manager of Beat wasn’t quite the same as being a middleweight boxing champion, but it was good enough for an injured son of a bitch like me. What recourse did I have when every doctor in the business told me my fighting days were over? It was this or stand in the line for unemployment benefits every fortnight.
I was sure it wasn’t quite that dramatic, but it felt like it. For a man who defined himself with his fists, not being able to get into a ring without the risk of permanent paralysis from the waist down was akin to cutting off his balls with a rusty butter knife.
Glancing at my phone again, I checked the time. T-minus five minutes until the biggest bastard in the world walked through the roller door and took a giant dump over everyone’s hopes and dreams. If there were an award for perfectly aimed insults, he’d win hands down every single year until he kicked the bucket.
The moment I saw the Mercedes pull up outside, I shoved out of the safe haven of the office and thundered down the stairs. No use dragging my heels.
Waiting just inside the studio, I ignored the curious glances being fired at me from the guys training in the ring and crossed my arms over my chest. Listening to the pounding of fists against leather in the background, I used the familiar songs of male peacocking to calm my nerves. Aggression in a controlled environment was my stress relief.
I reined in my attitude the moment Vincent Carmichael unfolded himself from the back of the car and strode across the footpath to meet me, his stature and refined appearance marking him as a powerful man.
“Dad,” I said briskly. “If I had known you were coming—”
“You would have run away with your tail between your legs,” he said, cutting me off.
That was Dad. Heartless and full of shit.
It was all about how big your balls were and how much money you could bet on them with that guy. Seeing me standing in a small boxing studio in an out-of-the-way suburb of Melbourne instead of a ring in Vegas with a title belt slung over my shoulder was eating him up inside. Give the guy a chance, and he’d have me there in a blink of an eye…no matter the consequences.
He’d worn his powerful asshole face today. His eyebrow was split with an impressive scar, his upper lip slightly pulled up on the left from another scar, which gave him a permanent resting dick face. Thankfully, I’d gotten my looks from my mother, but my pale features I’d inherited from dear old Dad. Blond hair, blue eyes, and broad shoulders.
In short, we looked exactly like father and son from the neck up, but from there down? That was another story. I preferred to wear sweats with a T-shirt emblazoned with the Beat logo, and here he was in a suit and tie.
I watched as he glanced over the lower floor of the studio, his lip curling slightly. Usually, the guy didn’t show any emotion, so that little tick on his upper lip told me a fuck load. He already hated the place.
“So this is where my son has been spending the last six months,” he drawled, flipping the arms of his aviator sunglasses closed and sliding them into his breast pocket.
“Coaching,” I said, steeling myself for the barrage of passive-aggressive insults that were about to start flying. Like he cared, anyway. This was the first time he’d bothered looking in on me since my final round of diagnoses twelve months ago.
He plucked at a poster for self-defense classes pinned to the notice board like it was coated in a fine sheen of poison. “Is that what you call it? Coaching champions in self-defense?”
