Page 22 of Surrender
“And let everyone else know to take a breather for ten minutes.”
The kid grumbled to himself, holding his head as he ducked through the ropes.
I’d started this program a few months ago, taking teens who were in foster care or broken homes, and giving them something else to strive for besides how to cause the most amount of fucking chaos.
Rook—our last club president—ran something similar when I was just a punk kid who hated the world and everything in it. And without a lie, it was what kept me from going off the rails and turning into some bastard who didn’t give a damn for life or living.
All because he showed me something different.
He offered me a different view.
I wasn’t trying to win any nice-guy prizes, but instead, trying to offer these boys a different view on the world. Trying to make them see that family wasn’t always the people who raised you, it was the people who had your back, who stood up for you when everyone else is sitting down and shutting the fuck up.
“I’ve got that shit you wanted,” Match announced as we stepped away from the ring and walked over to the front desk. He slapped a handful of papers down and tapped them with his finger. “Parker Carrington. Only son of Margot Carrington. Her family founded Dahné.”
I scoffed. “And in English, that means?”
“It’s a fashion brand,” Rafe answered as he strolled over to join us, a towel wrapped around his shoulders. I hit him with a raised brow, and he held his hands up. “What? I like girls. Girls like expensive brands. It’s essential that I know this shit.”
“Well, shit,” Match said with a laugh. “The kid likes girls. Who would have fucking known?”
I rolled my eyes, holding up my hand as Rafe opened his mouth to shoot some smart-ass comeback.
“So, you’re saying he’s rich,” I confirmed, though I’d already predicted that would be the case.
The bastard was practically oozing with entitlement.
“It’s not just that he’s rich,” Match continued, a heavy frown pulling at his brow. “There have apparently been rumors for a while now that Margot Carrington has been looking to get a little more politically invested in Detroit. Bishop spoke to Mayor Hampton this morning, and he said Mommy sunk a shitload of money into Parker when he was running for County Prosecutor, and she’s made it clear that the goal is something much higher up the food chain than that.”
I let out a slow breath, shaking my head.
“So she’s got a son who’s currently in control of the judicial system in the city, able to pick and choose who to charge and who not to charge,” Rafe muttered, drumming his fingers on the desk. “But she doesn’t just want to be able to enforce the law, she wants to be able to make the law, by the sounds of it.”
“I’d bet that’s exactly-fucking-it,” Match agreed. “But why? You think it’s just because she wants to take over, purge the city, and turn it into some kind of luxury destination?”
I scrubbed at the light stubble on my chin. “I’m not sure about that, but from what it sounds like, she’s got plans for something big, and she’s wanting to get rid of anything and anyone who might be strong enough to stop her.”
Rafe exhaled sharply, his nostrils flaring. “I don’t fucking like it.”
Tap. Tap. Tap.
We all turned toward the glass door, Lucy grinning widely on the other side, pointing at the handle.
Rafe snorted, walked over, and pushed it open for her. “What’s the password?”
“The password is, if you gave me a keycard, I wouldn’t have to knock,” she replied, slipping quickly around him and strutting over.
“You don’t work out here,” he called after her, rolling his eyes.
She threw her hands up. “But we’re neighbors,” she exclaimed, flicking her attention toward me. “Right, Blue?”
I sat back in the rolling chair behind the desk. “I called Callan, gave him your number. He said he’d be in contact the next day or so. He’s just finishing a job out of town.”
“Thanks so much for that,” she said, followed by a relieved sigh. “I’ve only got like a week or so to get all the costs together before the owners put this house on the market.”
“You buying a place?” I questioned. “What about the apartment above the studio?”
“Oh, no, I’m not moving,” she answered, chewing her lip. “It’s kind of… a project of sorts. And I need to know the repairs aren’t going to cost a kidney on the black market.”
