Page 9 of Six
“Good night.”
“’Night,” he mumbles, pushing his cheek more firmly on his arm. I lift the earphone from the mattress, trying not to pull on the cord. “Can’t Be Loved” by Elle King makes my eyes roll. Sully loves sappy country music, but I have to admit this singer is pretty cool. Her raspy, sexy voice erases everything else as I sink into the soulful beat.
My errant thoughts turn silent, and I finally fall asleep.
Chapter 3
RAGUEL
A week has passed, and we still have nothing on Lenny. Rami did a more thorough background check on him, from which we discovered that extortion and stabbing people in the back are his favorite hobbies—on top of the fighting business, which he keeps going with the help of a couple of corrupt cops.
Uri and Rami followed him this last week, and apart from a couple of meetings with neighboring smalltime thugs, he didn’t do much. If I didn’t see the motherfucker in person, I’d say we have the wrong guy. But no, his dead eyes and devious smile surely make him guilty. If he’s not responsible for the teens’ deaths, then he at least has knowledge of it. Which in a way, is equally cruel. I’m so looking forward to turning him into a donor and having my fun with him.
My fight is about to start, and fuck if I’m not glad about it. This weekend I’ve been feeling…edgy. A client hasn’t been happy with one of my employee’s work and whined about it for nearly thirty minutes over the phone; Margery got a cold and took two days off, leaving me in utter chaos at the office; and I couldn’t stop thinking about those damn mischievous, water-green eyes.
Oliver Truman’s eyes. He’s twenty-three—thank fuck—and lives in West Garfield Park with his father and brother. Barely finished high school. He has a cash-in-hand job. He was once almost arrested for assaulting a guy who bullied his younger brother. He isn’t on any social networks, which says a lot about him since that’s all people do nowadays. Hardly has a digital footprint. That’s why Rami couldn’t find much. We don’t know how he started taking part in the illegal fights, but the violent city area where he comes from could easily be the answer.
Knowing more about him didn’t assuage my uneasiness, though. I vented some of the tension when I fucked the sex worker from the escort agency a couple days ago, but it wasn’t enough, nor as satisfying as usual. The guy was too muscular, too compliant, too silent, which is exactly what I asked for. What I usually want. What I always wanted in the past.
The dissatisfaction and restlessness rolling inside of me haven’t allowed me to sleep much, and when I did, I had tormented dreams about my years of imprisonment. That’s where my current biting-off-heads craving comes from.
“Fuck, you’re tense. You okay?” Rami’s voice takes me back to the fighting ring. There’s a smattering of blood on the dirty ground from the previous fight and the air feels heavy, unbreathable. The number of people watching and cheering behind the small wall has grown. And with it, the body odors. Mix that with the wet rot from somewhere inside the factory, and I wish I’d asked Michael for some of that menthol cream he rubs under his nose to dispel the smell of decaying bodies he deals with as a medical examiner.
A piercing pain hits my head.Dammit! Not now.
“Hey?” my brother shouts, and the pain disappears.Fuck!After I give him a grunt, he snorts. “Try not to kill the poor fucker. But in case you do, know that his wife has been hospitalized for the third time this month for being very…clumsy.”
An abusive husband to work out my frustration. Lady Karma is smiling at me today. I’m going to savor every single punch.
“Lenny is here. Do your worst!”
I nod in reply and wave at the vodka bottle in Rami’s hand. He pours some directly into my mouth. The taste is worse than last time. Where the fuck does he buy it?
When I hear the ding, it’s harder to put on the usual coldness. So, I move. I throw a couple of light jabs, right and left, connecting my knuckles with his cheek and side. He stumbles back and shakes his head but seems to regain alertness quickly.
Should have punched him harder. But it’s fine. It only means I can hit him more.
He comes at me with a left hook. I bob and weave, avoiding it, and counterattack with a powerful rear hook—but I don’t put all my strength into it…yet. My opponent’s head snaps back, and he wobbles, his fists quivering in front of him.
Not so tough when you’re the one bleeding, motherfucker.
I’m almost smirking at his split lip when in my peripheral vision, among the people chanting my fighting name, I catch a hint of green. My eyes snap back to it and are met with an appreciative, crooked smile. His wavy hair is pulled back in a ponytail, and he’s still wearing the same pink tank top and a purple hoodie. The last few days I’ve tried to remember the exact shape of his lips, and now that he’s again in front of me, I stare the shit out of their perfect, curving lines to imprint them in my brain.
Oliver’s gaze turns intense when he sees me looking at him. It slides down my bare chest and dirty jeans before coming up to my face again, filled with heat. A small line suddenly appears between his brows just as his eyes flicker to my left and I get slugged in the jaw. The taste of blood invades my mouth, and this time, I smirk at the familiarity of it.
Another punch comes flying from below, but I halt its trajectory by wrapping my hand around it. My fingers curl firmly around my opponent’s smaller fist, and I squeeze. He grits his teeth against the pain. His dumb attempts at pulling his trapped hand free are futile. When it finally hits him, the unlikelihood of freeing himself, he attempts to hit me with his other fist. Anticipating his move, I grab his wrist and roughly yank his arm behind his back, twisting it till I hear a popping sound from his dislocated shoulder.
He screams this time, and I deeply enjoy the fear and pain filling his eyes. The crowd goes wild, some inciting me to kill him, others to tear his arm off. Not bad ideas. But I have something better in mind, something that will make Lenny—who’s watching like a hawk—let us join his gym.
I tighten my hand around his fist and keep going until I hear a bone crack and then another and another. His knees are shaking badly and his body is jerking. His expression has morphed into an open-mouthed, agonized grimace. Tears are falling down his sweaty, reddish face while I continue breaking his bones.
“Touch her again, and I’ll crush the other one,” I whisper menacingly, looking straight into his bug eyes. It doesn’t look like he’s heard me, so I tug his broken hand while wrenching his arm back, almost sighing in pleasure at his distressed cry.
He nods frantically and starts pathetically sobbing when I eventually let go of him. Feeling not yet satisfied, I grab his throat and headbutt him—hard. I watch his eyes roll back into his head just before his unconscious body drops heavily to the ground.
The screams and cheers are thunderous while I try to rein in the violence inside of me. My fists clench and unclench. My nostrils flare as I inhale deeply. I feel the blood pumping fast through my veins, my skin hot.
I lift my eyes to Rami. He’s not smiling or cheering. Because my brother can easily see in my trembling body and murderous gaze that I need some alone time to calm down. He tilts his chin toward the bathroom, and only moves to reach Lenny after I nod at him in reassurance.
