Page 5 of Roma King
Stale beer rains down on me as I head toward the locker room. A couple of guys look like they’re thinking about raising their fists to me, but the malevolent, borderline crazy grin I turn on them has them deciding against it.
This is a lawless place. There are very few rules here. There’s nothing to say I can’t knock a couple of them out if I’m feeling like it. They know that. They accepted that fact the moment they paid their cover charge and entered through the narrow doorway.
I’m bleeding, bruised and riled as all hell as I stand in front of the mirrors in the locker room, unraveling my hand wraps. My knuckles are already turning a vivid shade of purple, but at least they’re not split open. The same can’t be said for my bottom lip, though. I prod it with my tongue, hissing at the stab of pain.
“Walking a fine line, aren’t you?”
I turn toward the voice, scowling at the man standing in the doorway. Tall, broad and covered in tattoos, the guy bears more than a passing resemblance to me with his thick dark hair, his height and his build. Though, I’m far better looking than him, of course. “Surprise, surprise,” I say. “The man himself. Patrin Rivin. As I live and breathe.”
He strolls into the locker room, picking up the hand wraps I’ve discarded on the floor, and he begins winding them into a roll. “Don’t pretend like you didn’t expect to see me here eventually, brother. You knew we arrived back in town.”
“Yeah. A month ago. I’m surprised it took you so long to come and find me.”
He nods, rocking his head from side to side, making a soft humming sound. “You know how it goes. Takes a week to get everything unpacked. Another to make everything nice and fancy, the way she likes it. Another week for supply runs. We opened doors last Thursday. I was half expecting you to show up.”
I fire a sharp look at him. “Why would I go and do something stupid like that?”
“Don’t play dumb, you wee shite. Your time’s up and you know it. Three years. Everyone’s happy. Everyone’s looking forward to you coming home. No need to make a big deal out of it.”
No need to make a big deal out of it? Once upon a time, I would have laughed at that. Now, I just scowl at my reflection in the mirror—at the rivulet of blood that’s traveled all the way from the palm of my hand down my raised forearm, and is dripping from my elbow as I run my finger around the inside of my mouth, checking to make sure none of my teeth are chipped. “Shelta didn’t feel like making the journey across town herself, then?” I muse.
“You know your mother. She doesn’t like overly populated areas.”
“She manages New York just fine. She can handle fuckingSpokane.”
Patrin splays his fingers, exasperation building in his dark brown eyes. Patrin and I might call each other brother, but it’s nothing more than a term of comradeship. He’s actually my second cousin. Or maybe my third. Whatever he is, we share a thimble of blood or two; the man bears the Rivin family traits, just as I do, but he’s also the spitting image of my grandfather Jamis. I never met Jamis—he was dead long before I was born—but I’ve seen enough photos over the course of my twenty-seven years that I feel like I’m looking at a ghost whenever I look at Patrin. “This isn’t a simple matter, y’know,” he says. “You can’t expect this to be easy for her. I think she’d like an apology before you come back to thevitsa. A proper apology. Not some half-baked bullshit you don’t mean.”
Thisdoesmake me laugh. “Oh, I’m sure she would. Tell her I said she shouldn’t hold her breath. I don’t owe her shit.”
Patrin’s dismay is very real. He shakes his head, blinking rapidly. “I thought you’d have come to your fucking senses by now. Aren’t you ashamed?”
The memory sinks its hooks in, forcefully dragging me back in time, back three years, to the night that got me banished from my family’s embrace.There’s blood all over me, my skin mottled and sticky with it, as I stare down at the knife in my hand. I feel the air pushing its way into my lungs. Feel the pulse and thrum of my own blood forcing its way around my body as I try to remain standing. At my feet, my white sneakers are covered in mud, the toes stained green from the cut grass I just ran through, and fifteen feet away, my mother…
…my horrified mother is screaming.
“You’re not the only one who’s suffered, Pash.” Patrin’s voice drags me back to the present. The blood, the knife, the grass-stained tops of my shoes—it all whips away, returning me to the locker room, the smell of stale sweat shoving its way up my nostrils. Patrin hands me my rolled-up hand wraps, careful not to actually touch me as he deposits the fabric into the palm of my hand. “We’ve all had to make sacrifices. We’ve all had to defend—”
“Then why are you here? Why even bother to come back and find me. If I’ve caused so much hurt, you should have bypassed Washington altogether and left me here to rot.”
“We could have,” he admits. “But, despite what you think, your family loves you. We all do. And the Rivins have never been the type to turn their backs on their loved ones.”
I stuff the hand wraps and my shirt into my gym bag, trying to mute the growl that’s building in the back of my throat. This is bullshit. Utter bullshit. Narrowing my eyes at Patrin, I throw the gym bag over my shoulder, itching to propel myself past him, to bully my way through the crowd and make my way out into the night. I won’t feel good about any of this until I’m in my Mustang and the sole of my right foot is hitting the gas pedal. I pause, though. “Of all people, I’m surprisedyoubecame Shelta’s whipping boy.”
Patrin grimaces; my words cut deep, just as they’re designed to. Last time I saw him, Patrin was waxing lyrical about how he was his own man, how the family hierarchy didn’t mean shit to him, and how he refused to answer to anyone, no matter who the fuck they were. And now, here he is, Shelta’s monkey, doffing his cap and spitting over his shoulder every time she fucking sneezes?
“Power is power,” Patrin grumbles under his breath. “Makes no difference how you obtain it, right? I’ve learned a lot over the past three years. Everyone has to bow to someone at some point in their lives. I might be serving someone else’s interests right now, but it won’t be long before I’m serving my own.”
“Shelta’s a manipulator, a user and a liar. You know that just as well as I do. She’ll lean on anyone stupid enough to stand still long enough to do her dirty work.”
“She’s not that bad. And you’re a fine one to talk. You’ll be needing to lean on people too, soon enough. Things are gonna change for you. You’re going to have a line of people waiting for the opportunity to bow and scrape to you the moment you step foot on Rivin soil.”
“Thereisno such thing as Rivin soil. There’s only Rivin trouble. Sorry to disappoint, but my mother’s been lying to you. I won’t be needing a right-hand man. I’ve made a home for myself here now. When you all leave in a month or so, I won’t be traveling with you.”
Patrin goes stiff. He cocks his head to one side, as if he thinks he might not have heard me correctly. “What’s that supposed to mean, then?”
“It means I’m not coming back, tail tucked between my fucking legs. Shelta isn’t getting her apology. I’m not going to crawl over broken glass to regain the clan’s respect. For once in my life, I’m happy. I intend on keeping it that way.”
“You got more tattoos. There’s hardly a square inch of bare skin on your chest now.”
