Page 174 of Broken Pieces
But I’ve got one more fucking fight I can’t get out of.
I couldn’t tell her that. I didn’t want to see the disappointment on her face.
The deal is already locked in. Blood money changing hands before I even step into that cage. Cash is already in circulation, names signed, bets stacked higher than the bruises I’ve been collecting. This isn’t some local tournament I can walk away from. Pulling out now won’t just burn bridges. It’ll light a fucking match and drop on everything.
And I know the type of people I’m fighting for, they’d come for me if I don’t show up.
If they can’t find me… Then they’ll likely come for her to make sure I feel the punishment.
The one person I swore I’d protect with everything I had.
I should never have fucking got involved in this shit because those sick rich bastards got their hooks in me the second I took that envelope full of cash.
I’m in the shop with Rainer. My jaw’s still swollen, ribs tender as fuck when I twist too fast.
He doesn’t say shit at first, just hands me a wrench and nods toward the busted-up Dodge Neon that smells like someone died in the backseat. I don’t miss the way his eyes flick to the bruises blooming across my cheek, sticking out like a confession.
Skylar notices them, too. Pretends she doesn’t, but when she thinks I’m asleep, her fingers skim over them, featherlight and careful, as if touching them might somehow make them hurt less.
She’s been talking more to Rainer lately. I hear her laugh from the front of the shop when she comes home from school. Rainer’s not much of a talker, but with her, he tries, and I appreciate that.
Mason packs up and bails for the night, the sound of his boots fading, the door slamming shut behind him.
Rainer doesn’t follow. He stays exactly where he is, arms folded, shoulders hunched. He leans against the bench, eyes on me, jaw set, face carved out of stone and silence. That same tired look I’ve seen on him a hundred times.
He’s not mad, just worn the fuck down from caring too long about someone who never gave him a reason to.
I keep my head down, pretending I don’t feel the weight of his stare, or the heaviness of everything unsaid pressing down with his gaze. I focus on the Dodge in front of me, grab the wrench, and twist hard. My ribs bark in protest, but I don’t stop.
He waits. Silent, steady. Then, finally, he speaks.
“You gonna tell me?”
I don’t lift my head. If I meet his eyes, he’ll see every fucking thing I’ve been hiding. So I don’t.
I dig the wrench into the bolt harder than necessary.
It slips, scrapes my knuckles raw, but I don’t flinch.
“Tell you what?” My voice is sharper than I mean it to be.
“Don’t play dumb with me, Zane. You’ve got a shiner and a busted lip. Thought you were past all that.”
My shoulders tense. The wrench in my hand stills against the carburetor. I don’t meet his eyes.
Rainer’s boots sound against the concrete as he steps closer.
“I thought you didn’t have to fight anymore,” he says.
I stare at the rusted metal in front of me, tracing the cracks in the casing.
“I didn’t mean to.”
“You didn’t mean to?” His tone sharpens. “Zane, you’re not some lost fucking kid anymore.”
The words burn.
I clench my jaw. “Maybe I still feel like one.”
