CH 1-10

Summary

This book contains adult language and subject matter including graphic violence, drugs and explicit sex that may be disturbing to some readers. {COMPLETE) *This is book 2 of The London Crime King Series!* —————————— While London grieves the lost souls of loved ones, Alexa resides with the ghosts of her past in the hope Liam will save her from the consequences of Jace’s betrayal, but if nobody knows she’s still alive, rising from the ashes might be her only salvation. Liam mourns the only way he knows how: drugs, alcohol and women. Although all three vices are ineffectual, the man endeavours numbness and almost loses himself in the process until a previous hook up holds more promise than a nine millimetre to his head. He can’t bring Alexa back, but with the right amount of sycophantism, he can avenge her by ending the man who destroyed her.

CHAPTER ONE

“I personally hate Cherry.” Nate twisted in the driver’s seat to antagonise Brad, who relaxed idly in the back seat of the Bentley. “She’s a leach, man.”

My right-hand man has grown rather fond of the redhead back at Club 11 and Nate’s fiercely protesting the idea.

“You could not pay me to tap that gold digger.” Nate’s pierced eyebrow arched. “Is that what you want, Brad? Some club bitch profiting off you. Dirty goods. Toss her in the trash, where she belongs.”

“Hey, I never said I was going to marry the bird,” Brad rebuked as we soared from the vehicle in tandem. “What do you think, Darren? You would bone the bitch, right?”

Rubbing a hand over his bald head, Darren grunted. “I am not interested in those women. Grow up, Brad. Nobody cares about your limp dick.”

“Have you seen the size of my cock?” Brad gestured to his trouser-clad groin. “There is nothing limp about my manhood, thank you very much. And what? Are you too good for club whores all of a sudden? I am pretty sure you begged Natalie to blow your pecker last night. What was it she said again?” Hand behind the ear, he mocked, “Oh, yeah. That’s right. I would rather fuck my dog, Darren.”

Nate busted out laughing, clapping his hands.

“Screw you, Brad,” Darren spat. “If everyone was like you? Club 11 would be crawling with sexually transmitted diseases.”

Brad stepped up to him, his humorous expression diminishing. “I am three seconds away from ripping out your voice box.”

“Enough,” I ordered, pushing open the door to the coffee shop. “Save animosities for the enemy.”

Reading a text message on my phone, I waited in the long queue of anxious customers.

Darren argued with another team member outside. Brad’s need to get under everyone’s skin has left him in a ruffled state.

“Howdy, pretty lady.” Brad sent a bodacious blonde woman a lascivious wink. “Christ, get a fucking look at that arse.”

I watched his female interest strut toward the exit, appreciating those thick thighs and swaying hips. “You scared her off,” I joked, feeling a familiar tingle climb up my neck. “Behave yourself.”

While Brad prattled one, I furtively glanced around the coffee shop, sensing someone’s scrutiny. Like every Friday, nothing was out of the ordinary, but it was there, that intense unease and horripilation sheathing my skin.

“Mr Warren,” Audrey, the barista, chimed. “Same as last week?” Deliberately hiking her voluminous chest to vaunt her ample cleavage, she taunted me with inviting grey eyes. “Black coffee?”

I handed over my debit card and paid for the purchase without a word of utterance.

“Now that,” Nate murmured in my ear, “I would make time for.” His gaze set on Audrey’s figure-hugging dress. “Damn.”

“Audrey is Cherry’s doppelganger,” Brad highlighted the obvious. “Honestly, Nate. You need…”

My skin pricked again.

Head tilting to listen to my surroundings, I drowned out their umpteen debate. The woman sitting by the window is arguing with her husband on the phone, snivelling about divorce, ingesting coffee. Two male co-workers complained about their boss, restocking the chillers. The man talking quietly to his mistress needed to work on his technique; those flirtatious promises had my lip twitching in distaste.

“Cherry sports a tongue piercing,” Brad continued to convert Nate to the dark side. “It is a standard procedure. Everyone pegs Cherry at some point. Who knows? You might actually like her.”

Why is he so obsessed with Cherry?

“Been there. Done that.” Nate’s brows merged into a tight-knit frown. “Almost lost my balls in the process. And why are you so invested in my sex life? Stake your claim if you are so smitten with the girl.”

Brad’s chin hit the deck. “One woman isn’t enough to quench thirst…”

I could not shake the feeling of someone watching me.

Glimpsing over one shoulder, I scanned the room. Everything appeared normal, the same overly optimistic barristers and tired commuters passing through for the morning dose of caffeine.

Audrey placed the coffee on the counter. “Here you go, Mr Warren.” Her finger dragged across mine in our exchange. “Enjoy your day.”

Brad and Nate moved ahead to open the door, but I merely achieved five steps when someone collided into my chest. Boiling coffee doused my shirt, clinging to my skin. It burnt like a motherfucker.

“Fuck. You need to watch where you’re going.” Seizing a napkin from the chrome holder, I wiped my ruined shirt vehemently. “Fucking hell.”

“I’m sorry,” a soft, breathless voice said. “I was in a rush and…” Her sentence stumbled. “I was…”

I looked up and lost the ability to speak. This woman, whoever she was, wherever she came from, is stunning. Her tall height almost put us at eye level. If she wore heels instead of flat, tattered footwear, I would be in her direct line of vision. I marvelled at her beauty, slender physique, heart-shaped face and full, kissable lips. It was her eyes that got me the most, though. I could not decipher the exact colour, green and brown, speckles of gold. I was lost in them.

Clearing my dry throat, I leaned over her, chest to chest, to discard the coffee-stained napkin. Again, with our noses virtually touching, we locked eyes, and I waited for her to continue that unfinished sentence.

Panic flickering in her owlish gaze, she put her hands on my chest in a futile attempt of removing the mess she’d caused. “I didn’t mean to do that.”

My muscles bunched together under her innocent touch. “What are you doing?”

Her hands withdrew abruptly.

I am almost sure I had never met this woman before—I would remember someone with such beauty if I did—but there was something oddly familiar about those transfixing eyes. I was drawn to them, which was unfathomable. “Do I know you?” When I stepped closer, her body seemed to wither within my presence. “I feel like I have seen you before.”

“No. I am sorry about that.” She pointed to the brown mark on my shirt. “I know your clothes are expensive.”

I seem to have an admirer.

“Are they?” My voice was huskier than I’d have liked. “And you’d know that how?”

“Well, it is an Armani three-piece, and you often wear Saint Laurent shirts…” To maintain some level of dignity, she zipped her mouth shut. “Can you get him another coffee?” she asked Audrey. “I’m paying.”

Not on my watch. “That’s not necessary.”

Audrey poured black coffee into a takeaway cup and rounded the counter with a look of confusion. Before Audrey could deliver the goods, the girl stepped between us. “I got it,” she said with a rather infectious smile. “Here.” Her eyes lit up as she extended the coffee. “Peace offering.”

My finger grazed her knuckles. “Thank you,” I said, accepting her proffered peace offering. It then dawned on me that I was staring, quite fixated, so I adopted nonchalance by pretending her innocuousness bothered me. “Are you alright in the head?”

Her jaw slackened.

Fuck. I affronted her.

That was a dickhead move, Warren.

Why am I silently chastising myself?

She is just some kid. Leave the shop and get a fucking grip.

I did precisely that,

Rudely shouldering past the girl, I tossed the coffee in the bin and headed outside.

“Bossman—hey,” Brad scolded behind me. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

The girl from the coffee shop dashed towards me.

What was the look in her eyes? Fear? Dread? Desperation?

Darren reached out and snatched her jumper before she could get any closer.

“What the hell?” she yelled, thrashing in his unyielding grip. “Let go of me!”

“Darren,” I warned, the man snickering in amusement. “Release the girl.”

And then, to add humour to this bizarre encounter, her fingernails attacked his face in murderous retaliation.

Shoving her forward, Darren hissed, “You bitch!”

“Please stop.” Her voice was a mere whisper. “I’m sorry.”

Darren snarled, “You put your hand on my face, little girl.” He hurled the girl into the nearest wall, and the unexpected impact had her legs buckling. “Docile bint.”

I acted on instinct, catching her in my arms before she face-planted the floor. Her body went boneless, her limbs heavy yet limp. “Fuck’s sake, Darren.” Her eyes were shut now, but her sibilant whimpers ensued. “She’s only a fucking kid.”

“The bitch dragged her talons across my face.” He used tissues to dab the blood on his split lip. “Crazy bitch. I say you bin the rat.”

“Who is she?” Nate crouched beside and pressed two fingers on her neck, checking her pulse. “She fainted.”

Brad chortled. “Darren, your ugliness drops bitches like shit drops flies.”

Darren’s jiggling jowls were crimson. “Piss off, Brad.”

“Hey.” Tapping the girl’s pink-stained cheek, I tried to bring her back. “Wake up.” Her chest rose and fell at an irregular rhythm. “What’s wrong with her?”

Nate’s head tilted as he studied her. “Strange.” He checked her pulse once more. “Holy fuck. Surely that’s not normal.”

“What?” Resting her back on my thigh, I pulled down her raised hoodie to cover her exposed stomach. “Nate?”

“She needs to wake up before she has a damn heart attack,” he drawled, rising to his feet. “I don’t know what kinda nightmare that chick is having, but it sure as hell puts satanic fear into her.”

Her throat hollowed as she grappled for breath.

“Wake up.” Shaking her shoulders, I slapped her cheek a little harder. “Hey, kid. You need to calm down. I think you might be having a fucking panic attack.”

Inhaling a sharp breath, she returned to consciousness. Wide eyes snapping wide, darting in multiple directions, she scampered out of my arms and hit the brick wall back first. And that’s where she stayed, cowering and flinching.

Gingerly, I touched her arm, urging her to look at me. “What happened?”

Slapping my hand away, she staggered to her feet, tugging her hoodie restlessly as if the material restrained her oxygen supply.

I sored to my full height and took a cautious step away. I meant no harm.

Her body trembled. “I am not a fucking child.”

Her fearless response had the opposite effect. I knew she was scared. Raising her voice appeased her humiliation and trepidation, though.

Brad licked a toothpick to the corner of his mouth. “Are you sure about that?” His head dipped. “Your Jumper says otherwise.”

Her wardrobe malfunction was ostentatious. I mean, who left the house in a black hoodie adorned in hugging turtles?

The girl wanted the floor to open up and swallow her whole. I could see it in her eyes, the sheer embarrassment. “It’s not mine,” she stuttered, removing the ridiculous choice of attire and stuffing it in an old, threadbare backpack. “I borrowed it from a friend.”

“Don’t worry about what’s on her jumper, lads.” Gaven, the head doorman from Club 11, gestured to the girl’s skin-tight T-shirt, where two small yet perfectly rounded breasts peeked through the flimsy material. “Her tits tell a different story.”

Not wanting to humiliate the girl further, I looked away. It was wrong to ogle, but expunging the image was impossible. I’d already caught a glance and, although far too small, her tits looked decent enough to feel the touch of my hands.

I put the brakes on musings. I am not attracted to some twitchy, nervous girl, so why the fuck am I considering the idea of us and intimacy? She’s not even my type. I like women—flawlessly curvaceous women with generous assets and tantalising confidence–not some young, coy, unattractively slim loose wire that passed out for no apparent reason.

As if sensing my deriding thoughts, she glanced at me with a tight, morose smile.

My heart skipped a beat. No, she is hardly unattractive. This girl is dangerously beautiful. And I had to get the fuck away from here before I do or say something uncharacteristically stupid.

“That’s enough,” I admonished the laughing men into silence. “We are leaving.”

Of course, the men listened. It’s their job to do as they’re told, whether it irks them or not. Tapping each other on the back, they dispersed in multiple directions, ducking into parked Bentley vehicles.

I, however, never budged, nor have I broken eye contact with the skittish girl.

She rubbed the cold chill from her arms. “I feel like an idiot.”

“You banged your head when you fell.” Feigning concerned, I captured her jaw and examined the fabricated graze on her cheek. “You might want to get that checked.”

Her forehead creased. “Is it serious?”

No, I caught you before any damage followed. But I wanted an excuse to talk to you without the intrusiveness of my men. “I am sure you will survive.”

Walk away, Warren.

You don’t have the time to entertain damsels.

I released her jaw as though the touch of her skin burnt.

When I walked away, I felt her eyes on me, but I never looked back, even though everything inside me screamed to go back for her.

I slid into the back of Nate’s Bentley. “Drive.”

“Who the fuck was that?” Brad stared at the girl through the black-tinted window. “She had a great ass.”

She is nobody. “Forget about it.”

People attired in all-black mourned their loved ones, bled painful tears and whimpered harrowing guilt throughout.

Our dark, depressing skies complained above as thunder rolled in the distance. Rain splattered the memorialised ground that once offered accommodation to over four hundred people. Few survived that catastrophic, fateful night. The rest went up in smoke as they endeavoured to escape the flames.

Previously, Law enforcement restrained me and filed charges for assaulting an officer and possessing a firearm. Those do-gooders confiscated the Desert Eagle. Yeah, I was pretty fucking pissed about that. I have access to weapons, but that personalised gun held sentimental value. Its customised solid-gold exterior and engraving have been in my possession since I started building my empire.

Fortunately for me, Chief Superintendent Reginald Burton returned such belongings alongside buried evidence regarding the judge who pre-decided my prison sentence (I’ll touch upon his situation later).

I am a free man—a numb, grieving, devastated man—who stands before Alexa’s graveside. Like all the victims, her wooden cross and plot number remain at the burial ground where beautiful homes once soared. I haven’t slept properly in over two weeks. Every night, when lying in bed at the penthouse, I call her phone, hoping that by some miracle, she will answer. Or I stare at the screen, reading through old text messages. I miss her. It is painful to breathe without her near.

I would quite literally sell my soul to the devil to have Alexa back in my arms.

People don’t want me here. Their resentment and disdain emitted from their quivering bodies. Their overt anger was unwarranted. I don’t know the mourners, I have no personal issues with them, but they seem to know me, and my appearance added fuel to the fire.

Ignoring hushed conversations, the type of conversations that ruined a man’s reputation, I stepped into uncharted territory to pay my respects, to say goodbye to Alexa. Still, they talked about me as though I was the devil himself. I am accustomed to the abhorrence of others, but I had every right to be here.

Brad squeezed my shoulder.

Adjusting my black aviators, I tucked my hands into my trouser pockets, preparing myself for Chloe’s lambasting.

Blundering on high heels, Chloe waded through sobbing throngs of people, handbag to her chest, blonde hair dragged into a tight ponytail. “You shouldn’t be here,” she cried as the blond male, someone I recognised, told her to calm down. “You’re not welcome here, Warren!”

I have killed for less.

Tapering down furiousness, I turned while reaching for something inside the inner pocket of my suit jacket.

“Don’t put your back to me.” She shoved me in the shoulder. “Face me like a man, Warren—”

I lost all sense of awareness. “Like a man,” I said angrily, putting us nose-to-nose. “You don’t want to see me at my worst, Chloe.” My hand snatched her throat, and her teary eyes rounded. “You couldn’t handle it.”

Her fingers coiled around my wrist. “I hate you,” she whimpered, tears streaming down her blotchy cheeks. “If it weren’t for you? Alexa would still be alive!”

“Watch your mouth,” I spat through gritted teeth. “You know absolutely nothing about my relationship with Alexa. I tried to protect her.”

“Your protection put her in a box. You did that.” Once more, the insane woman tried to attack me, her fisted hands landing far too many blows to my chest. “It’s your fault she is not here! You–”

I slapped her in the face, the merciless blow resounding in our distressing propinquity.

If Alexa were here, she would attack me for that harsh display. That woman loved her best friend. They were closer than most sisters, lived, laughed and cried together. Only she is not here today. She is gone and never coming back. Without her, I have no reason to accept anything but respect from inferiors.

The troublesome blonde will learn her place.

Brad pinched the bridge of his nose.

Chloe’s knees squelched into the muddy ground. Dabbing her cheeks with bunched-up tissues, she unclasped the bangle on her wrist and draped it on Alexa’s wooden cross,

I do not watch Chloe and her friend leave or to the scornful voices in the distance. I wait for Brad to drop back and give me a moment, the lower one knee to the ground.

Alexa Haines.

Gone but never forgotten.

I hated the thoughtless engraving. It was everyone’s go-to phrase when burying their loved ones. It was unmeaningful, rushed and halfhearted.

“Where is her body?” I asked Brad. “I will not believe it without a body.”

“Alexa is dead, bossman,” he said cautiously. “Reginald confirmed it. She went down in the fire.”

I felt a single tear roll down my cheek. “I refuse…” My throat tightened. “I refuse to let go. It is not the end for us…” His hand locked around the nape of my neck as he strived to comfort me. “I failed her. I promised to protect her and failed.”

Hundreds of mourners soon became one.

Everyone disappeared, including Brad, but I could not walk away.

How can I sleep tonight, knowing whatever is left of her remains were beneath the very grounds I stood upon.

Kissing the bud of a red rose, I placed it on the floor. “I love you. In this life or the next, I will always be yours. When death knocks on my door, you better be the one that comes for me.”

CHAPTER TWO

Alexa

My eyes peeled open to face the darkness. For a short while, I laid motionless on an uncomfortable mattress, the stiff, damaged springs penetrating my thigh. Tracing the illusionary chequered pattern with curious fingertips, I rolled onto my side, ears perked up, listening for any movement or signs of another’s watchfulness.

I am in a cage. I did not need to see the locked door for confirmation. I am the product of child abduction. I have lived in these conditions before.

Jace Williams. His accomplice restrained me, smothered my mouth with a chemically infused cloth and rocked me into somniferous unconsciousness. I heard them talking but have no recollection of what they said or why they did this to me. I’m not foolish, though. I mightn’t know Jace very much, but it’s evident this cruel stunt has Flamur’s name stamped all over it. There’s no other reasonable explanation for my co-worker’s wicked treachery.

Money, I thought.

He made a deal with a monster for money.

Pulling myself into a sitting position, I put my back against the cold wall.

That’s why Jace befriended me. Flamur paid him to do so.

Chest rising and falling at an erratic pace, I blinked in my dark surroundings, hands searching the walls blindly. I stepped off the mattress in fear of a huge drop. It’s not a bed, though. The mattress is on the floor, just like before when I lived in the basement.

My bare feet tiptoed across the concrete.

“Hello,” I called quietly, foot catching something on the floor, the sound of metal scraping and spilt water followed. A bucket, perhaps. “Is anyone there?”

Flattening my palms to the wall, I walked sideways, counting each step until detecting a foreign object. I grasped the pole with trembling fingers, investigating its height and thickness. In fact, there are many poles with meagre space between them. I was right. I am in some kind of cage—a cell.

“Hello.” The cell’s metal chain and the lock fell into my hands. “Who is there?” Swallowing saliva to quench the dryness in my throat, I tugged the lock frantically, the heavy-duty chains groaning and protesting. “Please, I hate the dark.”

My investigatory hand landed on another object. It was cold, almost flesh-like, and laden in what appeared to be gold rings, fingers–I screamed, jerking away from the cage-like partition, and the owner of those hands laughed. “Jace,” I said, wishing I could see. “Is that you?”

Blinding lights illuminated the room.

Wincing from the sudden brightness, I covered my eyes.

Jace laughed. “You were getting frisky with my hands, Alexa.”

I peered through my fingers.

He is on the other side of the cage, holding onto the poles with knuckle white urgency. His gold rings and bracelets glistened under the fluorescent lights. “How did you sleep?”

Ignoring his question, I inventoried the cracked, moss-covered walls, the strewn debris and pockets of stagnant water on the floor. As suspected, there is a mattress by the wall and an upturned bucket.

It is not the basement, which only heightened confusion and panic. No, it is a new cage. Both places would have been equally tortuous, but with Flamur, I understood how things operated. I don’t know what’s expected of me here or if I will live to talk about it.

“Are you finished spurning your accommodation?” he asked, his voice laced in amusement. “I had to cover the window for obvious reasons.”

Burning bile flooded my throat as I rationalised the distressing situation. “It’s hardly accommodating.” Summoning inner fierceness, I wiped my begrimed palms on the dishevelled red dress, the straps hanging loosely down my arms. “Quite insulting, actually.”

Jace’s eyebrow lifted.

I remained demure and unperturbed, even though everything inside me jittered and wailed. Of course, I am terrified and concerned by his devious motives. However, after what I endured as a child, I am unprepared to show this man weakness. Misters thrive on their preys vulnerability. Instead, I adopted bold fearlessness to conceal panic. I am a ruthless, empowered woman. That’s what Liam told me. “And I will kill anyone who stands in my way.”

He gave me a short, caustic laugh. “Good luck.”

I hate him.

How could I behave so impossibly ridiculous, so reckless and trusting? I hadn’t known Jace for exceptionally long, but I hadn’t pegged him as a vicious man with dishonest intentions. I thought he was one of the good guys, an honourable man who loved sugar and had a predilection for men.

“You’re not gay,” I said, remembering his spine-chilling words before the abduction. “Was anything real, Jace? Did you work at the Coffee House just to spy on me? Is it about Him?”

I will not say Flamur’s name aloud.

“Or, Is it about Liam?” I hadn’t considered as much, too assured the Albanian played puppet-master someplace in the background. “Are you using me to get to him? If so, I’d like you to reconsider. I am not to blame for your parents’ death, so why am I being punished?”

“Shut up.” He stepped away from the bolted railing. “You are in no position to ask any questions. I call the shots.”

I hope Liam skins him alive.

“No, I am not gay.” He took great pleasure in telling me that, then his appreciative eyes homed in on my legs. “I love women.”

Sickened by his evident approval, I stepped closer to the railing. I wanted to cover myself from the man and his prying eyes, but I will pretend such lasciviousness had zero effect on me. “If you touch me inappropriately,” I warned, nausea rolling in my stomach, “I will kill you.”

It was an idle threat. If a man of Jace’s size threw me on the ground to have his wicked way with me, I wouldn’t stand a chance, no matter how hard I fought. He would overpower me.

Jace chuckled, low and dry.

I smiled wickedly. “I am not one to be messed with, Jace.”

Pure delight danced in his green eyes. “Oh, yeah?” His muscular arms folded. “Please enlighten me, Alexa. How do you plan to stop me?”

“Will you violate me?” I felt sick to my stomach. “You needn’t have bothered with such heinousness. All this,” I motioned to my impermanent cell, “was unnecessary. You had ample opportunities to hurt me, so why the special treatment? It’s a bit dramatic, right? All this song and dance for little old me.”

“Where’s the fun in that?” he asked, watching me like a hawk. “In here? I get to play whenever I want.” He fished out the ring of keys in his pocket. “Let’s start by giving you a shower.”

“No, thanks.” I’d rather smell like a decomposing corpse than disrobe before this man. “I am used to malodour.”

When I lived at Flamur’s bunker, I never luxuriated in warm bubble baths, ate three meals a day, or drank fresh water when parched. No, I went weeks and weeks without showers. After three days, I lost count of deprived meals, and I was lucky if one of the guards hurled bottled water down the stairs. If I can survive such unexpectable conditions as a child, I can sure as hell survive imprisonment as an adult.

“It wasn’t a request.” He unblocked the enclosure. “It was an order.” The metal gate shrieked across the concrete floor. “Now, take off the dress, or I will do it for you.”

“You want me to undress here?” My lips parted. “Why can’t I remove my clothes in the bathroom?”

“Now.” He was growing impatient. “Last chance, Alexa.”

Oh, I was going to terrorise him.

Fingers dipping under the spaghetti straps, I peeled the ruined material off my body. Torn satin layers gathered at my feet. I slid my hands to my hips with a tilted chin and maintained eye contact.

“No lace?” It sounded like a question, but I wasn’t sure. “Why?”

Liam loved it when I eliminated underwear. It aroused him, knowing he could smooth a hand under my dress and touch what belonged to him at any given moment. But that’s our business, not Jace’s. “It’s uncomfortable.”

His hooded gaze swept over my body. “You’re not what I expected,” he rasped, and I frowned. “There is nothing to you.”

My cheeks heated in embarrassment. “Then, why the fuck am I here?”

“I prefer women with a bit of meat.” His teeth toyed with his tongue piercing. “Pussy is pussy, though, right?”

I have to prepare myself for his impending assault. I endured rape from a young age, so switching off is second nature for a woman like me. I will not participate, though. He is in for a rude awakening if screaming, thrashing and begging turned him on. I will not fight or plead for my rights. I will not play his games.

“Jace, If non-consensual sex is a requirement, I am good to go. However, if you try and put that disgusting dick anywhere near my mouth, I will gnaw it off. That’s not a futile threat. It’s a promise.”

He entered the enclosure.

I held my breath.

“Let’s get that vodka stench off your body.” He dragged me out of the cell and through the squalid area with outmoded appliances, old furniture and strewn clothing. “Pick your feet up.”

I almost toppled over the gym bag in the narrow hallway. Into the bathroom I went, the floor to ceiling tiles embedded in mould. A floral shower curtain hung precariously between the bath and wobbly basin. Even the seatless toilet was besmeared in filthy black layers of fungus and rust.

“Wash.” Drawing back the shower curtain, he forced me to step into the bath, the faucet overhead dripping drain-smelling dews. “Come on, Alexa. I don’t have all night.”

Freezing cold water emptied over my head. I suppressed an alarmed scream, but the flinch of my body betrayed me. With chattering teeth, I put my back to him, silently begging for warmth. Moments later, steam filled the air and heated my once frozen skin. I washed obediently, exfoliating skin with strawberry-scented gel.

Jace passed me the shampoo bottle. “Do your hair.”

Squirting shampoo into my palm, I scrubbed my hair and scalp.

Satisfied by the cleanliness of his captee, Jace turned off the shower and tossed me a rough-textured towel. “Dry.”

Modesty left at the door, I patted down my body.

Jace handed me black sweat pants and an oversized T-shirt. His clothes buried my frame. I did not care. I was grateful for the coverage and warm fibres.

He took me by the elbow. “Back to the room.”

My eyes clapped on the wooden staircase tucked behind the sofa as I pondered an escape route.

“Don’t bother.” He returned me to isolation. “You won’t make it far, Alexa. I locked the main door. Even if you were fortunate enough to outsmart me, there is nothing but desolate vastness beyond this place.”

“Is this about your parents?” I asked once more. “Or did Flamur pay you to handle his business? Was the coward not man enough to snatch me himself?”

Jace seemed taken aback. I couldn’t work out which question startled him. “My parents died in a car accident when I was fifteen,” he said, and the blood evaporated from my body. “Fate sucks, huh?”

I wanted to slap him. “You told me Liam was responsible for their deaths.”

“I lied.” Gate crashing in place, he locked me away. “Although I am still curious. Why would you date a man like Liam Warren?”

“Why not?” I challenged, gripping the metal poles. “You claim Liam is a merciless killer who’s undeserving and irredeemable, yet you mirror his nefarious traits. Tell me, Jace. What makes you a better man? You are a contradictory bastard who preys on vulnerable young women.”

“Pathetic.” His lips curled at the corner. “You defend his honour with such passionate vigour, and it is disgusting. You got it all figured out, right? Warren is the worst of our kind,” he spat, and I bore into him with punishing eyes. “But he treats you well, so it’s all good, huh? It doesn’t matter that he brutally murders innocent people for sport. It doesn’t matter that he generates cash from defenceless victims who are too terrified to stand up for themselves. How well do you actually know him? You overlook his murders where men are concerned, so what’s the deal-breaker? Pensioners? Women? Children?” My core knotted. Never children. “Ah, so he hasn’t corrupted you yet.”

“Liam has rules,” I whispered, my heart beating wildly in my chest. “He’d never hurt undeserving people.”

“Wow.” His head shook in sheer disbelief. “Since when did women and children merit anything other than protection?”

“What are you getting at?” I asked, my voice a touch panicked. “Again, how are you any different? I never wronged you, Jace. Do I not merit leniency?”

“Collateral.” He shrugged uncaringly. “Warren came after me, so it’s only fair that I return the favour.”

His indecipherable evasiveness irked me.

Liam had never met Jace until the birthday party, so what is he talking about?

“You must be hungry.” Wandering to the kitchenette, he snagged a box of porridge from the cupboard. “Honey or original?”

I ignored him.

“You’re like me.” Tearing a honey flavoured sachet with his teeth, he emptied dried oats into a white mug. “You need your sugar intake, right?”

Fuck him and his sugar.

Pouring milk over the oats, he popped the mug in the microwave and waited for the finished chime. “I bought strawberries, but I’m not one to share, so you can watch me consume those later.”

My stomach growled.

He conveyed the mug to the gate. “Eat.”

Snatching the mug from his inked hand, I lunged at the wall. It shattered, thick clumps of porridge dropping on the floor.

Jace’s jaw tightened. “Would you rather starve?

“I would rather eat shit than accept anything from you.”

“You are foolish.”

“Yes, I might be foolish, but I am not fragile.”

Liam’s tactless “fight back” method will come in handy for this quandary.

“You will not break me.” I sat cross-legged on the mattress. “You will soon realise how annoyingly juvenile I am. I sing without harmonious cords, talk to myself daily and function well when sleep deprived.” Humming to myself, I studied my fingernails with a bored expression. “I give you a week in my company before you lose the fight.”

His throaty laughter reverberated around my cell. “Delusional. I am not staying here, Alexa. I am merely swinging by to ensure you are still breathing. Besides, I only have you for two weeks. You belong to Bajramovic.”

Fear clawed at my insides. I scampered off the mattress with momentary light-headedness. “Where are you going?” I screamed, watching him collect his phone and keys from the coffee table. “You can’t leave me here, Jace. You can’t give me to him!”

“Stop talking.” He tugged on a leather jacket. “Your whiny voice irritates me.”

“Jace.” My hands grabbed the poles. “Please don’t give me to him. You don’t understand. He—”

“Not my problem.” He went to the staircase, hit the light switch and shrouded me in darkness. “Your little porridge stunt was stupid. Now you won’t see a meal for three days.”

I heard the door close somewhere, and the sound of chains followed.

My knees met the floor as a guttural sob ripped from my chest. It’s all-consuming, the pain and anguish immobilising. I cannot go back to Him. I’ll never survive him twice. “Please,” I cried, listening to the tap dripping in the kitchen. “Liam, please find me.”

There is only one way out of this mess.

I must kill Jace.

CHAPTER THREE

Liam

The Albanian mafia bombarded Club 11. I lost many loyal foot soldiers who lived and died by the syndicate. Joshua Fitzpatrick survived devastating pandemonium. I will never understand how the jokester from behind the bar managed to outsmart dexterous gunmen. He fought his way to my office while commotion occurred, tackled and brawled with two masked kleptomaniacs that were in the process of decoding and emptying the safe and, in the process, took a bullet to the left shoulder.

Nate and Brad stand on either side of me, rewatching the surveillance footage. We are equally impressed by Josh’s outstanding gallantry.

I heard the door knock. “Come in.”

Moments later, Josh limped into the office and collapsed on the leather sofa with a tired sigh. “You wanted to see me.”

He had bandaged his shoulder haphazardly, the unstanched flesh-wound oozing blood. “Why didn’t you run like the others?” I asked, sparking a lighter flame to light the cigarette balancing between my lips. “You are not a trained soldier or a skilled sharpshooter, nor do you possess a gun. “Nate did not relay orders in my absence, either.”

“I apologise,” he said, swallowing what looked like a painful gulp. “I acted on instinct. I was just trying to help, sir.”

Impressed is an understatement. I never knew he had it in him. “You did not sign yourself into the emergency unit.” Lighting the cigarette, I blew out a veil of smoke. “Why?”

Josh pondered the question. “It would have raised suspicion, and the medical team would have alerted the police. I needed to get my story straight, I guess.”

Brad side-eyed me. “How’s the flesh wound?”

“I managed to stop the bleeding.” Josh unbandaged his arm, revealing raw, infected flesh. “It’s fucked, though, right?”

Nate examined the damage. “His wound necessitates stitches.” Before another word passed around the room, he vacated the office in search of medical supplies.

Josh stared at the door. “Where is he going? Will he drive me to the hospital? I might need pain killers.”

“Quit fretting, Josh.” Brad picked up a bottle of Jameson from the mini-bar. “It doesn’t hurt…” He looked heavenward in intense concentration. “I lie. Having stitches hurts like a fucking bitch.”

Josh choked on oxygen. “No, I am okay.” His eyes enlarged when Nate re-entered the room. “Do not come near me with that kit, Nate. I don’t even need my arm—”

“Shut up,” I scolded, and the boy cursed under his breath. “You’re giving me a bastard headache.”

Josh snatched the Jameson bottle from Brad and chugged thirstily.

Nate snapped on a pair of latex gloves. Adjusting his black-framed glasses, he unzipped the holdall and unpackaged a syringe. “Anaesthetic,” he said, inserting the needle in Josh’s arm. “Breathe, man.”

“Ah, shit.” Josh’s teeth are gritted. “Quit laughing, Nate. It hurts.”

Nate rinsed the infected area with saline solution. “It’s time to stitch you up.”

“Stitch me up,” Josh repeated in disbelief. “Why can’t we be like normal fucking people that go to hospitals where I can get stitched up by a normal fucking doctor.” He whacked Nate’s advancing hands aside. “Don’t fuck with me, Nate.”

When Josh tried to climb off the sofa, Brad intervened. “Do we look like normal people to you?” His hands fell to the lad’s shoulder to keep him in place. “Besides, normal is boring, so stop acting like a pussy and let Nate sort you out.”

Eyes darting between the men, Josh breathed out a relented sigh. “I blame Brad if I pass out.”

Equipped and eager to proceed, Nate started to fix Josh’s gash while mumbling about antibiotics.

I stood, tuned down their conversation and watched the men rebuild the main function room through the recently fixed window. Everything has to be replaced: mirrors, podiums, furniture, booths and the bar. Flamur’s men succeeded. They destroyed Club 11, leaving a hefty coverage bill on my desk.

My eyes landed on the bar where employees worked tirelessly to assemble new cabinets and restock the chillers. I know Alexa is not here, but I found myself searching for her regardless. I remember how she claimed the last cash register, the one closest to the door. It’s where she worked most nights. I would know. I watched.

Distress strangled my heart. I’d give anything to go back in time. If I were less selfish, I’d have declined her job application. I’d have shut the door in her face. Instead, I welcomed her into the club and into my bed, knowing that, with or without Flamur’s obsession, she’d have faced death.

I breathed out cigarette smoke.

Why did I let her go home that night?

I promised to protect her.

“Bossman,” Brad called, and I pulled away from the lachrymose state. “Are you with us?”

I masked pain and regret. “Of course.”

“You live and die by The Brotherhood.” Nate re-zipped the holdall. “Judas is not invited to the boss’s table.”

Josh grimaced in confusion. “What?”

“Never show weakness.” Brad punched the code to the safe. “Never obtain a weakness.”

It was an innocuous comment, yet it hit me hard in the chest.

Alexa was, and will forever be, my greatest weakness in life.

“It’s imperative.” Nate sat on the coffee table. “A woman…” His lips sloped into a deriding smirk. “Or do you prefer males?

“I am not gay,” Josh replied with a dramatic scoff. “I love women, thank you very much. Why are you telling me all this?”

Brad tossed Josh’s file on the desk.

Flipping open the folder, I read through the mundane events of Josh’s life. His parents are dead. He is an only child. One highlight raised red flags, though. “Is your grandmother problematic?

“Why?” His perplexity heightened. “What the fuck does my gran have to do with this nonsensical conversation?”

“Learn the rules,” I said angrily, and he bristled. “You do not disrespect your boss, nor will you ask questions. You wait to be addressed. You never challenge me or my authority. If I tell you to stand by the wall for fifteen hours straight without a word of utterance, you’ll do it with a goddamn smile on your face. Have I made myself abundantly fucking clear?”

Nate and Brad were accustomed to the laws and their boss’s belligerence. Josh, however, wanted to be anywhere but this office. “I apologise.” He stood warily. “My grandmother is not a problem.”

Opening the desk drawer, I retrieved the stainless steel Glock. “Serpents will knock on your door. Detectives will lick your arse.” Adding bullets to the gun’s chamber, I kicked my feet onto the desk. “Both will offer you a substantial amount of money to destroy me. Maybe not today but definitely tomorrow. It is tempting, isn’t it? Is cash worth your life, though?”

“If you betray the boss, The Brotherhood, or the syndicate, it ends with you in an unmarked grave.” Nate took the gun from my hand and offered it to Josh. “Training starts next week.”

“Well, look at that, Joshy boy.” Brad slapped Josh’s shoulder. “Bossman must be impressed. You can roll with the elite from now on.”

“What? Oh, hell no,” Josh protested with a high pitched screech. “I don’t want to be one of you. Are you fucking crazy? Have you seen my face?” He gestured to himself as if to state the obvious. “I like it. I want to keep it.”

“You are wasted down on that bar, pouring drinks for minimum wage. You got potential, kid.” I address Nate, “Take him on. Train him to his fullest capacity—I want him ready within two weeks, so don’t alleviate or hold back.” Hiring someone off the bat is a first for me. Usually, Brad assists while we scope and hire recruits. Since Josh showed Loyalty without so much as a batted eyed lid, I’m willing to negotiate terms and conditions.

“No,” Josh persisted with stubborn ferocity, hands hugging his hips.

“Are you certain?” I asked, knowing he’s easily breakable. “You don’t need the extra cash?”

“Money?” Now he’s interested. “Like a raise?”

“Yeah.” With bogus excitement, Brad slipped a toothpick between his lips. “An extra ninety grand a year. Then there is the club and restaurants where you dine and drink for free, not to mention the cars, accommodation, tailoring and lifestyle, funded by the organisation, courtesy of our generous boss. As long as you stay loyal, your life will be exceedingly blissful.”

Him and his fucking bliss.

Pound signs chimed in Josh’s eyes. “That’s a lot of money.”

“No fucking shit, kid,” I grated out, becoming exasperated. “Now, are you in, or are you out?”

Josh’s hands rubbed together. “Oh, I’m fucking game.”

Money always wins.

***

It’s around midnight. I ordered the men to lock up the club and have the night off, leaving me alone in my tranquil solace, surrounded by darkness. Nursing a bottle of Macallan, I relax in my leather chair, listening to serene music with only the lyrics and my thoughts to contend with. I raised the joint to my lips and took a lungful of haze.

Tomorrow, the real work begins. I must visit the families of deceased men and offer condolences and overcompensation to guarantee their silence. It is part and parcel of the job. When a man signs a contract with me, he knows death is on the table of possibilities. In the event one loses his life, any relatives or companions, although unknowledgeable of his second, are compensated greatly for his privation.

I must sit with Reginald, one of many powerful men comfortably sitting in my back pocket. Club 11′s attack didn’t go unnoticed. I need to conduct a phoney explanation, so the Chief can eliminate any prowling detectives, sniffing around my establishments—one taxing headache that I don’t need of late; it’s nothing sterling cannot fix, though.

Money is power, and I have a fuck load of it.

Since the night I killed my father and his wife, inherited lavishness and affluence became a significant factor in my life. Firstly, I hadn’t comprehended just how rich I was.

“Hello,” the squalid bed and breakfast manager chimed the second I fell over the threshold. “How can I help?”

I was cold, tired, and hungry. “I need a room,” I said throatily, backpack handle gripped firmly between clenched hands. “Is my pushbike okay outside?”

Ruffling her salt and pepper locks, she glanced past my shoulder, drumming pink polished fingernails on the desk. “People rarely venture around these ends,” she said, nodding assuredly. “I think it’ll be alright.”

Rain dews danced on the tips of my dishevelled hair. “How much for a basic room?”

She fired the outdated computer, tapping the keyboard. “Thirty quid.”

Clearing my throat, unzipping my back, I carefully combed through the money, handing her a fifty-pound note.

Elevating an eyebrow, she raised the note above her head, checking the hologram beneath the ceiling light. “How old are you?”

“Eighteen,” I lied, praying my adventurous towering height and husked voice fooled her. “So, can I get a room or not?” She flung me the room key. “Keep the change.”

I found my room on the third floor, tossed my backpack on the random high-back chair, removed my hoodie and smelt perspiration emitting from my body.

Inside the en-suite bathroom, I switched on the light, waited for the sporadic bulb to brighten, and studied my reflection in the mirror. I hadn’t shaved, not once while pubescence commenced. I made a mental note to swing by the convenience store tomorrow and purchase essentials: razors, deodorant, and manscaping equipment. Hell, I might stop at a local barbershop. It’s been months since my last visit.

Dragging the shower curtain aside, hitting the warm water, I waited for the steam to pervade the all-tiled room, lost the remainder of my clothes and luxuriated in heavenly euphoria. I scrubbed my skin raw with those complimentary samples, slathering my skin in soapy suds that smelt like coconuts and paradise.

Utilising an available towel, I knotted the rough texture around my waist, returned to my room and closed the blinds. I stood near the mahogany dresser, eyes bouncing from the double bed to the backpack, unsure what to do with myself.

A wave of nausea pirouetted in my stomach. It’s occurred often tonight, dreaded panic. “I killed my father,” I whispered, spearing two hands through my hair, gulping down omnipresent bile, fearing a life of imprisonment.

Did I leave fingerprints at the crime scene?

Were the cameras in the house?

Had there been any witnesses?

Will I wake up to the police raiding my impermanent home?

I slumped onto the bed. “I am fucked,” I groaned, albeit relishing the all-encompassing comfort. Nuzzling my face into the sheets, I blinked rapidly to abolish unwanted tears burning my eyes, wondering if someone had found Bill yet.

Perhaps I shouldn’t have left him.

Why didn’t I call the emergency services?

What if he rots in the shed?

Shaking away pessimistic thoughts, I snatched the bag and emptied its contents onto the bed. I eyed the gun then stuffed it under my pillow. I will not use it again.

My stomach grumbled, reminding me to feed it. No, I’ll wait until morning. I need a solid plan—a permanent home, somewhere to call my own.

I brushed a thumb across a wad of cash, a vainglorious smile dancing on my lips.

“One million.” I am rich. My father’s blood money is in my hands. “Nice one, dad.” I counted so many times, assured my mind played tricks on me.

That night, I laid awake with my hand on the gun handle, listening to my surroundings. I hadn’t rested but found the warmth and financial security reassuringly therapeutic.

Sunrise settled on the horizon, and I packed my scarce belongings, redressed in my old, faded, tattered clothes and vacated the building without a backwards glance.

Frost clung to the pushbike handlebars. No, I no longer wanted Trevor’s bike. I dropped the rusted piece of shit and stormed ahead with an ever-present smile on my face.

Many questions filtered through my mind as I journeyed around the impressive streets of London.

Did Bill know who I was the day he approached me?

Did Bill ever intend on informing me of Ray, or was his evasive slip due to his impending death?

I wanted to know how Bill knew Raymond.

Those questions will forever remain unanswered. Bill and Ray were dead—never coming back. “It’s over now,” I muttered to myself, pulling my hood over my head, concealing my identity somewhat.

Locating a bustling burger van, I stopped in my tracks, licked my lips and hurried across the street. Even waiting in the queue was a luxury. I inhaled the permeated morning air infused with cooked meats, ordered two breakfast rolls and scarfed them down with hungered glee. Scrounging for meals was a thing of the past. Looking for private banks for cold showers were an afterthought.

I stopped at a clothes store and purchased tracksuits, boxer briefs, socks, and hygiene products to keep me going until my next spending spree.

Pleased with my new wardrobe, I popped into the barbers, as aforementioned, underwent a new image, clean-shaven, black hair styled to perfection.

I felt like the dogs bollocks, trainers tight yet comforting on my feet, brown paper bags in hand, whistling some of Bill’s favourite tunes as I waded through commuters.

“It’s filthy,” I heard a woman shout, and my nosiness got the better of me. “Not fit for an animal.“

Christ, she’s cantankerous this morning. I rounded the street corner, parked my backside on someone’s wall, openly assessed the two argumentative people displaying pure hostility for all to bear witness.

“It’s not that bad,” the older male disputed, his tousled, crumpled suit in need of an iron. “And it’s cheap.”

Tearing through the packet with my teeth, I flung a handful of peanuts in my mouth.

“False advertisement,” she argued, gesticulating to the stone building encircled with scaffolding. “False!”

Amid their quarrelsome parade, I studied the “To Let” signposted beside the residential polychromatic masonry building, then scoured the neighbourhood—peacefully quiet, meagre vehicles, no commotion and minimal citizens. It’s perfect, I conclude, watching the infuriated woman return to her parked car, shouting blasphemy to the middle-aged dude whose nearing a stroke or contemplating suicide.

I waited until her car sped past, leaving thick smog in its wake. “Hey,” I called out, double-checking the road for blindsided vehicles before joining the unidentified man. “Liam Warren,” I introduced myself, dusting salt from my hands. “Who are you?”

Creases develop around the man’s wary eyes. He neatened his royal blue tie. “Reginald,” he confirmed, settling a clipboard to his chest to hide his sweat-saturated shirt. “What can I do for you, Warren?”

“Bad day?” I mused, itching to get a look inside that spare room.

“Something like that,” he mutters, wiping sweat dews from his bushy brows. “Do I know you or something?”

“I want that flat,” I delved straight to the pint. “Preferably today.”

His brows jumped in surprise. “But you haven’t even seen it.”

I motioned toward the footpath. “Then lead the way.”

He hesitated before lasering in on the tenanted building. Fishing keys from his cord trouser pocket, he unlocked the door, stepping aside for me to enter. “Top flat,” he said, pointing to the stairs. “Go ahead.”

I ascended the wooden stairs, waited for him to unbolt the second door, eagerly pushed my way inside. “You said it was a flat,” I pointed out with haughty scorn. “There’s a fucking bed in the living room.”

“Well,” he breathes, pondering his lie, “it’s a bedsit, but there’s a private bathroom at the back.”

Stopping beside the stained bedspread, I mentally catalogued the paperless walls, wooden floorboards, inadequate, archaic furnishings and pointless kitchenette. “Does the oven work?” I ask, fumbling with the rubber buttons. “Can you check for me?”

A question reared in his gaze. “Do you not know how to function appliances?”

No. “Obviously,” I fibbed, gesturing to the stained kettle. “Did this dump pass an electrical safety test, though?”

“Yes,” he retorts, highly affronted. “I am an honourable estate agent. Thank you very much.” He shoved me away from the small kitchen area, demonstrating how to use appliances. “Satisfied?”

“I’d rather have an unfurnished property.” Bed bugs probably reside in that filthy mattress. “I can purchase a new bed and whatnot.”

Reginald nodded. “I can make that happen.”

I dropped the backpack on the sofa, and dust particles bounced off the threadbare cushions. “I’ll take it.”

“Listen,” he sighed, rubbing a hand over his weary features. “I wouldn’t blame you for snubbing this shambolic place. It’s unaccommodating and overpriced.”

“I don’t care.”

His eyes sliced. “Are you even old enough to rent a property, Warren?”

“You hate your job,” I said assuredly, slumping onto the smoke-infused sofa.

Reginald grunted in agreement. “Is it that obvious?”

“Why are you living this life?” I popped an eyebrow, evading his initial inquiry. “You’re a grown-ass man, Reginald. Quit the day job and sort your shit out.”

“You got quite an opinion for a young man,” he sniped, stationing on the brown armchair. “Tunnel vision, Warren. Not everything in life is black and white. As you said, I am a grown man—a man with responsibilities. I can’t just quit my job—”

“It’s a choice,” I interject, finishing the rest of my peanuts. “You live a mediocre life by choice.”

I don’t know why Reginald entertained my quarrelsomeness. “I wanted to be a police officer.” He laughed at his previous ambitions. “Until I got my girl pregnant and needed money. My father raised me the right way, Warren, so I married the woman, got myself a nine till five and took care of my family. Over the years, I started to resent life. Bills piled up. Debt collectors hammered down on my door…” He slipped off his tie, tucking it in his pocket. “I got the agency breathing down my neck because I’m not hitting sales, too—shit. I shouldn’t burden you with my dramas. You’re only young.”

I might’ve been young, but I was calculated and determined. “Be a police officer—”

“It’s not as easy as that. I don’t have money to fund those courses. Plus, I can’t afford to take time off work. How will I pay the bills? What about my wife?”

“I got one wish, and that’s for ye to be the best version of yourself. Ye will use your pain, anger and resentment to become a man.” Bill carefully slid the gun into my bag. “If ye want somethin’ bad enough, then yet take it. Don’t accept nothing but the best, Liam.”

I stared Reginald down.

Unzipping the bag I tossed five wads to Reginald, witnessing shock claim his protruding eyes. “Quit the day job,” I ordered, and he hadn’t looked up from the paper. “There’s enough money there to keep your family afloat.”

“I can’t take that from you,” he said, although he never tried to hand it back. “It’s wrong. You’re only a kid.”

I shrugged. “Money is paper. I want to help you. Besides,” I smirked deviously, “I get the feeling you’ll benefit me in the future. Now, sign me up for this shithole. I need a place to sleep tonight.”

Reginald produced a twelve-month contract and quit his job. He had enough money to clear his debt and live comfortably with his small family before joining the police force.

Funding Reginald Burton was a lucrative investment. I knew, maybe not today, but someday, the conniving fool would reciprocate my generosity that day—

My eyes jerked open. Quiet loneliness greeted me, the music repeatedly playing in the background. Putting a hand to my chest, I breathed through my erratic heartbeat, wishing I still slept.

Grabbing my phone from off the desk, I searched through text messages, reread Alexa’s witty responses, and found an old voicemail. “Liam,” she chimed in my ear. “I am drunk. Very drunk, actually. You were mad at me tonight…” She sighed defeatedly down the phone. “I hate it when you’re mad at me.”

Pain locked inside my chest.

“Anyways, I wasn’t going to call because you hung up on me earlier, and stubbornness seemed reasonable, but I had to hear your voice. Chloe and I just got back from the cocktail bar, and, well, I guess, I miss you,” she whispers, and I can hear rustling where she’s climbing into bed. “I know you get jealous, but it’s senile. Everyone knows how much I love you.”

I dropped my head back to stare at the ceiling.

“That’s never going to change,” were her final words before she ended the message.

“Fuck,” I growled, tossing my phone on the floor.” Fuck, Alexa.”

Pacing the office, I listened to the music drone. I lifted the Macallan bottle to my lips, almost sipped, then lunged it across the room, the glass shattering into shards. “Fuck’s sake.” Flinging over the coffee table and everything with it, I stepped over broken glass. “No.”

It is wrong. Everything felt wrong without her. Pointless.

Rage attacked me from the depths of my core.

Ripping Brad’s wall-mounted bat, I swung it around, destroying everything in sight. Monitors crackled and spewed across the floor—everything followed: paintings, furniture, mini-bar and showcased vinyl collection.

It’s not enough; nothing is enough.

“I fucking need you.” Hurling the bat across the room, I staggered. “Fuck.”

It means nothing to me.

Everything in life means nothing to me without her at my side.

Saving cocaine from the floor, I keyed some to my nostril and sniffed enough to dampen my rage.

Vinyl discs crunched under my weight. Searching through strewn cases with intense panic, I found the Il Divo copy and replaced the music. I salvaged the only intact bottle of Jameson on the floor, lost the cap, and guzzled whiskey until my throat burnt.

My back hit the door, “You left me,” I whispered into nothingness. “I can’t believe you left me.”

I slid onto my backside.

The bottle escaped my fingers and rolled across the floor.

I buried my head in my hands and.

Five seconds later, I sobbed like a fucking baby.

CHAPTER FOUR

Liam

Rousing to Brad’s irritated voice, I licked the roof of my dry mouth, cracked open one eyes and saw a myriad of leather shoes striding passed my headI scoured my surroundings and realised how close I was to the floor. With glass stuck in my cheek, I rubbed the tiredness from my eyes and rolled onto my back to stare at the ceiling.

Not my finest hour, I can assure you.

Soldiers operated collectively to replace damaged monitors and surveillance cameras inside the office. Nate is currently exchanging the shelving unit whilst Brad assembles the new high-gloss coffee table.

I staggered to my feet, brushing dust and shards of glass off my creased, alcohol-stained shirt. Nobody spared me a glance. They wouldn’t dare. They overlooked the fact I keeled over after trashing my office.

Dismissing the thumping headache, I picked up the damaged canvas from the sofa and inwardly chastised myself for recklessness.

Last night, I lapsed in judgment. I imbibed too much alcohol and drugs to numb all-consuming bereavement and everything within proximities suffered.

My heart squeezed.

For the first time in my life, I found a love worth fighting for—worth dying for—and I lost her. Sure, we hadn’t discussed future probabilities or possibilities, but I knew Alexa was the one—my one. Her premature death left a gaping hole in my chest—a painful void no other woman can refill or salvage.

Tailored elegantly in an all-black three-piece, Josh dodged strewn crap on the floor and Brad to sign the receipt for newly purchased furniture.

I leave the men inside the office and lock myself in the bathroom. Losing the alcohol-infused suit, I relieved my bladder, then took a cold shower to scrub yesterday’s antics off my body. I checked my reflection in the mirror and disapproved. My eyes were puffy, blood-shot and lachrymose. Brushing my teeth, I styled my hair, freshened up with deodorant and cologne.

A navy suit is clipped onto the door, thanks to Brad’s careful consideration. I redressed, exchanged the watch for a gold Rolex and amended the line of jewellery on my neck, wrists and fingers.

The chain around my neck glimmered.

Alexa’s tag sat proudly around my chest.

I returned to the office. It’s borderline empty, with the exception of my most trusted men. Brad, Nate and Josh sit comfortably around the sofa, deliberating this week’s game plan. Brad rolled a joint with effortless finesse, ignited a lighter flame, lit the end, and listened to Nate maunder possible whereabouts for Flamur.

Collapsing onto the leather chair behind the desk, I feigned indifference but inside I was heartbroken. Numb. Angry at life.

Reaching for the drawer of the desk, I snagged bottled Jameson, tossed the metal cap over my shoulder somewhere and poured a hefty dose of amber liquid into a new crystal glass. I lifted the drink to my lips and faltered upon perceiving everyone’s sudden silence.

My haughtiness derided their unspoken concerns. “Problem?”

Not wanting to converse with their irritated boss, their conversations ensued.

Knocking back a burning shot, I slid the empty glass toward stacked folders and noted an ornamental display on my desk. I could only see the particularly unattractive vase adorned with freshly delivered white lilies. Nothing else in the room existed. “What the fuck is that?”

Josh glanced at the horrid display of flowers. “Natalie wanted to help reconstruct the office.”

I bet she fucking did.

Seizing the phone, I pressed option one for the bar, impatiently awaiting her annoying voice. “Liam, did you need something?” she purred, making my dick shrivel-up in reaction. “I could come upstairs?”

I cannot believe that I used to fuck this bitch. “Office. Now.” Ending the call, I popped a cigarette between my lips, matched a flame and dragged a lungful of smoke. “Updates.”

Nate was first. “Our shipments arrived at Gateway without any hiccups. The renovations for Club 11 is finalised tomorrow. We can reopen for business.”

Good. I need everything to go back to normal: uproarious dance room, intoxicated spendthrifts and bodacious dancers.

Nate jerked a shoulder. “No complaints.”

“On your behalf, I visited the victims’ families at the crack of dawn.” Brad stood, passed the joint to Nate, and moved to stand before me. “I settled their grief with generous paychecks.” He dropped a clear bag onto the desk. Its contents: countless military chains that formerly belonged to my men. “No further complaints.”

“Bajramovic?” I asked, blowing out a stream of smoke. “I want Bajramovic.”

Understanding flared in his whiskey-coloured eyes. “We’re working on his location, Bossman—”

“No.” Festering rage resurfaced. “You are not looking hard enough. Use our contacts. Demand answers. Some motherfucker knows where he is. I will forever bear shackles if I do not end him.”

Brad’s head dipped. “Boss.”

“It would be for nothing,” I ranted, pushing to my feet. “Alexa’s death, I mean. I demand a reason. I need closure. Do you understand?”

He nodded.

Rounding the desk, I punched the code to the safe and combed through small leather boxes. I found the ones I was looking for and tossed it to Brad.

“Mr Warren?” Natalie smiled at the men as she stepped over the threshold. “You needed me.”

I have never needed this bitch. “What the fuck is that piece of shit on my desk?”

Affronted by the coldness in my voice, she stared at the lilies. “I thought it was a nice touch to your new layout.”

Brad returned to the sofa, falling into engrossed conversation with Nate and Josh.

I watched her hips sway as she sauntered toward me. “Do I look like a man who wants fucking flowers?”

“I’m sorry, Liam,” she whispered, stopping in front of me. “I was just trying to help.”

My eyes roamed over Natalie’s heart-shaped face. She is a beautiful woman, tall, slim waist, voluptuous breasts and a killer sex drive. I’d be lying if I said she was lousy in bed, but she is the opposite of what I craved.

“I will discard them.” Her fingers splayed on my chest. “Anything else?” She deliberately bites down on her lower lip. “Ask them to leave and I will make it so good for you.”

“That sounded like an order, Natalie,” I rasped in a cold, intolerable voice. “Since when did you,” I eyed her from head-to-toe, “earn such privileges.”

Her mouth rounded in shock. “I thought—”

“Thought what?” I said angrily, and Brad threw me a double-take. “That I already required a replacement? I just lost the love of my fucking life.”

I sensed everyone’s questioning glares. Yes, they knew how much Alexa Haines had affected me, but today, I admitted aloud that I was irrevocably in love with her.

Natalie flung sleek blonde hair over one shoulder. “What, so you’re off the market?” She cracked up, and every bone in my body became granite. “Alexa is dead—”

With unshakable anger, I snatched her throat in a tight grip. “I dare you to finish that sentence,” I warned, backing her toward the sofa. “You got it all figured out, huh?”

“Liam,” she wheezed, her fingernails pinching my wrist and sad, watery eyes protruding. “You’re hurting me.”

“Don’t confuse our history,” I said, our noses virtually touching. “You were nothing but a hole to fill—a mouth to fuck.”

A single tear rolled down her cheek. “I’m sorry.”

Uncontrollable indignation ignited impulsiveness. I whipped out the Desert Eagle from the waistband of my trousers and, in unforgiving blindness, wedged the barrel into her wailing mouth. I pulled the trigger before anyone could intervene. Blood splattered as the bullet penetrated the back of her head. Her lifeless body sagged in my hold, and I cursed, tossing her onto the coffee table with a loud thump.

“Boss.” Brad arched an eyebrow. “Was that seriously necessary?”

“Necessary,” Josh shrieked. “What’s not necessary is having to wipe off that chick’s brain that’s plastered all over my bastard face.” He plucked out the silk napkin from the suit jacket’s single-breasted pocket and effaced gore from his cheek. “I can actually fucking taste it.”

I stared at Natalie’s dead body.

Unlocking his phone with a sigh, Nate called the clean-up crew

“Seriously, Bossman. What was that about?” Brad scratched the back of his head as he watched Natalie’s blood drip onto the floor. “She was only trying to help.”

Natalie disrespected Alexa in more ways than one. I am only sorry that I never ended her sooner. “She had it coming.”

Nate stood to greet and assist the cleaners. They unravelled tarpaulin on the ground and rolled Natalie’s lifeless body into plastic and rope.

Josh witnessed the display with slack-jawed pallidness. Operating alongside the men required unperturbed conduct. He won’t last two minutes if he doesn’t ditch irreproachable characteristics. “Josh?”

He blinked twice before looking at me. “Yes, sir?”

My hands slipped into my trouser pockets. “Do I need to be concerned?”

“No.” He shook his head for additional reassurance. “I’m just getting used to everything. That’s all.”

“Nate,” I called, and he snapped off his sterile gloves. “Josh’s training starts today. Visit the barracks—show him the ropes.” I extend my arm to Brad for him to set the jewellery box onto my palm. “It’s obligatory that you wear this at all times.” Opening the clasp, I lift the chain with my finger and drape it before the newly hired. “It’s part of your uniform.”

Josh hadn’t quite smothered his joyfulness. He smiled with a wicked spark in his eyes, hanging the military tags around his neck. “Why two hundred and thirty-three?”

“Stay safe.” Brad seemed stoic, but I knew he was secretly thrilled to have Josh on-board. “We don’t fancy replacing you with two-hundred and thirty-four.”

Josh paled.

“Get to work,” I commanded, and the men fled the office, their raucous laughter echoing down the corridor.

***

My squalid bedsit fuelled me with pride. Sure, it’s malodorous walls, and outdated furnishings weren’t overly comforting, but décor and opulence was nothing money couldn’t fix.

I spent two weeks eliminating moss from the walls. I hadn’t bothered with paint or wallpaper, though.

What’s the point?

This isn’t my “forever” home. It’s a pit-stop—a temporary circumstance until I reach a directional verdict.

I had, however, wasted five hours in a furniture store, buying a double-bed, mattress, sheets and coverlets. Nothing fancy. All-black cotton to match the scattered rugs, wardrobes and chest of drawers. Two men in a white van delivered my goods the following day, replacing the hazardous appliances for top-of-the-range equipment.

Last week, I rocked up in a corner store and bought a six-pack of beers. The plump woman operating the cash register didn’t request identification. I got pissed—seriously inebriated. I laid in bed with a fuzzy head, the window open, listening to drunk folks ambling down the street, returning from a local pub.

The following morning, I awakened to a hangover from hell. I vomited until I passed out—swore I’d never touch alcohol again in my life.

That lasted until the next night.

Boredom. I was beyond bored. No family. No friends. No job. Nada.

I tried my first cigarette and choked. My tight throat and lungs failed to prevent me from experiencing it once more. In fact, within three weeks, I quite enjoyed a cigarette with my beverage each morning.

Sometimes, I ventured to Victoria, sat on the same bench sans peanuts, wishing Bill still claimed his spot.

I was lonely.

Each morning, I’d shower, down a protein shake and go for a winter jog. I loved the earthy, petrichor smell as hunkered glows danced across my face. I relished in the cold winds blowing through my hair.

Bending over at the waist, I breathed in a lungful of air, wiped sweat dews from my brows.

Across the street, two young lads stand abreast a parked Golf. I followed their exchange, witnessed the older male slip something into his friend’s closed fist. Drugs, I thought, settling my back to the bricked wall.

Rolling my lower lip between gritted teeth, I scoped the area, loitered until the younger lad jumped in his car. And then I advanced on the dealer.

Sensing a presence, the guy halted by the driver’s side door and glared at me over the rim of his sunglasses. “What are you looking at?” He asked, nothing friendly about his fierce tone. “Keep walking, dick.”

His disrespect irked me. I resisted the urge to deck him, fostered a smile instead. “I want in,” I said, getting straight to the point. “No bullshit.”

“I got a ten-bag,” he explains, and I scoffed. “What? You’re telling me it ain’t enough to see you through until morning?”

I did not want his stuff. I wanted my own. “Forget about it.”

Stuffing my hands in my hoodie pocket, I shouldered past him, hearing him offer a twenty for an extra fiver.

Fucking idiot.

That night, I sat behind a monitor in a nearby internet café, browsing the web. I scribbled down notes, ordered fluorescent grow lights and requirements online.

Back at the bedsit, I unhatched the loft, climbed heavenward, prepared space for deliveries and began conducting homegrown marijuana.

The internet failed to mention cultivation challenges. I lost my first batch, forgoing nutrient-water solution, and had to repeat the process all over again. “Beauty,” I murmur to myself, examining the perfectly ripened pots.

I had to find a lucrative round, somewhere to deal surreptitiously. Four days later, with weed-stuffed bags in my slack pockets, I finally got my first customer. Dealing was never about money. I had funds, but I yearned for something, knew that making a name for myself was a start in the right direction.

The bell above chimed as I entered the antique store. I tousled rain droplets from my hair, waded between customers, admiring vintage-looking furniture.

I waited by the brass stools, pondered buying them for the kitchen when a retro turntable caught my attention.

Lowering the volume on my headphones, I admired the scratched mahogany wood, fumbled with the faux gold buttons.

“Can I help you?”

I glance at the shopkeeper. “I’m good, thanks.” While inspecting my possible possession, I felt his judgemental eyes drilling into me. “I don’t need assistance.”

“It is a lot of money, ” he asserted patronisingly, and I grimaced. “Perhaps you might want to look at the VHS section.”

His condemnatory comment stirred my inner contempt. “How much?”

Lips twitching into a knowing grin, he cleared his throat behind a closed fist. “Five hundred for the turntable. The vinyl records start from thirty—”

“I’ll take it all,” I said smugly, snatching the gym bag from my shoulder. “Chuck the LP’s in this, and I’ll carry the turntable.”

He snickered, fixing his gold-framed glasses. “You need money for such purchases.”

I snatched enough cash to fill his trap. “Here.” Slapping the notes on his chest, I shoved past him, packing my bag. “Keep the change.”

“Do you need anything else? A television perhaps?” He gestured to a six-seater dining table. “I can deduct the price if you buy that today.”

Desperate, judgemental twat.

I claimed the goods and exited the shop with my head held high.

Taking ownership of the wooden dresser, the turntable, immersed me with harmonious chords. It’s an unfamiliar song choice, but I enjoyed it regardless.

I perched my backside onto the windowsill, tucked the floral net around the curtain pole, pulled a swig from the beer bottle.

Outside, beneath the dark, starless sky, two silhouettes progressively stroll down the street. A couple, I wondered, seeing the man claim the woman’s hand. I think they’re inebriated. Their drunken slurs suggest as much. She swivelled in her black dress, oblivious to my watchful eyes, and then fell into his longing arms for a steamy kiss.

I looked away, cheeks flaring red.

Knocking back the rest of my beer, I lunged the empty bottle in the bin, stomped into trainers and tugged on a hoodie.

Keys in hand, I locked the front door behind me, descended the stairs, left the tenanted-building and broke into a brisk jog.

I ran, fast, trainers belting against the footpath. I had no sense of direction, no understanding or concept of existence. Bill said money made the world go round. Then why do I feel defeated? Why am I so miserable, depressed and disappointed? Goddamn lonely.

Jogging around a street corner, I panted for breath, sweat drenching my grey hoodie, the muscles in my body, taut, ripped— “Fuck,” I groaned, unexpectedly colliding into someone’s chest, body spearing across the concrete. “Ah, shit.”

A crescendo of male chuckles waved through my ears. I rolled onto my side, blinked through momentary vision impediment and rose to my feet. “Sorry about that—”

“You fucking better be,” one of five lads chimed, teeth sinking into a burger. “Come at me again, and I’ll spark you out.”

I recoiled, not with fear but ire. “Hey, I apologised,” I rasped, lips twisting in repugnance. “No, need for hostility.” I made a lackadaisical attempt to sidestep the tall guy. He impeded the escape route, arms folded at his chest, indomitable. “You’re in my way.”

Again, they laughed with faux humour, egging each other on. “What’s the matter, fuck face,” one chimed, and I side-eyed him. “You’re looking a little flustered.”

“He’s embarrassed.”

“Yeah,” the one munching a burger agreed. “Pussio.”

I briefly marshal my surroundings. We stood in the belly of an alleyway, one sporadic red light above that steel door to my right. “I don’t want any trouble,” I said with genuine earnestness, but my body deceived me, hands tightening into fists, shoulders squaring, ready for defence. “I’ll be on my way—”

Someone jaws me, hard. I dropped to the ground like dead-weight, cheek flared, aching.

Deriding chortles reverberated throughout, tantalising my escalating wrath. I knew I didn’t stand a chance against five lads. I never got thus far in life by cowardice, though.

Jumping to my feet, whipping off my hoodie, I wiped trickling blood from my lips, stepped up to the tallest. “You wanna fuck with me?” Before he responded, I slammed him in the jaw with a brutal right hook.

Commotion commenced. I knew if they sucker-punched or jumped me, I’d lose the battle, which, at this point, was likely. I threw out combinations, watched my back, ducked, swung, sidestepped, impaled.

Someone caught me in the waist, and I spat through clenched teeth. Spear tackling the last man standing, I knocked the wind from his lungs, straddled his lap and beat into him with unmerciful fists.

By the time I realised I’d outmanoeuvred them, blood rivulets from my busted knuckles and catching my breath was too laborious.

Ignoring their rocking, groaning bodies on the ground, I snatched my hoodie, prepared to flee when I heard echoing applause.

I glimpse near the steel door where a tall, lean male, claps his hands unenthusiastically. I shot him a venomous look, flung the hoodie over one shoulder and walked off.

“That’s a mean hook ye got, lad,” he said in an Irish accent. “What’s your name?”

I turned to face him, eyebrows meshing together. “Who’s asking?”

Correcting his chequered flat cap, he pointed to the intermittent, flashing sign above—Rex’s Gym. “Get inside,” he rudely orders, putting his back to me. “It’s cold out here like.”

He disappeared.

What the fuck?

“As if,” I scoffed, striding down the alley.

What a nut job.

Halting, I looked back, studied the sign once more.

Do you have something better to do, Warren?

Call me curious, but I listened to the old geezer, sprinted to the entrance, closed the door behind me.

I ascended the staircase, entered a cavernous space offering blue floor mats, dangling punching bags, metal seating platforms and a tattered ring.

Hurling my hoodie on a chair, I raked my eyes over the wall-mounted framed photos, briefly read old newspaper articles, sniffing the chemical stench permeating the air. “Rex?” I called, gravitating toward a torn, red leather heavy bag. “I assume that’s your name.” Taking the bag in two hands, I checked the weight, examined the chain. “Judging by the sign and all.”

Bouncing off the balls of my feet, I landed a left jab to the bag, sidestepped, slammed in with a right fist.

“Where did ye learn to fight like that?”

Rex stands beside, what looked like an office, glaring at me. “I’m not a fighter.”

His grey brow curved. “Really?” Puffing smoke from his pipe, he pushed himself toward me. White T-shirt, loose on his lanky frame. “Ye just woke up one mornin’ and thought, hey, I’ll jump five lads tonight.”

I steeled my jaw. “They jumped me, actually,” I corrected, offended by his unsubtle accusation. “I stuck up for myself. Fucking sue me.”

“Aye, aren’t ye a chopsy fucker,” he sniped, and the corner of my lip twitched. “And he knows it. Look at that smile.” He pointed to my mouth, and I gently whacked his hand away. “Egotistical. I’ll give ye that.”

“Nothing wrong with loving yourself.” My forced self-assurance fooled him. “I…” A young girl appeared near his office door. I closed my mouth, furtively skimmed my eyes over her pale legs and a figure-hugging jumper-dress. She had red, unruly hair and jade green eyes, an infectious smile that affected my heart somewhat.

“You’re supposed to be studyin’,” Rex admonished, and the girl’s cheeks glowed crimson. “Quit nosin’, Bronagh.”

Bronagh, I mentally repeated, lowering my head.

“I thought somethin’ was wrong, granddad,” she said, her voice, soft, gentle, hypnotic. “I am just makin’ sure ye alright.”

“I am speakin’ to the new cleaner,” he tells her, folding his arms. “Ain’t that right?” His face scrunched. “What’s did ye tell me ye name was?”

“I didn’t,” I reminded him, and he lifted a shoulder. “Liam Warren.” I found my gaze returning to the girl. “And I am nobody’s cleaner.”

“Nonsense,” he exclaims, snatching a mop from the wall. “There’s a domestic cupboard out the back. Fill a bucket and glimmer these floors.”

I held the wooden stick in my hand. I didn’t need money, didn’t need a job, but I was bored at home.

How hard can scrubbing a floor be?

“Bronagh,” said Rex, clicking his fingers. “Show Warren around while I finish sendin’ emails, then get back in that office and finish your studies.”

Ruffling her tight-coiled locks, she smiled meekly at me, gesturing for me to follow. I did, too, more than eagerly. I hadn’t had the luxury of female closeness before, and she was pretty, certainly had blood rushing south.

“So,” Bronagh chimed, toying with her jumper knot, “ye wanna work?”

I nod my lie.

“What happened to ye knuckles, Liam?”

I made a noncommittal noise.

Stopping at the cleaning closet, she opened the door, railed off products. “You don’t talk very much.”

That’s because I’m nervous. “You won’t be saying that in a few weeks, Bronagh.”

Resting a shoulder to the wall, she craned her neck to look at me. “I like ye eyes.”

Christ, she was forward. Her compliment was unexpected. “Thanks, I guess.” Don’t fucking blush, Warren. “Your eyes are better.”

Her lips widened into a pleased smile. “Thank you, Liam.”

I love the sound of my name rolling off her tongue. “Well,” I unclogged my throat, obtained cleaning supplies, “I’ll see you around.”

Her mouth opens and shuts. “I don’t visit here often.” I was secretly disappointed. “Maybe that changed tonight?”

Fuck. Bronagh’s flirting, right? I do not imagine her subtle coquettishness.

I gave her a lopsided smirk, heat clambering my neck. “No protesting from me.”

“Bossman,” Brad barked in my ear, slapping a hand on my back. “Wake up.”

My forehead furrowed, too painful to open my eyes.

“I called you right away, Brad,” I overheard a female voice. “He’s been here all day, drinking. I started getting worried because he’s alone.”

I mumbled, striving to lift my head from the table.

“Fucking Christ,” Brad scolds, yelling at the men. “Help me get him up.”

Snarling, I jerked my head up, thrust him aside and practically fell from behind the table. “Don’t fucking touch me,” I ordered, perceiving a slight slur in my voice. “I am Liam fucking Warren.” Squaring up to my right-hand man, seeing two of him, I pointed in his face. “I run this bitch.”

“Shit,” Nate cursed, warily coming to my side. “Sir, you lost security detail.”

I blinked to regain full awareness, but it was fruitless. “I don’t need them,” I mumbled, licking my dry lips. “Contrariwise, Nathanial Alzaim. You motherfuckers need my help. My assistance—don’t forget your place.” I jostled my way through the horde of men, and they permitted, stepping back with great reluctance. “Worthless.”

Managing to exit the pub in one piece, I stepped out into a cold, winters night, the strong winds almost knocking me off my feet. “Fuck.” Frisking myself, I searched for cigarettes, hearing the men protest behind me. “What’s so funny?”

Brad folded his arms, shaking his head. “No one’s laughing, Bossman.”

Paranoia infested my head. “Did you find him?” I asked, lips mashing together. “Tell me that you located the Albanian cunt.”

“Not yet, sir,” Nate cursed, bewildered by my recent behaviour. “Let’s get you in the car.”

“Quit ordering me around,” I snapped, ebbing away from the men, murdering a young recruit with scorn-filled eyes. “What the fuck did you say to me?”

He whitened, uncurling his spine. “Nothing.”

“What?” I stepped into his personal space, a hand behind my ear. “Try that again, inbred. I am your goddamn boss. You’ll address me so.”

“I didn’t say anything, boss,” he rectified his mistake. Adam’s apple lodged in his throat. “I’m sorry—”

“You’re sorry?” I imitated, chuckling darkly. “Who the fuck hired this bitch? Weak.” I gripped his shirt, and he whimpered. “Pathetic. Useless.” I felt a quake in his stance. “Kill him. He’s a pointless asset.”

“Christ, he’s wasted.” Brad’s hand fell to my shoulder, and I saw red. He’s not an elite for nothing. He mastered my combinations many years ago.

Before I achieved a right hook, Brad evaded my flying fist, punched me square in the face and knocked me straight into unconsciousness.

CHAPTER FIVE

Liam

Life before

Working for Rex O’Sullivan was a barrel of conflicted ambivalence. I mean, I kind of liked the old geezer, but those cleaning duties quickly snapped my tether.

“Ye missed a spot,” Rex scolds, pointing to a wet patch on the hardwood floor. “Add some fresh pine, Warren. That bleach will ruin the shine.”

I watched him saunter to the boxing ring in utter disbelief. I hadn’t forgone my duties, and the wetness proved as much.

Why is he so tough on me?

The other lads train tirelessly, eager to appease and make their trainer proud. Dressed in slouch pants and T-shirts, they come here with gym bags in hand, chuntering back and forth about trivial bullshit or upcoming fights and opponents—all while I stand back, dusting fucking shelves and restocking the bog rolls.

I want inside that ring.

I want to smash my fists into some jumped-up asshole.

Hunkering down reservations, I wrung the mop in the bucket and obsequiously restarted the floor.

“Clean these,” one lad demands, hurling a pair of boxing gloves at me. “They’re bumping.”

I caught the sweat-infused gloves, gnawing down on my teeth. “Clean them your-fucking-self.”

He hadn’t foreseen the mitts boomeranging and crashing into his face. He most certainly never expected my rude, curt response. “It’s your job, bum boy.”

The glove hit me in the back. Dragging in a deep breath, I briefly closed my eyes, counted inside my head and, in a sangfroid manner, I virtuously walked away.

“Hello, Liam,” the old bird beneath my flat chimed. “How’s work?”

Her name was Hattie. “Work is work,” I regard her with deliberate vagueness. “I got some fodder if you’re interested, Hattie.”

She beamed from the window. “Let me just get my slippers on.”

That night, Hattie, the wrinkled yet charming mare, joined me in the bedsit. She wore her ubiquitous dressing gown, a lace number with pink fur cuffs and collar. Those hair rollers had seen better days, though. In fact, the garden pegs securing the top layer was horrifically unbecoming.

“What is this?” she wondered, sitting opposite me, opening containers onto the small, round bistro table I purchased from the Garden Centre. “You know I am allergic to nuts, Liam.”

No, she’s not. “No nuts,” I lied, handing over a rice dish. “Enjoy.”

“I should save some for Chester.”

Hattie became my favourite pastime. Most nights, the raconteuse humoured me with old tales and childhood falsehoods. I didn’t mind her fabrications, though. “Where’s your husband tonight?”

“Oh, that old fool is out spending money again,” she said with genuine scorn. “Probably with that Iris—you know how much I dislike Iris, Liam.”

Chester died in a motorway collision fifteen years ago. Iris is Hattie’s daughter, a thirty-five-year-old bank manager who seldom visits her mother. No judgements. In the girl’s defence, Hattie doesn’t remember her daughter so believes she’s someone who surreptitiously lays down with Chester.

Dementia is a bitch.

“It’s quite alright,” said Hattie. “These mushrooms taste too salty.” Her sleepy eyes rested on mine, a frequent question lingering between us. “What did you say your name was again?”

I smiled impishly at her. “Liam.”

“Yes,” she whispered, rubbing her temples. “That’s right. Of course, Liam.” Pallid and weary, she raised from the chair, eager to put space between us. “I need to get home before Chester.”

Like clockwork, Hattie opens the front door and teeters to the staircase. I wait until she’s securely locked inside her four walls and then clear our banquet.

Showered readily for bed, I killed the lights and crawled under the coverlets, stared at the empty spot beside me until sleep overcame and demons invaded my dreams.

Music blared in my ears. I adjust the headphones, bound tape around my knuckles, warmed up. Rex’s Gym has great vastness between the ringside and punching bags. I start with a bleep test, pacing back and forth, touch the white line with my fingers, repeat the process.

Salty mist dusts my body. I tear off my T-shirt, toss it on a chair, pick up the pace. I run through burning obliques and tightening calves, mouth parched, throat working.

Satisfied with my warm-up, I guzzle craved water, quench my thirstiness and then spend the next two hours, killing the bags.

I collapsed onto the mats, breathless, chest caving, wrestling for breath.

Rex absconds his office, pretending not to notice me.

“I wanna fight,” I said, rolling onto my side. “Put me in the ring.”

“Ye not ready, lad.” Thick smoke gyrated around his head while he smoked his pipe. “And ye not makin’ an effort with the other lads. Teamwork,” he adds, snatching a metal chair, dragging it beside me. “Ye need to understand the definition. Life isn’t about a one-man-band, Liam.”

I beg to differ.

Rolling my eyes, I compelled myself to stand. “I don’t need friends.” Solitude, self-comfort and no expectations protect me. “I prefer my shadow. It’s not gonna stab in the back.”

Rex kneaded the scruff of his jaw. “Sounds lonely.”

“Sounds safe,” I corrected, ripping tape from my busted knuckles. “So, are you gonna let me train or not?”

He stood then, uncertainty in his dull eyes. “Aye, I can train ye,” he confirms, and hope inflated my lungs. “On one condition, though.”

I knew it was too good to be true. “Chuck me the rule book.”

My sarcasm tickled him. “Ye run each mornin’, Liam—”

“I do that already,” I interjected, and he pulled a face. “What?”

“Ye lack common social skills, lad,” he berates. “Ye impolite and a fuckin’ know-it-all. I don’t care if ye already rake ye backside. Ye don’t need to tell me that, aye?”

“Oh, so, now I am egotistical, impolite, unsociable—”

“Braggart,” he snipes, ramming his shoulder into me as he waddles passed. “Arrogant, toffee-nosed, patronising and self-centred.”

My jaw hit the floor. “Have a fucking day off.”

He spun on his heel to glare at me. “Why didn’t ye help Johnny last week?”

Johnny’s a fourteen-year-old lad who trains on Fridays. He’s quiet, introverted and seemingly rubs people up the wrong way. For some unknown reason, he’s gained the awareness of Devin and his ingenious, boot-licking goons. Johnny and Devin scrap often, but lanky, shy, reserved and cowardly Johnny isn’t strong enough for his nemesis. “He’s not my problem.”

Rex’s glare intensified. “Get back to work.”

“What about my training?”

“Fuck ye trainin’.”

I ran for two hours the following morning and, in a foul, stubborn mood, I returned to the gym for pointless domestic duties.

Rex stands in the ring with two teenagers, demonstrating defence.

Puffing out an exasperated sigh, I prepared the speed bags, overheard muffled sobs. Frowning, I flung the towels onto the mats, gravitated toward the unnerving sounds.

Inside the male changing rooms, Devin towers above a cowering Johnny, wildly waving his arms around the cramped proximity. His friends relish in the harsh display, chortling support.

I popped the muscle in my jaw, almost walked away—and Devin brought his leg back, booting Johnny straight in the ribs. The lad screamed, scampering into a protective ball on the floor. “Ye need—”

“No,” I snapped, stepping up to him with threatening indifference. “You need to back the fuck up before I rearrange your face.”

Devin squared his stance. “This doesn’t concern ye, bum boy—” I licked him clean across the face. He staggered into red lockers, horrified. “Ye piece of—”

I punched him once more, swung a combination through the advancing lads, alternatively blowing punch after punch. Gripping Devin by the scruff, I dragged his yelling, thrashing body to the bathroom, lifted the toilet seat and stuffed his head into the pan. “Call me a bum, one more time,” I warned, flushing the water, listening to his choking, gargled pleas.

Ripping his head back to the surface, I pinned him to the wall, hand tight, unyielding around his throat. “I am Liam Warren,” I said sternly, slapping his face with an open palm. “You will address me so, or,” leaning in, I lowered my voice, “I will fucking end you.”

Devin whimpered, nodding his head vigorously.

I hurled him towards his friends. “Get out.” I don’t watch them disperse; I squat beside Johnny, pried his hands away from his face. “Sort your shit out, Johnny. Don’t let bullies make a meal out of you. Get in that room, train hard, fight harder. Understand?”

He sat up, fixing his skewed glasses. “I am not as big as you, Warren.”

“It’s not about size,” I tell him, helping him stand. “Determination, self-assurance, confidence and, in the event a bully, who, might I add, never normally has the strength to back their motormouths, targets you, then you show no fear. Never vulnerable or susceptible, Johnny.”

He stared at me, unblinkingly. “What if they win?”

“If some foolish motherfucker puts me on my ass?” I hedge, curving an eyebrow. “Then he better keep me down. If I get back up, I’ll kill him.” I nudged him toward the door. “Go. And don’t let me catch you cowering like that again.”

“Thank you, Warren,” he said, vacating the changing room with a sprint in his stride.

Shaking my head, I wiped the blood from my knuckles and returned to my duties. While selecting a song on my Walkman, I felt someone’s scrutiny searing into the back of my head. I turned, found Rex rested beside the ropes, arms crossed. He delivered a knowing smirk before averting his gaze, lambasting another lad for lowering his guard when training.

I curbed a smile, chose a song and finished scrubbing the floors.

Carlos Marin’s baritone voice became a favourite. In secret, I had a predilection for classical, operatic music. When stuffing clean towels into the tumble dryer at the gym, I lost myself in music and procrastinated. I still had to mop the floor, empty the dishwasher and restock the bathroom with toilet paper, but tonight, I was in no rush to head home.

Rex remains in his office. It’s evident the man sleeps here, that’s if the makeshift bed on the sofa is anything to go by. Recently, I noticed Rex scarcely leaves the gym. He’ll venture into town and buy cupboard food to stockpile under his desk, basic noodle pots or powdered soups.

Sometimes, Rex’s granddaughter, Bronagh, swings by with Tupperware, offering baked goods and prepared meals, courtesy of her mother, Rex’s daughter.

Bronagh hasn’t regarded me since the night she showed me around. She rarely passes me a sideward glance. I hate it—I kind of like the Irish bird with wild, red hair and pale, mile-long legs.

Lately, Bronagh’s at the forefront of my mind, especially when in bed at night, pleasuring myself before getting some shut-eye.

“Hey, lad,” Rex calls, I blinked away naughty images. “Where did ye go just then?”

I daren’t tell him the truth. He’d dismantle my balls. “Thinking.”

Inside the locker room, I cleared out a spare unit, claimed it, stuffed Bill’s gun at the back, beneath folded clothes. I purchased a new weapon this afternoon from a renowned firearm dealer. I swear the opportunist overcharged me, but I accepted the revolver sans fuss. It’s a step on the corruption ladder, another immoral yet handy acquaintance in my back pocket. I am a nobody, so I’ll overlook ingenuousness and dishonesty if, in the future, it helps me overachieve.

I no longer work street corners, dealing. Instead, I built-up enough clients to sell from the comfort of my home. Marijuana was a good start in the right direction; however, growing plants and selling ten-bags wasn’t lucrative, and it became burdensome.

My newfound, spurious friendship with the arms dealer guaranteed stellar trade. Long gone are the time-consuming herbs in my attic. I pay the baron for cocaine kilos, profit and monetise the game. Still, I wear casual tracksuits, decent footwear and scarce jewellery, though, I cannot wait for my sixteenth birthday to soar alongside my wealth—keeping a low profile is hard work.

“I’m out,” I called, ambling to the exit. “I’ll be back in the morning—nice and early. And yes, I will make you a cup of tea. Only if you ask nicely.”

Rex wiped his hands in a tea towel. “Get in the ring.”

I came to an abrupt stop. “What?”

“Ye heard me,” he huffed, flinging the towel aside. “Get in, lad, before I change my mind.”

Dropping my holdall in pleasant excitement, I tore the hoodie from my body, ducked under the ropes and waited for Rex to join me. He delays on purpose, testing my patience levels. I mesh my lips into a tight line, proving to him that I can obey orders.

“Right,” he begins, bounding tape around his knuckles. “Wrap ’em up.”

I synchronised his actions, secured inadequate protection to my hands. “Where do you want me?”

“You’re a big lad.” His grey hair irritates his brows. “But size doesn’t mean shite, right?”

Before I can respond, he jabs me straight in the jaw. I collapsed onto the ropes, tasting blood on my tongue. “You fucking hit me!”

Rex moves into defence, fists shielding his face. “Well, come on.”

The old man is delusional. I’d spark him out. “I am not fighting you, Rex—” His fist connects with my cheek, and I dropped onto my ass. “What the fuck?” Staggering upright, I wipe sweat from my forehead, rage escalating. “Quit sucker-punching me.”

He charged at me with a combination. “Dodge, duck, bounce-back,” he ordered, and I listened, evading his flying fists. “Fists near ye head.” Again, I obeyed. “Don’t let the blood cool, Warren. Keep it pumpin’, aye?”

In a trance, I heeded to his prattling, escaped his slick, calculated blows. In no time, I deciphered his technique, paid great attention to his habits and learnt from them.

“Try again,” he shouts, surprising me with a different approach, catching me in the ribs. “Defence.”

I nod, shaking my arms at my sides, generating blood flow.

Ignoring the pain in my side, I out-stepped him, outmanoeuvred every blast, skirted around his effortless performance.

“Big and fast,” he said, sounding a touch proud. “Now, come at me.”

Panic suffocated my chest. “I don’t want to hurt you, Rex—”

“Nonsense,” he assures, edging me forward with taunting hands. “Give me your best shot.”

I clenched my jaw, and he slapped me. “What the fuck?”

“Ye thinkin’ too hard,” he yells, thrusting me into the ropes, goading me to fight back. “Now. Warren.”

I threw a punch, missed, tossed another, missed. He ebbed from each blow, ran circles around me. I held back somewhat but seriously began to question myself.

How the hell is he doing this?

“Stop,” he scolds, tearing tape from his knuckles. “I got enough. Ye can leave now.”

I was momentarily flummoxed. “What? That’s it?”

“Aye.” He exits the ring.

“Rex, what the fuck?” I followed him to the office, absently discarding my tape. “So, how did I do? Am I allowed to fight now?”

“No,” he snaps, and I growled. “Don’t be fuckin’ gnawing ye gnashes at me, lad.”

Demoralisation washed over me. “Fine. Whatever.”

“Ye can be a great boxer,” he said quietly, and I hesitated in the doorway. “Ye big, strong, fast and ruthless, Warren.”

I sighed in defeat. “But?”

“But predictable.” Igniting his pipe, he slumped onto the old, rickety chair behind his desk. “Ye can enter a room with assured conceitedness and uncaring defensiveness,” he continues, and I sat on the chair, opposite him. “And they’re not negative qualities to possess, so don’t get it twisted. In sayin’ that, ye unoriginality and obviousness, not only lacks excitement, it exemplifies fightin’ mannerisms. Ye box against an adversary next week with spectators and likely win. The night fight, though, ye foe got ye card marked. Ye appreciate my advice?”

I had no idea what he was talking about.

“To be impenetrable, indomitable and undefeated, ye need to learn how to use this.” He tapped the side of his head. “Vigilant, eagle-eyed, calm, collected,” he counts with fingers, “perspicacious and perspective. Ye can still be indignant, uncompromisin’, merciless and callous, Warren. That’s ye personality. I see that now, but know that bogus indifference, regardless of hard-hearted characteristics, is more powerful than any right fist or uncontrollable tongue.”

I sank back in my chair, not quite understanding.

“It’s a weakness,” he proceeds, puffing his pike. “Bearing ye soul is a weakness.”

I gave him an almost imperceptible nod of the head. “Sure, Rex.”

“Give me what I want?” he taunts, grinning like a madman. “And I’ll guarantee a fight.”

Rex didn’t need to tell me twice.

I ran every morning and every night.

I doubled-up on carbs, good fats, protein, trained hard and slaughtered my core muscles.

I stopped bickering about cleaning duties, gleamed his pride and joy with extra care, even purchased and upgraded new boxing equipment, which he refrained from questioning.

Rex laboured the other lads while I listened to music. On occasion, he’d watch me work the bags but seldom conversed with me. He tested me often, too. The man knowingly pressed my buttons, awaited antagonism and argumentativeness. I responded with genuine smiles, took his insults on the chin, learnt to wire my damn mouth shut.

It’s midnight, and the gym closed hours ago. Spring-cleaning aside, it hasn’t been the worst shift. I power sequels on the punch bag, hear someone climbing the stairs. Bronagh enters the gym, teary-eyed and woeful. Within fifteen minutes, she’s arguing with her granddad, something about her mother—fuck knows.

Rex chastises her for leaving her house at night, delivering the predator speech and her safety. “Warren,” he yelled, followed by chair legs shrieking against the floor. “Get in my office.”

What the fuck did I do?

Unravelling tape from my hands, I guardedly entered his private space, trying hard not to look at his granddaughter. “What?”

“That whippersnapper upset my daughter.” He points to Bronagh, displeasure in his narrowed eyes. “She doesn’t live far. I need ye to walk her back—ensure she’s safe.”

I almost said, why can’t you do it? And then I recalled his recent garrulous text and dipped my head.

“I don’t need a babysitter,” she cried, hugging herself. “Why can’t I stay here, granddad?”

“No,” he protests. “The gym is no place for my grandbaby. Ye leave with Warren immediately. And ye better hope my daughter is happy before I visit tomorrow.”

“Aye, granddad,” she said, defenceless and miserable. “I’ll apologise.”

He eyed me, an ominous warning emitting off his shaking body. “Do I need to instil any boundaries?”

Heat claimed my cheeks. “No,” I spat, jaw locking into place. “I’m good, Rex.”

“Good,” he repeated, worry lines wrinkling his forehead. “Get her home safely. And I’ll see ye nice and early, right?”

I walked Bronagh home. She cried for the entire duration, frequently apologising and rubbing streaked mascara from her cheeks. Her home sat merely a few blocks from my building, which I found useful, and she even offered me inside.

I glanced at the windows, stupidly contemplating her generous offer. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.” Defeat hindered her pretty features. “Plus, you gotta speak to your mum…” I lingered, cataloguing her small nose and thin lips. “And Rex will chew my ass off.”

“Liam, surely, ye not frightened of old Rex,” she half-teased, green eyes twinkling under the moonlight. “He’s all bark ye know.”

I respected Rex. He’s a decent man, nothing to do with terror. “I’ll see you around.”

Putting on foot in front of the other, I left Bronagh beside her garden gate and returned home. I reached the street corner when I heard her calling me. Lightening-fast, Bronagh’s approaching shadow collides into my chest, taken aback. “B—” Her lips slanted across mine, stealing the air that I breathe. I dropped my bag to the floor, coiled my arms around her curvy body, welcomed her unexpected kiss.

“Liam,” she whispered into my mouth, tongue poking out, seeking entrance.

I had never been kissed.

My tongue met Bronagh’s skilful lead, hands touring her body, cupping her head. I wilted before her, heart beating a hundred miles an hour, breathing staunched.

She eased back, lips swollen. “I couldn’t help myself.”

I used my thumb to wipe the corner of my mouth.

“Shite,” she muttered, combing a hand through her hair. “Don’t worry, Liam. Rex doesn’t need to know.”

I roused alone in bed, hand resting on my heaving chest. In the ceiling mirror, I stare at my reflection, eyes falling to where Alexa once laid. Closing my eyelids, reopening them, adjusting to enclosing darkness, I climbed out of bed and opened a drawer, searching.

Before the panoramic windows, I balanced a pre-rolled joint to my lips, inhaled haze, let it roll around my lungs. The River Thames soothed me. The London lights fed my soul. “I am drowning,” I whispered, respiring smoke, assuaged by pine-infused veils.

Dialling Reginald’s number on my phone, I set it to my ear, awaiting his thick voice. “Warren,” he groaned, indisputably disturbed from slumber. “What can I do for you?”

“The judge,” I said, and he hummed. “The guy Brad paid to grant my bail and drop charges.”

He sighed. “What about him?”

“I hear he has a predilection for young boys.” Silence vibrated between the receiver. “Correct?” Blood, I thought, pressing a hand to the window. I need to alleviate this all-consuming resentment. “I don’t like repeating myself.”

“Yes,” he confirmed. “Try and keep it clean, Warren.”

I end the call and send Nate a text message.

CHAPTER SIX

Alexa

Finding a monster in your bedroom is one of many greatest fears. I, however, acclimatised to evil at just five years old. I feel insidiousness lurking in the shadows, sense wicked, nefariousness emanating from their stationed forms.

I laid motionless, pretending to sleep.

Jace squats behind me and gently sweeps hair from my face.

I remained lifeless, mustered much strength, levelled my breathing into a calm, unnoticeable pace. If I inhaled too fast or too slow, he’d discern my innocent deceit.

His hand tours my thigh, and he examined old bruising. I am not sure how it happened. It’s neither sore nor troublesome—I assume he’d knocked me into something during my abduction.

“Alexa,” he said in a stern, unfriendly voice. “Wake up.”

I groaned, squinting my eyes open. “What do you want?” He snagged my elbow with punishing fingers, yanked me across the mattress. “Hey, asshole! Quit manhandling me!”

He pinned me beneath him, snatched my throat in an iron grip, catching me off guard. Nostrils flaring, he lowered his head, his warm breath against my lips. “You talk too much, Alexa. I presume three days of starvation was ineffective. Perhaps you require harsher, firmer measures.” My stomach sank. “I demand obedience. If noncompliance sustains, famishment and neglect will be the least of your worries.”

Working on a tight swallow, I sag my arms to the mattress, either side of my head. I withstood his penetrating glare, twisted my tongue and spat in his face. Spittle clung to his reddened cheek. I grinned like a woman who cared not for longevity. “Fuck. You.”

Jace dabbed my disgusting disparagement off his jaw. “You’ll regret that.” Ripping me from the unaccommodating comforters, he hauled my reluctant, thrashing body away from the enclosure. “You fucking reek.”

“Good!” I snapped, kicking and thrashing in his strong arms. “I have aids, too, so I dare you to touch me!”

His laughter failed to pacify me. “I’d rather fuck a dog.” Ripping the shower curtain out of the way, he altered the water temperature. “No offence.” He released me with a shove, locking the bathroom door. “Get undressed. Shower.”

I am going to kill him. It’s an inept, foolish brawl, one I cannot win, but I attack him regardless. I swing blindly, shrieking like an unhinged mental person. He yelled, blocking my weightless beating, striving to capture me in his hold. He might be big, but I am a determined woman who effortlessly outfoxes him. I fled under his outspread arms, smashed into the door, fumbled with the lock and ran.

“Alexa!” he barked, hot on my heels. “Enough!”

Whimpering and heaving for breath, I stumbled up the stairs, praying to whoever listened to give me a breakthrough.

Dashing through the opened main door, I belted down the corridor, uncaring for surroundings or possibilities.

Near the end, like the stairway to heaven, a red door, veiled in light, beckons me. I shouldered straight through, inhaled a lungful of sea breeze air. Cold winds slapped me in the face alongside cavernous, seaside views that snatched the life from my body.

“No,” I whispered, trudging barefoot across the grass, ice-like blood in my veins.

“You see,” Jace rasped behind me, “there’s nowhere to go, Alexa.”

I stared at the turbulence ocean, waves crashing against the cliffside. My eyes darted in search for something, anything, people, homes, neighbours. “You can’t do this to me!”

He circled me, a predatory stride, brandishing a syringe. “Now, we can do this the easy way, or the hard way.”

A single tear trickled down my cheek. Defeated, I glimpsed over my shoulder. Hunkered between towering, dense, leafless trees, the off-white cottage-like home sits behind a cobbled enclosure. It’s boarded up windows explains indoor murkiness. “Please don’t put drugs in my body.”

He jerked his chin. “Get inside and shower.”

I stormed ahead, using the hoodie sleeves to dab tears from my eyes. “How much is he paying you?”

Jace ignored me.

“Liam will pay more,” I bartered, hearing his heavy stomps nearby. “Let him offer a ransom, Jace—”

“It’s not about money,” he cuts me off, shoving a hand in my back, edging me to the bathroom. “Stop talking, Alexa.”

I half-heartedly eliminated my clothes, leaving them in an untidy heap on the bathroom floor. Under the tepid water, I dropped my head back, closed my eyes. The water beat against my sore, tired body, and I will never admit ravishment to Jace, but the soothing, tranquil cleanse certainly revitalised me.

I chanced to look at him across my shoulder.

Back to the wall, he stares at my backside, eyes roaming my legs. A quirky comment sat on my tongue, like, I thought I was unbecoming and horrifying to look at? I didn’t want to probe the beast, though.

His heinous capabilities remain a mystery.

“Wash your hair,” he orders, folding his arms. “Towel dry, wrap up and sit on the counter.”

Terror seized my beating heart. I fumbled with the faucet, stepped out of the shower, swaddled myself in a towel. “Why can’t I go back to my room?”

“Counter,” he said, sans patience. “Now.”

I bristled, obeying his command.

Jace opens the wall-mounted cabinet, rummages, comes to my side. “Towel to your thighs.”

Hollowing my cheeks, I gingerly relinquished.

Popping the lid off a bottle, he squirts white foam into his palm and lathers my right leg.

I blinked owlishly, engrossed as he shaved my legs. “I am more than capable.”

“I don’t trust you with a razor,” he droned, gliding the blade, shaving delicate hair from knee and ankle with intense concentration. Pleased with his handiwork, he turned on the sink tap, cupped water, washed my leg and repeated the process. “I am supposed to make sure you’re presentable.”

I steered my eyes to the wall, a lump forming in my throat. “He will kill me,” I whispered, and he hesitated, proceeded. “Flamur will kill me.” Rape me, I thought, fingers gripping to the dresser edge, knuckles whitening.

“I don’t want to hear your sob story,” he grates out, drying my legs with a spare towel. “Here.” Pulling off his hoodie, he buries the leather scented cotton over my body. “Time to eat.”

Jace doubled my porridge intake. I shamelessly devoured the honey tasting oats at his coffee table while he surveyed from the kitchen. “My stomach hurts,” I said, and he arched a damaged eyebrow. “Where’s your piercing?”

“You ripped it out with your talons,” he muttered, touching his ruptured brow. “Shit. You got so mad that you didn’t even notice.”

I inwardly smiled. I hope it hurts.

“Right,” he chimed, fishing keys from his pocket. “Back inside.”

Jace left me unattended after locking me into solitude. I had wondered where he ventured, considering nothing but stretched waters and an uneven cliffside caged our perimeters.

Laying on the mattress, I stared at the ceiling, concluding an upper-level bedroom. I didn’t know which concept I preferred—him driving away, staying elsewhere and deserting me, or having him close by so that I wasn’t alone.

Daily, I drew a line on the wall. I achieved and survived two weeks, the daunting, promising date where Jace hands me to Flamur Bajramovic. I vomited until my throat and stomach protested. I had sweating intervals, panic attacks and ghastly hallucinations, ones where the Albanian appeared at my bedside, brushing a knuckle across my jaw, whispering pet names in my ear.

Sleep implanted too much trepidation. I dreaded dreamless slumber, convinced myself the second I relented, Jace and Flamur would seize their moment.

Conjecturing gruesomeness made me senile. Talking to myself, although senseless, kept my brain ticking.

Day fifteen: Jace reared his head.

I relinquished the night before and slept. At this point in my dire situation, I pondered killing myself. I’d rather die a thousand deaths than return to the monster who almost ruined me.

“Eat,” Jace ordered, dropping a porridge bowl at the foot of my bed. “Now.”

My stomach hurt too much. My boneless, numb body, protested movement or consumption.

“Alexa,” he sighed, lingering beside the mattress. “Eat, or I’ll force-feed you.”

Extending an arm, I curled my fingers around the container, without lifting my head off the pillow, picked up the plastic spoon and ate. Every mouthful took considerable effort. Chewing, swallowing and licking became an unbearable experience.

Cursing expletives, Jace hauled me into a seated position, setting my back to the wall. “You’re losing too much weight,” he said, hand to my forehead. “Fuck.”

I mustered a shrug.

He fed me, spooning overflowing mouthfuls, encouraging me to swallow.

Alone again, I laid face down on the mattress, humming to myself. I imagined scenarios, allowed my mind to travel into different dimensions and past encounters. Always, Liam came to my side, whispered his love in my ear, reassured me with his firm, resolute words and passionate upbraids. The man’s inherently tactless, forceful, demanding and his vocal delivery, often abrupt, moulds and shapes his perfected performances, yet I’d never change him, not even a little bit. I love him, flaws included. “Please don’t forget about me,” I whispered into solitude, tracing the uneven floor with my fingertips.

Day twenty-three: Jace administered weight-gain shakes.

I hated the tasteless, powdery substance. It’s no good. I disobeyed.

“Why must you be difficult?” he shouts, pacing the cell. “Alexa, come on. You’re starting to resemble a decomposing corpse. You were hardly blessed with curves beforehand.”

“I hate you,” I mumbled, licking my chapped, sore lips. “You disgust me.”

“Tell me something I don’t know,” he retorts, thrusting a hand through his unruly brown hair.

I belatedly noticed his bare-chest. “You’re half-dressed.”

He stopped pacing, the cords of muscle in his arms flexing as he folded his arms. “I stayed in the living room last night.”

Why hadn’t I known his whereabouts?

Jace doubled my meals and portions. He showered me at the crack of dawn and once more before bed. I slept in his clothes, oddly comforted by his long-lasting cologne. Most nights, he watched television while imbibing beer bottles. If a horror movie commenced, I’d hide under the duvet. If comedies resounded, I’d sneak by the enclosure and view the screen with him. He caught me once, glancing at me from the corner of his eye, but refrained from scolding me. I appreciated his lenience, snuggled beside the metal bars and, in mute humour, laughed at the obscenities or unrealistic plot sequence.

Day thirty: Jace tattooed his knuckles in the kitchen.

I think he was bored—I recall him saying he never inked himself. “What is your creation?” I asked, hands clasped around the bars. “New addition?”

“Touch up.” Omnipresent buzzing awkwardly stretched between us. “You’re staring.”

“I got nothing better to do.” I noticed a slight twitch in his lip. “Plus, you’re quite decent to look at.”

Jace paused with the tattoo gun. “Flattery? That’s a new one.”

Yes, I concluded last night that destructiveness and churlish behaviour had zero effect on Jace. I pondered different methods and survival tactics. I mean, Jace still holds me captive, and Flamur’s yet to make an ugly appearance. A small part of me hopes Liam found and killed the Albanian, leaving me in my captors care. I hadn’t quite deciphered what such notions signified. I did, however, speculate female propinquity and misleading affections. “You’re not so bad,” I half-lied. I loathed the man, but he hadn’t violated nor beaten me, so that’s moderately positive.

Turning off the gun, he lathered something over his hands, pinned me with an inquisitorial glimmer in his sliced eyes. “I am not freeing you.”

I bite the inside of my cheek. “I didn’t ask you to.”

Settling his back to the kitchen counter, he tapped a finger on his bottom lip, undoubtedly aiming to decode my current approving behaviour. “What are you up to?”

I faked mystification. “I’m standing in my cell, stalking my unfriendly roommate.”

He prowled toward me, and I elevated my chin in defiance. “No,” he barks, inflamed fingers snatching the guard rail. “Why aren’t you singing? Why aren’t you name-calling and promising my demise? Where’s the real Alexa Haines hiding?” He searched my teary eyes. “What, you’re scared now?”

No, I am getting under his skin, and it thrills me. “You scare me when you shout,” I lied in a soft, unassuming voice. “You’re intimidating Jace.” It’s partly true. This heathen mounts my tall frame. His bulky, muscular body sends a feral warning without him muttering a deadly word. Although his beautiful, deceptive green eyes captivate me, there are no denying facts. He’s a monster—a cold, ruthless monster. “I’m sorry for offending you.”

I’d flawed him. His gaze probed into me, delving deep to prevail and overturn conceivable deceitfulness. “Are you?”

I nod sheepishly.

“Why are you acting nice all of a sudden?” he mused, brushing his finger across my grasped ones.

“It’s cold in here,” I fibbed, wanting to get closer to him. “That threadbare blanket offers scarce warmth.”

The muscle in his jaw popped. He uprooted his keys, unlocked the enclosure. “Get on the sofa.”

I hope my impromptu bullshit doesn’t backfire on me. Running to the exit is futile. Omitting food only weakens my physique. “Thank you.” Feet slapping against the cold floor, I beeline to the two-seater sofa, submissively awaiting his command.

“Get some sleep,” he said, lifting the thick duvet. “Step out of line? And I’ll break a wrist.”

My eyes rounded on a firm nod. I sank beneath softness, snuggled against the pillow. In the background, the television demonstrates a bank robbery. “Where will you sleep?” I hardly desired his touch. How else will I earn his trust, though? “We can top-and-tail if you want.”

Again, Jace seemed stunned by my proposal. He halted his kitchenette sprucing. “You better not get all Stockholm Syndrome on my ass,” he jests, stuffing empty food packages into a bin liner.

I fought against rolling my eyes. My plan fails by the second. Too desperate, I thought, knowing he’ll cotton on and wise up. “Whatever.” Rolling onto my side, I faced the sofa rear, heard him sigh behind me.

Later on that night, Jace lifted the blanket, obtained my hand and attached something to my wrist. His body stretched out beside mine, but he kept his arms to himself. When his breathing evened out, I touched the cold, bounded metal.

Jace handcuffed us together.

It’s a start in the right direction, I guess.

Now I needed him to like me enough to show mercy.

The next morning, Jace’s maddened voice alarmed me. I opened my eyes and immediately tugged my wrist. The restraint tore my skin, preventing movements. Keeping my back to the room with an unnoticed examination, I contoured the metal chain with curious fingers. He’d cuffed me to the table leg. Shit, he’s beyond paranoid.

“You promised two weeks,” he whisper-shouts, his loud footsteps beating the floor while pacing. “It’s been almost a month, Bajramovic.”

I wilted beneath the duvet.

“Fuck him!”

I wished I were privy to the other side of this heated conversation.

“It’s not working.” Quietness dawdled in the humid air. “She’s fucking infuriating —that’s why.”

My face twisted in perplexity. He’s so dramatic.

“Why is she so important to you?” Another pause. “Because I don’t see it. There aren’t any special qualities or—don’t fucking talk over me…” A thump followed. “I am trying to understand what all this means! No. No, no, no,” he babbles in a monotone voice. “We had a deal.” His anger escalated to a feverish pace. “Break our bargain, and Warren will be the least of your worries.”

Further silence stifled the oxygen we shared. Something smashed against the wall, and I jumped, cowering underneath the blanket.

“Fuck!” His ranting coincides with shattering glass. He tore the duvet from my curled-up body. “Get up.”

Do I remind him about the handcuff?

Realising his mistake, he growled, extracted my cuffs and hauled me off the sofa with unwarranted force.

“Jace,” I seethe, falling over my feet, palms crashing against the floor. “I am not fighting you!”

“You’re fucking everything up.” He clutched the back of my hoodie and marched me back to the enclosure.

His incomprehensible exasperation rattled my bones. “Wait,” I protested, and he shook his head with fierce omnipotence. “Jace, please. I’ll be good. Don’t lock me away—”

“Shut up,” he spits through gritted teeth, lunging me onto the mattress.

“No, wait.” Scuttling off the floor, I collide into the railing, begging him to demonstrate forbearance. “Jace…” He rips on a leather jacket and dread falls upon me. “No, Jace!” I rattled the metal poles, furiousness aiding strength. “Please don’t leave me! I hate the darkness—don’t do this to me!”

He paused near the stairs, dipped his head and listened to my raw sobs.

“Please,” I whispered through temporary blurriness. “I am begging you.”

Shaking whatever demons festered inside his head, he placed a boot onto the step and ascended the stairs.

Two seconds later, lights dimmed into unnerving darkness. I jumped away from the railing, crawled onto the mattress and hid under the thin coverlet.

Only hours transpired when I heard Jace whisper an apology beside the gate.

I convinced myself that I dreamt his admission of guilt.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Liam

Life Before

Regime begins at daybreak when the morning sun soared and the subtlest floral scent hung in the spring air. Painstaking jogs progressively became welcoming head-space, private moments, with only my thoughts or ear-plugged vocalists, to contend with. Muscle-gain evolved into a powerful obsession, and habitual, impetus fitness was purposeful. At present, I do fifty press-ups and sit-ups, usually, before the lads bombard through the gym doors. Such cycles are progressive yet inadequate, so I reduplicated protein intake, doubled-up on the weights bench and added scheduled late-night runs.

The future belongs to me, and I damn well had plans for it.

“Warren.” Rex’s harsh, ferocious tone of voice had my eyes rolling heavenward. “Ye ain’t scrubbed the bog.”

Yes, I did scrub the toilet. Twice. Before cleaning liabilities and all-day training, I tackle that sordid bathroom. It’s the worst, eye-watering, stomach-churning job—best to get the unpleasantness out of the way, right?

“Take the Plunger to it,” he blathered, a pipe stem precariously balanced between his lips. “It’s bastard bumpin’ in there.”

“I am not unclogging your shit.” I don’t know what the old man eats, but his rotten, putrid bowel movements have scarred me for life. “Pay for a plumber.”

“I pay ye to clean.” He sits onto the spectator bench, sipping strong tea. “Aye, ye make a mean cuppa, Warren.”

“Firstly, you’ve yet to pay for my services,” I reminded him with a head tilt. “Secondly, I spat in that tea.”

His worried eyes skimmed the mug. “Are ye serious, lad?”

I gave him a lopsided smirk, then threw a mishmash into the punch bag. Sweat mists my body, trickling down my spine. I love fitness, but there’s something oddly satisfying about laying into shit.

Rex overlooks my humourless jest, finishing his beverage. “I organised a fight for Friday. Well, it’s in four weeks, but the event takes place on a Friday.”

What’s new? Rex holds boxing tournaments most Friday nights. His main contesters earn serious coinage in that ring, especially if they win. Rex also profits from cashing bets at the main door. According to hearsay in the locker room, Rex has a severe gambling addiction, and those late-night brawls feed his wagering. I am unknowledgeable to both fighting events and my employer’s secret way of life. I’d rather keep my nose out from where it doesn’t belong, work hard, train harder, stick to the game.

“I put ye name down,” he said, and I toppled into the bag in shock. “I think ye ready.”

I studied him with hopeful eyes. “Don’t fuck with me, Rex.”

“I ain’t fuckin’ with ye, lad.” Grinning knowingly, he stood, set his empty cup onto the bench. “I placed big money on ye, Warren, so don’t let me down.”

I ripped the tape from my knuckles. “No chance.”

“Good,” he sighed, lifting his flat cap, scratching his receding hairline. “I got a meetin’ with an old friend. Can I trust ye to lock up?”

“Sure, Rex.” Picking up my discarded T-shirt from the floor, I dabbed sweat from my face.

Rex left the building and rode a tube south. In his absence, I finished chores, showered, changed into a clean tracksuit and locked the gym door.

Bag strap over my chest, I plugged earphones into my ears and selected a song on the Walkman. It might be dark, but the streetlights outlined a figure across the street. I glanced with minimal interest, almost walked ahead, until comprehending Bronagh beside a signpost. “What the fuck are you doing out so late?”

Tucking wayward curls behind her ears, she double-checked the road, in case of oncoming cars, and then jogged in my direction. “I came to see my granddad.”

My eyebrows met. “Rex’s visiting a friend or something.”

“Oh,” she whispered, her mouth forming a circle.

Not quite believing her reasoning, I flicked my gaze to my wristwatch. “It’s one o’clock in the morning, B.” Her red dusted cheeks belatedly elaborated the obvious. “You weren’t really visiting Rex, huh?”

She tugged her jumper sleeve. “I ain’t seen ye since we kissed,” she mutters in a hollow voice. “And I know Rex scares ye and stuff.”

I don’t correct her ludicrousness. “So, you thought cornering me on the sly was the best approach?”

“Well, when ye put it like that…” Her eyes widened, noticing my teasing smile. “Liam, I thought ye were mad at me!”

Goosebumps sprouted across her flushed chest. “Shit.” Flinging my bag on the floor, I slipped out of my hoodie, forcing her to wear it. “You’re freezing.”

“Thank you,” she said, the material burying her frame. “I stood around for over an hour.”

“I’ll walk you home—”

“No.” Fisting my T-shirt, she looked up at me. “Ma’s on a date tonight. She doesn’t check on me after drinkin’.”

Am I supposed to read between the lines?

“A sleepover?” she hints, biting her lower lip. “Maybe I can spend the night?”

I left dirty dishes in the sink, beer bottles on the table and wrinkled bed sheets. “I don’t know…”

“Please.” She fluttered her eyelashes.

Smoothing my tongue across my upper teeth, I snagged my holdall from the ground. “One night, B. I am not letting Rex chew my ear off about this.”

She smiled with a conquering twinkle in her eyes. “He’ll never know.”

On the short journey to my place, Bronagh talked minus interruption or coming up for air. While she theatrically described a movie she’d watched earlier, I struggled with the idea of a girl in my private space.

I reached my tenanted-building, opened the unsteady garden gate, unzipped my bag and left Hattie’s groceries by her front door, ready for the morning. It’s a morning obligation, purchasing her necessities. I keep the good in my bag, drop them off before bed, knowing how confused yet grateful she’ll be when finding her favourite seeded jam.

“What’s that?” Bronagh wondered, peering over my shoulder to snoop. “Do you buy the neighbour shoppin’, Liam?”

Milk, bread, tinned fruit, newspaper—an endless list. “Aye,” I half-mocked, and she pulled a face. “She is a stellar woman. I like helping her out.”

“A woman?” Her jealous tone hadn’t gone amiss. “How old is she?”

I unlocked my front door, waited for her to enter. “Twenty-three,” I lied, chucking my bag onto the sofa. “Smoking hot, too.”

Bronagh flung me a despairing look. “Do you think she’s pretty, Liam?”

Back in the day, Hattie had mile-long legs, blonde pinup curls and a killer rack. Now, though, she’s old, frail, grey-haired and those breasts swing low. The amount of times Hattie’s accidentally flashed a nipple is no one’s business. “Yeah,” I said, recalling the photo album my neighbour showed me. “She’s beautiful.”

“I might visit more.” Her eyes filtered around the room, inventorying furniture. “Stake my claim.”

Hattie’s obviously not a problem, and I should tell Bronagh as much. I quite like her possessiveness, though.

“I like this place, Liam.” Her hand fell to the turntable, fingertips outlining the scraped exterior. “It’s a bit old-fashioned.”

It’s my favourite purchase. “It does the job.” I nearly sat on the sofa, deemed the chair safer. I am nervous, inexperienced and sweating. Generating space between us seemed reasonable. “Are you going to stand there all night or take a seat?”

Giggling, she pulled the untidy duvet into place and sat cross-legged on the bed. “It’s mega comfortable.”

I should hope so. I spent extortionate money on that mattress.

“It’s so cool,” she said, awe-inspired by my shambolic residence. “I wish I had my own place.”

“Why?” I found myself asking. “It’s overrated. At home, you have a loving family and stuff. You should be grateful.”

Her fingers splayed on the black coverlets. “It’s peaceful here.”

It’s lonely, I thought, standing to grab a beer from the fridge. “How old are you?”

“Sixteen.” She eliminated the hoodie. “Ye?”

“Fifteen.” Cracking open a can, I guzzled buck courage. “What’s the face for?”

Panic dilated her eyes. “I thought ye were older.”

“Calm down.” I joined her on the bed “It’s my birthday in three weeks.”

“Does granddad know ye age?” she asked, and I merely blinked. “Isn’t it illegal for a minor to rent a property, though?”

Christ, she better not be an issue. “I’m not hurting anyone, B,” I snapped, propping my back to the wall. “Drop it.”

“Sorry.” Her lips flattened. “I never meant to pry or anythin’; just a little concerned for ye.” She eyed my beer. “Can I have some?”

“Don’t be getting shit faced on me,” I joked, passing her the can.

“I have tasted beer before, Liam.” She swigged, licked effervesces from her lips. “Shite.” Eyes pinching tight, she blindly set the can onto the windowsill, repositioned onto her knees in front of me. “I’ve been tryin’ to think of ways to kiss ye, Liam. And, well, I am so freakin’ nerv—”

I pressed my mouth onto her soft lips, hand curling around her neck, holding her in place. Her palm smoothed up my chest, and my muscles bunched-up under her innocuous touch. I might be amateurish, but I’ve read and watched enough adult material to avail.

She wraps her arms around my neck, tongue sweeping through my parted lips, deepening our kiss. “Liam,” she breathes, her husky, Irish twang, wracking me with goosebumps. “Are you a virgin?”

What the fuck?

Is it that obvious? I mean, I am just shy of sixteen. Am I supposed to be a sex fiend?

“Are you?” I flipped the question to evade response. “Well?”

Her lips peppered along my jawline, teasing my earlobe. “Aye.”

I breathed out a relieved sigh. “Is there a proposal here or something?” I joked, crawling over her body, hips nestling between her parted thighs. “I am not complaining.”

“Maybe.” Linking our fingers together, she laid a chaste kiss to my chest. “It’s no rush, like, I just thought…” I waited for her to finish. “Ye know. We can do it. If ye want.”

“Why don’t we see if we like each other first?” I half-tease, biting her neck, leaving passion marks on her pale skin in my wake. “Fuck. What about Rex?”

“He doesn’t need to know,” she stated firmly, hand clinging to the back of my head. “It’ll be our little secret.”

“Yeah?” I grinned against her lips. “You’re a glutton for punishment, huh?”

Bronagh impacted my life with no mental exertion. The first night she spent in my bed, we kissed until sunrise, laughed at pointless topics and exchanged mobile numbers before I walked her home.

I obsessed over the forbidden girl with luscious red hair. Initially, days elapsed sans encounters, but after a few weeks of sneaking around, we were inseparable.

I fall onto my bed, dragging Bronagh with me. I barely had time to unlock my door before her mouth claimed mine. Tonight, she wears a taunting chequered mini-skirt, and my naughty hands invade those ass cheeks all too often. “Fuck,” I growled, fingers tousling in her hair. “Stop grinding, B.”

Her hips rolled, warm pussy rubbing against my arousal. “Are ye big, Liam?”

Fuck knows. I’m not small.

What’s the average size, anyway?

“Where’s your mother?” I asked between kisses, removing the tight-fitted T-shirt from her body. “Is she expecting you home?”

“No,” she assures, hands creeping under my hoodies, fingernails outlining my abs. “Do ye want me to stay?”

Dazed, I nodded, tongue dancing with hers.

Sex was off the table. In fact, intercourse seldom breached our conversations. Kissing, hugging and pillow talk sufficed, or so I thought, until Bronagh’s hand crept into my jogging pants, cupping my hard shaft.

My girl stroked me, whispering how horny she was in my ear.

Yeah, I pretty much blew my load in seconds.

“Warren,” Rex yelled, chucking a wet sponge at me. “Ye ain’t cleaned the bastard floors.”

“I ran the mop around earlier,” I exclaimed, lunging the sponge back. He ducked in time for it to splatter against the office window. “It’s not my fault your filthy trainees’ drag muck everywhere. Get them to take their shoes off at the door.”

“Don’t be tellin’ me how to run shit,” he said angrily, storming back in his office. “And make me a cuppa tea. Ye worthless piece of shite.”

The next morning, a delivery man delivered unassembled storage, perfect compartments for stacking shoes.

Bronagh had great breasts. Her pale complexion and taut, pink nipples felt good in my rough palms. I barely kept those greedy hands to myself. I couldn’t stop touching them. “Fucking hell,” I groaned, thumbs tweaking her stiff peaks. “I’m not going to last.”

Her skilled hand stroked, tightened, and worked my shaft.

I dipped my fingers under her lace underwear, stroked her soaking pussy. “Christ.”

Oral play and repeated orgasms found its way into our sleepovers. The night of my sixteenth birthday, though, Bronagh had different ideas. “Can we sleep naked tonight, Liam?”

I nod. This girl can have anything she wants.

Naked and slicked in sweat, I rolled above her, kissed the column of her neck. Sexual restrain is beyond challenging. I mean, I have a naked chick withering beneath me, and my aching manhood demands attention.

“I want ye,” she whispered, the moon’s light outlining her pretty face. “Don’t ye feel the same, Liam?” Her finger tapped the tip of my nose. “We can take it slow.”

Swallowing the wedged knot in my throat, I dipped my head, ravishing her lips with my mouth. “I don’t have a condom.”

“It’s only one time.” Her arms enveloped around my neck. “I’ll grab some contraceptives tomorrow.”

Positioning my hands astride her head, I eased the tip of my shaft inside her, watching as I sank deeper.

Her fingernails pinched my neck. “Shite,” she whimpered, legs slackening for my invasion. “Aye, ye too big, Liam.”

That certainly stroked my ego. “Slow.”

“Slow,” she agreed, smiling against my lips.

Our first time together, unhurried and short-lived, but a memory I’d never forget. Sex dominated our relationship. I practically lived inside the girl for three weeks, learning what she liked, exploring multiple positions—I think I kinda like Bronagh, more than I care to admit.

“Ye distracted, lad.” Rex shoved me in the back. “What’s wrong with ye?”

“Sorry, Rex.” I am unfocused. Training commenced two hours ago, yet I cannot get my head out of my ass. “I had a late night.” I had the best night. Stood in the shower, Bronagh on her knees, torturing me into a frenzied state.

Fuming, Rex hurled the training pads across the ring and stormed to his office. “Move it, Warren.”

Fucking hell. He’s bastard demented. I shadowed him into the office, slumped on the tattered chair opposite his desk. Rex revels in my impatient frustration. He procrastinates, humming radio tunes, pretending to thumb filing cabinets.

I take out my phone, send a text message.

Me: What r u up 2?

B: I was just thinking about u.

I grinned like a Cheshire cat.

Me: Can I see u 2nite?

B: No can do. I have plans with the family. I can try and sneak off later, though.

I didn’t want to cause any arguments for Bronagh and her mother.

Me: It’s cool. Tomorrow?

B: Yes! I’ll wear a skirt.

Me: Don’t play games, B. U know how much I love those damn skirts.

B: Could have fooled me! They’re on your bedroom floor within seconds!

Shit. She’s right. I like her naked in my arms.

Me: Keep it on. I plan to bend u over that table with my hands tight on your skirt.

B: Liam. Holy. Shit.

Me: I’m craving more…

B: What do u mean?

Me: I mean, u haven’t let me go down on u yet.

B: I’m scared.

B: What if u don’t like it?

Me: I’m sure I’ll love it.

My shaft is hard thinking about it.

B: What else r u craving?

I typed before second-guessing.

Me: I want to start telling people that you’re my girlfriend.

“What the fuck are ye smilin’ about?” Rex slapped the back of my head, and I flinched, dropping the phone on my lap. “Who are ye textin’? Must be a lass.” His assured eyes flickered to my semi-hard bulge. “Keep that shite out of my office.”

I had never been so embarrassed. “Have a fucking day off.”

Rex grinned. I swear he secretly loves me. “I got ye a gift.” He unclipped a garment cover from the closed door. “Here. Try it on.”

“What is it?” I asked, standing, accepting the protected clothing. “I got plenty of tracksuits, Rex. I don’t want you spending money on me.”

“Nonsense.” He waved a flippant hand. “I bet ye ain’t got one of those.”

I unzipped it over the desk, parted the enclosure, studied the pristine, navy three-piece suit with sincere admiration. “Shit,” I whispered, tracing the white, silk shirt. “I’ve never worn a suit before.” I re-zipped it. “Why did you get me a suit, though?”

“My nephew tied the knot this afternoon—told him I couldn’t do the service, but I’d show my face for the after-party.”

He had no reason to skip family celebrations.

“I thought ye could be my plus-one,” he continues, lighting his pipe. “What do ye say?”

“You’re asking me to escort you to a family function.” I snorted. “Yeah, no thanks.”

“Ye fuckin’ attendin’, lad.”

Human rights clearly didn’t work on Rex. “What’s in it for me?” I’m playing with him. Bronagh will be there, so it’ll give me a reason to see her. “I’m not one for festivities.”

“Ye gained a nice suit for starters.” Kicking his feet onto the desk, he puffed smoke around his head. “What more could ye possibly want? Honestly, Warren. Ye opportunism is unattractive.”

“Fine.” I feigned reluctance, exiting his office. “I’ll hold your hand to a gathering.”

Showered and tailored in my new attire, I exited the male changing rooms, adjusting silver cufflinks to my suit sleeves. Rex waist near the door, suited in a black tuxedo, slicked, grey hair, combed to the side. “Aye, well, don’t ye scrub up.” Genuine pride blazed in his eyes. “Lookin’ good, lad.”

I opened the door, gestured for him to go first. “It’s a shame I can’t say the same about you.”

He chortled, adjusting his bowtie. “Quit talkin’ so much. It doesn’t suit ye.”

We journey to the venue by taxi. Since Rex covered clothing costs, I insisted on paying the fare and tonight’s alcohol binge. Rex strongly disapproved, but I sweet-talked him into agreeing.

Brown furnishings, cheap white table cloths and a cold buffet offered scarce meagerness for Rex’s nephew’s wedding reception.

My new leather shoes stuck to the stained floor while walking to the bar. I waited in the queue, assured they’d require identification. Luckily, the barman accepted my order—one Guinness and a beer—without fuss.

I find Rex seated by a round table with family. I didn’t want to impose, so I handed him the pint and stalked the room to find Bronagh. Party guests, dressed glamorously, occupied the dance floor, the disco lights adding to the party ambience.

I exited the venue for a smoke, sat on a low-cobbled wall, lit a cigarette. Blowing out a stream of smoke, I listened to muffled music, resounding from the pub, catching a glimpse of two silhouettes stumbling around the corner. I’d recognise Her laughter anywhere.

Soaring to my full height, I flatten a hand over my head, tidying my image.

Outside lights illuminated Bronagh’s gorgeous body. Modelling three-inch heels and a figure-hugging silver dress with that red hair pinned back, she holds the material of her dress in fisted hands, giggling alongside her friend—another lad.

Okay, don’t jump to conclusions. He’s a cousin or friend, right? It’s not as though they’re holding hands or anything.

He interlaced their fingers together, hauled her close and dropped a friendly kiss to her cheek.

Jealousy clambered my insides. I looked away, inhaled a drag on my cigarette.

“Conor,” she moaned. “Shite.”

Through my peripheral vision, I watch Conor thrust her to the wall, devouring her mouth with heated, wet kisses.

I felt something unknown in my chest—aching disappointment—and the all too familiarised angered, resentment.

“Not here,” she playfully scolds, neatening her dishevelled dress. “My family might see us.”

“Or guests,” I jest, and she sharply turned in my direction. “Don’t worry.” I hold up my hands, witnessing the colour drain from her face. “Your secret is safe with me.”

Conor snorted a laugh. “Nice one, man. Ye know how it is.” He unassumingly draped an arm around Bronagh’s shoulders, lips murmuring to her ear. “I love my girl—can’t keep my hands off her.”

I love my girl, I mentally reaped, tossing the cigarette aside. “How long have you been dating?”

Bronagh opened her mouth to respond, but dickhead Conor beat her to it. “Oh, we go way back,” he confirms, seeking her assurance. “When was it, Bron? Just before high school, right? Like, five years.”

Five. Fucking. Years. “I guess I’ll be attending your wedding next.”

“I think I know ye,” she pipes up, cheeks darkening. “Aren’t ye one of granddads boxers?”

“Yeah, I train with Rex.” Oh, she thinks I’m playing into her bullshit. “I don’t recognise you, though.”

Hurt claimed her profile. “Sorry.”

I had to leave. “Enjoy your night.”

Pushing myself away from the wall, I took powerful strides across the car park, unable to breathe. I walked home. My suit jacket tossed over one shoulder, hands hidden in my trouser pockets.

Hattie sat in the window, waving as I approached. “Hello, Liam.”

I wasn’t in the mood to entertain the old mare tonight.

“Go to sleep, Hattie.” I stormed up the garden path, unlocked the main door and came face-to-face with my old, nosey neighbour. “Don’t be opening the door when it’s dark, Hattie. Get inside and wait for Chester.”

She flinched, snuggling into her pink robe. “Why would you say something so hurtful, Liam? You know Chester died.”

I rubbed a hand over my face. “Sorry, Hattie. I thought…” I simply wing it based on her mood swings. “Forgive me.”

Tears brimmed her eyes. “You can be quite nasty, Liam.”

“Shit. I fucking apologised Hattie,” I barked, the vein in my neck throbbing. “What do you want me to say? You have dementia. How the fuck am I supposed to know which woman’s conversing with me?”

“Don’t you shout at me!” Her finger aimed in my face. “You must respect your elders.”

“I don’t even know you,” I snide, brushing past her. “Go to fucking bed, Hattie. You’re giving me a headache.” Reaching my front door in one piece, I keyed the lock, threw myself into the safety of my bed-sit and slammed the door behind me.

On the round bistro, an ornamental lily display emits purity and floral décor. I boot the flimsy table, smashing the grey vase, damaging the delicate flower stems.

Rage consumed my body.

I ripped the shirt off my body, snatched a metal chair and obliterated my home—wall-mounted paintings, dinnerware, toaster, television. I didn’t need superfluous bullshit.

Fucking. Hell.

Surrounded by fragmented carnage, I dodge strewn clothes on the floor, gather Bronagh’s belongings and stuff everything into a bin liner: dresses, pyjamas, shoes, cosmetics, makeup and fragrances.

I pulled a beer bottle out of the fridge, tossed the cap on the floor, downed chilled liquid thirstily and set a disc onto the turntable. Soothing music waved through the squalid bedsit, quite depressing but therapeutic.

My front door handle rattled. “Liam,” Bronagh called, and I snarled. “Liam, please. Just hear me out.”

I lunged the bottle at the door, shattering green glass. “Fuck off, B. I ain’t listening to your fucking lies.”

“Please,” she whimpered, fists hammering against the door. “Liam, open this door. I swear I am not leavin’ until ye listen to me!”

I flung the door open, stood at an unconquerable stance. “You’re not coming in. Say what you got to say and then fuck off—”

“Don’t say that,” she cried, endeavouring to slip past me. “Please, Liam! Ye can’t leave me out here! Look at me!” She wildly gestured to her creased dress and blotchy cheeks. “I am cold. My feet hurt from runnin’ so fast and I don’t want ye neighbours to listen.”

I slowly shook my head. “We’re done, B.”

“No!” Dread wept her horror-filled eyes. “Liam, I love ye.” Her hand touched my chest. I gripped her wrist, fingers pinching her flesh. “Ye hurtin’ me, Liam!”

“I don’t want you,” I said in a low, calm voice. “Burn me once, B. I’ll learn from it. Burn me twice?” I tsk, shoving her away from me. “It’s not my style.”

“Ye ain’t heard me out. Conor,” she sobbed, smudging mascara beneath her eyes, “he’s my childhood sweetheart. I did love him, Liam. But then I met ye.”

“I had the right to choose,” I fired back. “You didn’t get to decide for me, B. It was on me to make that decision. If you had a boyfriend, and I still wanted you, that was on me.”

She snivelled. “Why do I get the feelin’ that knowledge mightn’t have mattered?”

“Correct. I think more about myself. I don’t need some other lads chick.” I tried to shut the front door, but her palms flattened on the wood. “Move your fucking hands, Bronagh.”

“We’re not leavin’ it like this!” she protests, ramming her shoulder into my side. “Let me in, so that we can talk.”

I fisted her hair, and she yelped. “One question,” I whispered, and she breathed out a hopeful breath. “Lie to me? And that’s it.”

“Anything,” she cried, hands clinging to my wrists. “I won’t lie. I swear to you.”

I brushed the tip of her nose with mine. “Did I take your virginity, B?”

She panicked but quickly masked herself. “Yes—”

“You are such a fucking liar,” I spat, hurling her into the hallway. “You had no reason to lie about that.”

“I didn’t want ye to be embarrassed,” she whimpered, cupping her wobbly lips. “I knew ye were a virgin and I thought—”

“You thought that lying would make it easier for me.” My arms folded. “No, B. No. That’s fucked up and twisted on so many levels. You need to leave. Now.” I closed the door, the slam echoing throughout.

Bronagh never left that night. She shrieked, kicked and rattled my letterbox, irritating me with her pathetic excuses.

The following morning, Bronagh gave me space. I didn’t leave the safety of my four walls, though. Reservations told me she’d return. And I was right. Bronagh swung by that night, repeating the ludicrous scenario once more. While lying in bed, I contemplated calling the police, filing a restraining order; however, I respected Rex too much and dealing with the law enforcement left a bad taste in my mouth.

I returned to Rex’s Gym three days later. I cleaned, worked out, listened to orders and jogged home.

Forking curry, cheese and chips from the local chippy in my mouth, I gait around my street corner. Sporadic blue beacons pivoted alongside sirens. I bricked it. They knew about the drug supply, stashed in the loft, or uncovered my involvement with Ray Warren’s murder. No, an ambulance mounts the curbside.

Lowering the music volume, I forced my feet to walk, positioned myself between neighbouring throngs and saw paramedics wheel out a stretcher from the tenanted-building. Behind them, an unacquainted yet recognisable face roused me with sheer terror. “Iris,” I called, and she peered at me with sunken, sad eyes. “Hattie?”

Her lips trembled. She trailed behind officers, climbed into the ambulance rear.

Hattie died last night—heart attack.

Fuck if that didn’t make me feel like shit.

I jogged for three hours, found a beach, sat on the boulders to admire the water.

My phone vibrated.

B: I miss u so much.

Delete.

B: Please talk 2 me.

Delete.

B: I finished with Conor.

Was that supposed to make me feel better?

Me: More fool u. It changes nothing.

B: Why must u act like this? It’s him I cheated on him! Not u!

Delete.

B: I don’t even know why I care so much. U r nothing but a lowlife bum, Liam. Fuck u. I am over it.

Delete.

Twelve hours later.

B: I am so sorry, Liam. I never meant anything I said. I am just angry and hurt. Please talk 2 me. I hate this!

I blocked her number.

“Are ye ready for tomorrow, lad?” Rex asked, resting a shoulder to the office door frame. “It’s a big fight.”

I speared a right fist into the punch bag, the chains groaned, squelched together. “I was fucking born ready.”

Chapter 8

Liam

Life before

Hattie’s death saddled me with thought-consuming guilt. Her daughter, Iris, donated keepsakes, furnishings and hoarded memorabilia to charities before the funeral commenced.

I hadn’t attended Hattie’s funeral service. In lieu, I parked my backside on the windowsill and watched the thunderous downpour dampen the East End with a cold beer in hand.

Bronagh’s aggravating pestering tipped the forbearance scale. I contemplated inhabiting elsewhere but knew I’d miss Rex and the gym too much.

One night, while Bronagh ridiculed me through the letterbox, I sat in the bathroom on the cold tiles, head resting on the wall.

Her deriding words repeated inside my head. I appreciated her distraught frustration, but that gratuitous lambasting was uncalled for. I hadn’t cheated, disrespected or harmed B. I simply repudiated accepting more than self-worth and a girl, whoever she may be, doesn’t get to enter my life and trigger further impairment to my soul—beautiful eyes and smile be damned.

Loud banging roused me from sleep.

On the bed, I rolled over and studied the locked door, anticipating Bronagh’s maddening chastisement with a knot in my stomach.

“Warren,” a nameless man called, rattling the handle. “I need a score.”

I huffed out a tired breath, rubbed the sleep from my eyes. “Give me a minute.”

Heaving my naked backside out of bed, I aimlessly scoured the floor, snatched and tugged on a pair of boxer briefs.

I bagged two grams on the kitchen counter, opened the front door and held a palm out. “Pay up.”

He’s an older male wearing an army patterned bomber jacket and atypical smack-head expression. “You don’t even know what I need.”

Nobody knocks on a dealers door at five in the morning for marijuana. “Lucky guess.” He hands me crumpled-up notes; I exchange with the goods. “Don’t be knocking on my door at this time again. If you need anything? Call me.”

While exchanging numbers, I see shadows behind the door opposite.

“Nice one, Warren.” He fumbles with a bag, descending the stairs. “Oh, one more thing.”

I cut my eyes to him. “Go on.”

“Do you know where I can get a gun?”

Resting a shoulder to the door frame, I stared him down with scepticism, scratching my bare chest. “No,” I lied. I trust no one.

He puffed sweat-slicked bangs from his face. “No sense of direction, huh?”

“Why do you need it?” I noted the resurfacing silhouette by the neighbour’s door. “Fuck off, you nosey bint.”

The guy looked between me and the door. “Chill, man,” he cooed, itching his eyebrow. “She’s only young.”

I scowled at him. “How the fuck would you know?”

“She popped her head out when I knocked,” he clarified, keying cocaine to his nostril. “So, the gun?”

Pondering silence stretched before I relented. “Two days.”

His dull, bloodshot eyes brightened. “You’ll text?”

“Call,” I corrected, stretching my arms above my head. “Now, fuck off.”

Nodding, he skirted down the stairs, exiting the building.

I glanced back to the tenants’ home, rolled my eyes and slammed the door behind me.

Inside my solacing four walls, I set a vinyl onto the turntable and listened to quiet music while cleaning the bedsit.

Jogging transpired. I belted until sunrise and then demolished fruit punnets and bottled water en-route to the gym.

Rex didn’t train me this afternoon, too busy preparing for tonight’s boxing match.

Enthralled and eager to get in the ring, I busied myself with chores and even assisted Johnny through workouts.

Nightfall blackened the sphere. Rex’s gym evolved into an extraordinarily exciting event. Clamorous music and conversationalists replenished hired seating accommodation, and zealous bettors suffocated the air with thick cigar smoke. Suited men imbibed Irish whiskey. Glamorous women feigned enthusiasm.

I watch Devin box his opponent around the ring. He’s an arrogant dick, but he can fight and throw a killer punch.

Uninterested in their exchange, I headed to the locker room, readied with knuckled-tape and low hung training bottoms. In the mirror, I mentally gave myself a pep talk, calmed my irregular breathing, overhead Rex blare accomplishment on the microphone.

During the interlude, Rex stalked me down. “Are ye ready, Warren?”

I sweep a thumb across my eyebrow, ridding sweat. “Yeah.”

“Hurry up,” he implores, rubbing his hands together. “Don’t forget, lad. I placed big money on ye, so ye can’t let me down.”

Inhale. Exhale. I shadowed him in the gym, ignoring his passionate speech.

My opponent stood in the ring, outstretching his arms, theatrically enticing the crowd.

“Got it?” Rex asked, hand to my shoulder, a comforting gesture.

I nod, dipping under the ropes, eyeing the lad with haughty disdain. Rex is right. I am repugnantly narcissistic, commonly boastful and exasperatedly conceited. It’s how I sustained loveless neglect, disappointment and distress. It’s how I plan to defeat this tool and future foes.

The buzzer tore me from thoughts, but unruffled composure steadied my stance. ‘Don’t get cocky,’ Rex had told me. ‘Eye one prize, Warren. Let the enemies flaw themselves,’ he’d harp on, ‘and remember; calm and collected.’

Breaking into a sequence, the freakishly tall and muscular lad, began to circle me, fists guarding his head.

The audience rooted their favourite boxer, drenching him with supportive glee. He broke first, swinging combinations, left hook, uppercut, right jab.

I dodged his attack, almost landed one to his ribs, but held back, securing my breathing.

By round three, I’d mastered his technique.

He threw a left hook; I evaded.

He powered through an uppercut; I bounced back.

He swung a right jab; I clipped him straight across the jaw.

Loud protests raised the roof. Angst and concerned by my contender’s tiredness, gambling spectators stood, yelling profanity or encouraging jargon.

I’d angered him. He growled, lost poise and, in a hot-tempered state, blasted me with premeditated combinations.

I burst out laughing, escaping his whooshing punches. I had him—I knew I had him, and still let him make a mockery out of himself. I waited until sweat clung to his flushed flesh before swinging a right hook across his jaw. His head whipped to the side, body colliding to the floor, unconscious.

Curiosity and upheaval radiated from the stands. I didn’t hang around for victory. I used the back of my hand to dab perspiration from my forehead, plummeted under the ropes and drowned out Rex’s stentorian merriment echoing into the changing room.

“Warren,” Rex yells three hours later, gesturing for me to enter his office. “Come to me, lad.”

Previously, I stayed away from commotion until it quietened and unidentifiable spectators fled from the building. When It was safe to return, I assembled cleaning equipment and tidied the aftermath.

“What?” I asked, lingering in his doorway. “I’m tired, Rex.”

“Ye did well tonight.”

I felt a sliver of pride. “Thanks, Rex.”

Opening his desk drawer, he brandished cash, tossed it before me. “For ye.”

I didn’t need the money. “No.” I folded my arms. “Keep the money, Rex. We need new equipment.”

“Ye earned it,” he insists, but I shook my head. “Surely, ye need the cash, lad? How do ye survive with no income?”

I mustered a flat smile. “Quit worrying about me.” I am made for life. “As I said, buy some equipment.”

Confused and inquisitive, he cleaved his tongue to the roof of his mouth, swept the notes back into his drawer. “I got ye a gift—and don’t roll those fuckin’ eyes at me,” he warns, carefully setting a small, leather jewellery box onto the desk. “I knew ye were gonna win, so prepared for ye conquest.”

My eyebrows cinched. I stopped before him, opened the box. On a velvet-padded bed, a white gold military-style chain sparkled beneath aloft lights. I pinched the long chain to read the tag engraving—Liam Warren. “Why did you get this for me?”

Something indescribable dimmed his eyes. “Ye know, Warren,” he whispered, flinging his cap onto the chair, “I might be gettin’ old, but I am no fool.”

I put the chain over my neck.

“I’ve lived on the East Ends since I was a whippersnapper,” he continues, rounding his desk. “I left Ireland by Ferry with my Ma to start afresh. I grew up on these streets, outlived most…” He dawdled off into space, lost in reflective thought. “Anyway, I got a reputation by the time I reached sixteen—much like yourself.”

“Where are you going with this, Rex?”

“I like ye, lad,” he admits, squeezing my shoulder. “I am not gonna tell ye how to live or lay the law on ye. It’s not my job to do so, but I am worried about ye.” He fixed my twisted chain. “I have been hearin’ some illicit rumours.”

The muscle in my jaw popped. “You shouldn’t believe anything unless witnessing with your own eyes.”

“True,” he agrees, smiling grimly at me. “Ye really are stubborn, lad.” Gently patting my chest, he ebbed away from me, igniting his pipe. “Oh, well. I’ll leave ye with this.” He slipped on his reading glasses. “Start ye army, Warren. Ye gonna need it.”

I laid awake that night, listening to strong winds outside with my trainer’s subtle foreshadowing in mind.

At four in the morning, I showered, pulled on loose pants and conveyed recycling outside. I passed Hattie’s door, returned with a garden flower, stationed it on the worn welcome mat and added her death to my list of blunders.

Before unlocking my front door, I heard a creak from my neighbours. Blowing out an angered sigh, I marched across the hall, beat my fist against the door. It swung open— “What the fuck is your problem?” I barked, coming face-to-face with round blue eyes. Fuck. That smack rat was right. She’s only young, not much older than me. “You’re always watching me. Why?”

She knotted her silk robe, tucking blonde tendrils behind her ears. “Insomnia,” she breathes, cheeks darker than crimson.

I brazenly lowered my eyes to her chest, admiring her ample assets. “Since when did habitual sleeplessness give you the right to pry on neighbours?”

“I’m sorry,” she said genuinely, the dark circles around her eyes corresponded to her reasoning. “You don’t sleep much, either. Sorry, I word vomit when under pressure.”

I am hardly upbraiding her. “What’s that smell?” I mused, inhaling aroma-filled cooked meats. “Are you cooking? At this time in the morning?”

Giggling, she threw a thumb over her shoulder. “Bacon sarnies.” She chewed her lower lip. “Do you want one?”

“Yeah,” I said, brushing past her. “I could eat.”

My nosey neighbour was a twenty-five years old sales cashier named Laura. She made a mean bacon sandwich and lived in a typical feminine infested home with shabby-chic furnishings. Her impressive book collection gained my attention—that, or the double-bed and faux fur cushions.

“Fuck,” I groaned, hands welded to her hips. “Ah, shit.”

Laura bounced up, and down my shaft, hands positioned to my chest. “Liam,” she moaned, fisting my hair, devouring my mouth with fervent kisses. “Oh.”

Christ, I thought Bronagh was insatiable, but Laura is something else. I could barely breathe.

Rolling her hips into a steady rhythm, she clenched herself around me, moaning through her orgasm. I almost protested and enunciated the fact I hadn’t hit my peak—until her head descended my body, nestling between my thighs. “Shit,” I breathed, clutching the back of her head. Okay, B mastered blowjobs, so Laura’s skill had taken time. I came, nonetheless.

Laura collapsed by my side, hand smoothing over my chest. “Well, that was certainly unexpected.”

I came down from my high and had a sudden urge to leave. “I got work,” I lied, climbing off the bed, discarding the condom.

She propped up onto two elbows, watching me tug on jogging bottoms. “Can I cook for you later?”

“I’ll call you,” I yelled over my shoulder, closing the front door behind me.

I had no intentions of seeing her again.

Bronagh seldom knocks on the door anymore. Only when drunk and horny, apparently. I guess that’s progress, considering how long it’s been since our break up–not.

“Warren!” Rex seized the back of my neck, yelling his exhilaration in my ear. He elevated my arm heavenward, fingers pinching my wrist. “Ye are fuckin’ legend, lad.”

I haven’t lost a fight. I am no longer an unknown opponent. Now, I am the undefeated fighter who guarantees victory. People travel to watch me fight. Men place big bets and offer me tickets out of the East End. I am bigger, stronger than before…then why do I feel lonely, bored, unenthusiastic, unsatisfied and hopeless?

I don’t sell weed anymore; I stock cocaine, crack and heroin.

I don’t deal from my front door; I pay errand boys to supply on demand.

I don’t stockpile revolvers; I distribute Berettas, Hecklers and Glocks.

“Celebrate tonight,” Rex encourages, handing me a towel. “Ye head out the door or hide before champers.”

“Sure.” I left Rex in the ring, retreated to the showers.

Changed into a black tracksuit and brand-new trainers, I wade through energetic throngs, searching for a familiar face. I halt beside the booze station, ponder beer or cider.

“This one, ” a husky, feminine voice purred, confident with her selection.

I stare at the scarlet red fingernail, tapping a Jameson bottle. “I’m not much of a whiskey drinker.”

“It’s a favourite,” she chimes, holding out a crystal glass filled with amber liquid. “Taste.”

I accepted her offering, sipped its distilled, smoky flavour. “It’s not bad.” I might be seventeen, but I appreciate a mature woman. There’s something about their confident strides and curvaceous bodies. Unlike the girls my age, the women who prowl Rex’s Gym uphold flawlessness under the influence of alcohol and act accordingly when holding a conversation.

“What’s your name?” she asked, putting her back to the table.

“Warren,” I respond, thanking her for the top-up Jameson glass. “And you are?”

“Julie.” Her kittenish smile was a deal-breaker. “I watched your fight,” she purred in my ear, those glossed talons tickling the back of my neck. “Fancy getting out of here.”

I am a warm-blooded male. Fucking sue me.

The second I opened my front door, Julie pounced on me. I stumbled, half-heartedly discarded my clothes and fell across the bed.

Wearing all-black lace, Julie straddled my waist. Blonde hair fanned across my chest as she kissed her way south. She licked the underside of my shaft, and a strangled moan fell from my lips. “Fucking hell.” I tangled my fingers through her hair, watched her suck me to the back of her throat. “Christ.”

Okay, it’s wrong to compare others when in bed with another woman, but Julie wins—hands down. “Are you going to come for me, big guy?”

Yeah, I pretty much shot my load in seconds.

Julie taught me the tricks-of-the-trade. For three weeks, she parked her mustang outside the building at three o’clock in the morning, joined my bed and fucked me senseless. Between intervals, she’d teach me restraint and how to pleasure women. “You don’t need to come straight away,” she explained, stroking my manhood. “Learn to control it, Liam. Sex isn’t just about the end-game. Besides,” she smiled at me, kissing my jawline, “painstaking euphoria is worth the end result.”

“Shut up,” I playfully scolded, slapping her hand away. “You’re too bossy, Ju.”

Chuckling huskily, she fell onto her back, moaning her appreciation as I sneaked above her. “God, I wish I were younger, Warren.”

Julie’s forty-one. She is also a married woman with three kids. “Why?” I whispered, nibbling around her diamond stud.

“You’re a fantasy,” she explained, raking her fingernails down my back. “You make me feel young again.”

“You’re not that old,” I assured, seeking her mouth for a kiss. “I’d do you.” I thrust inside her wetness, groaned into the nook of her neck. “I could live inside you.”

Julie fucked me twice before that burdensome phone pinged, a message from the husband.

Dressed in heels and a figure-hugging black dress, Jules smoked a joint with me, apologised for leaving and promised to make it up to me next week.

I liked Julie. Uncomplicated sans expectations, she visited my bed frequently, offered friendship and companionship without needless drama.

Laura’s accustomed to my lifestyle and pretends it doesn’t bother her. I know she’s lying, but when Julie ventures overseas with her asshole husband, I fall into the vicious cycle of crawling into my neighbour’s bed.

Each time we sleep together, she promises not to demand more from me. And then it’s time for me to leave and she cries for more.

“She’s almost twice your age,” she shrieked, following me around her bedsit. “You said that she’s married.”

“Me not being with you has nothing to do with Julie,” I fired back, sinking on the sofa to put on my trainers. “I don’t want a girlfriend, Laura. End of.”

Her woeful eyes held mine. “Then, why do you keep coming back?”

I get lonely. “You’re a decent fuck.”

Growling under her breath, she picked up a paperback and lunged it at me. “It’s over,” she screamed, storming toward the front door. “I am not doing this anymore, Liam. Find some other poor bitch to fuck.”

I stormed in her direction, and she flinched. “Why did you jump?” At my angered tone, she shrank against the wall. “Fuck’s sake, Laura. You’re acting as though I beat you.”

“You’re intimidating,” she sobbed, smearing mascara over her cheek as hot tears emerged. “Where are you going?” Following me across the hall, she snatched my hoodie in tight fists. “Liam, please—”

“I’m going to bed,” I retort, thrusting a hand through my hair. “Get inside, Laura.”

“Let me stay with you,” she asked, hope ablaze in her almond-shaped eyes. “Please, Liam.”

I didn’t want her in my private space. “No.”

“Oh, but it’s okay for that perverted cougar to sleep in your bed!”

“Don’t call her that,” I seethed, shoving her away from me. “You don’t even know her.”

“What she’s doing with you is wrong, Liam,” she passionately stresses, flinging matted hair from her face.

“You fucked me when I was seventeen,” I cruelly reminded her, and she parted her lips in sheer dread. “If anyone pried on me? It was you.”

Laura relocated to a different tenanted-building a week later.

I am glad her tempting ass moved on.

Bronagh no longer hammers those closed fists against my door–real progress.

Rex gave me the week off. Thus far, I have hated every second of it. Half-cut from my newfangled whiskey approval, I stretched across my bed, counting money, tallying sums and pondering possibilities.

My phone buzzed, and Julie’s name flashed on the screen.

“Hey,” I answered, joint balanced between my lips. “How’s the trip?” Julie texted last week, mentioned a Spain holiday and sexy bikinis.

She snivelled down the phone. “He knows,” she whispered, and I paused mid-count. “He knows I had an affair.”

Had, I thought, respiring smoke. “Is it safe to call me, then?” I half-joke, swallowing dryness. “What do you want me to say, Ju?”

Muteness hindered our call before she asked, “Are we possible, Liam? If I left him…” Her hesitancy confirmed her unassured proposal. “Liam—”

“No,” I interject, tossing notes aside. “Don’t leave your husband, Ju. I am not worth it.”

“I think you might be.”

I pinched the bridge of my nose, concluding the right approach. “I am not interested in a relationship, Ju,” I said, praying she doesn’t freak out on the phone. “So, when I say that I am not worth it? Believe it. I am not safe nor guaranteed. If I see a bird, I like next week? I’ll move on. You got too much to lose—too much to consider: husband, kids, job, friends and reputation.” Her muffled whimper tugged on my heart-strings. “Hey, if it’s any consolation, I think you’re pretty fucking amazing, and I’m kinda missing you already.”

I envisioned her amused smile. “You were always the perfect fantasy.”

“I’m glad you approve,” I tease, perching my backside onto the windowsill. “Maybe the next life, huh?”

She sighed into the receiver. “Take care of yourself, Liam.”

Pursing my lips, I ended the call, chucked the phone on my bed. Numbness invaded my body. I didn’t love Julie. Fuck. At this point in my life, I doubt such sentiments exist. I liked her, though. For an older woman, she wasn’t so bad.

My phone beeped with a text message.

I spurned answering it.

Tucking my keys and wallet in my jogging pants, I stuffed my Glock in the waistband of my trousers, pulled on a beanie hat and sprinted away from my troubles.

Depressing skies befell upon the dark horizon, and warm showered sporadically cooled my heated skin. I blew out calming breaths, powering through unbreakable sprints, gravitating to Rex’s Gym. My curled-up fists ached from clenching so hard. Beating that heavy punching bag is a therapeutic option.

I opened the door, ascended the stairs, overheard a muffled conversation.

“Aye, hold yer horses. I need two weeks,” Rex bartered, and I stopped to listen. “Ye—agh, shite.” A loud thump reiterated, and every hair on my body stood to attention. “Please, I—” Another thud resounded. “I beg ye.”

“You had two months,” someone enunciated, and Rex howled. “You Irish cunt.”

Heart thunderously oscillating in my chest, I put my foot onto the next step, blood shrieking in my ears. I peeked through the open doorway, assessing the situation: six unapproachable looking men surround Rex’s frail, bloodied body. The shorter yet stockier male sports designer attire. His loyal subjects chortle at their boss’ unsympathetic deriding and punctured syllable.

I gallanted one step, and the floorboard creaked, attracting seven pairs of condemning eyes.

Rex tried to sit up. “Get out of here,” he scolds, the pain in his side causing him to wince. “Go on, lad. Fuck off. I don’t even bastard like ye,” he lies, spitting saliva and blood onto the blue mat. “Now!”

“Not so fast.” Bald and dominating averted his attention to me. “Who…” He cocked a gun, aiming toward my head, “the fuck are you?”

Positioned on all fours, Rex pleaded with me to run.

“What did he do?” I asked, vibrating in escalating rage.

“He owes us money,” another said, smoking a cigarette. “You gonna pay up, kid?”

I am not paying these asswipes a cent. “No. It’s not my fucking debt.”

“Interesting,” the boss chimed, and his minions chortled. “What’s your name?”

Inhale. Exhale. “Liam,” I reached for my Glock with surreptitious aptitude. “Warren.”

“Warren,” he drawled, marvelling at my physique. “You might be a great asset to the boss.”

Okay, I pegged the situation wrong; they work for someone else. “Yeah,” I said, ignoring Rex’s muffled pleas. “I’m definitely adaptive.” I abruptly aimed the Glock at his face. “And I’m fucking deceptive.” I pulled the trigger, releasing a single bullet from the chamber, the ringing sound piercing my eardrums.

Before the others conceptualised the unexpected turn of events, I whipped aim, uncaged bullet. In adrenaline imbued slow-motion, I watched them groan and drop like boneless contortionists.

Aquiver with stomach-turning epinephrine, I stepped over one dead body, levelled the gun on a whimper guy’s face and snatched his final breath. Blood pooled beneath their slumped bodies. Two held a hand to their wounds while simultaneously reaching for their guns. They’d die eventually, but I wanted to ensure their demise. I shot them at close range, caught Rex crawling toward the wall, generating safe distance between us.

“Liam,” he whispered, and I knew he was disappointed by the way he addressed me. “What have ye done?”

I couldn’t look at him. “They were going to kill you.”

“Why do ye possess a gun? Ye are just eighteen years old,” he barked, dragging himself into a firm stance. “Ye got yer whole life ahead of ye, Warren! Ye fucked it all up, huh? Comin’ in here all brassy and—fuck.” Snatching a handful of hair, he tugged at his roots. “I’ll take the heat—tell them I did it.”

“No, you won’t,” I said in a calm voice. “Those were my murders.”

His jaw slackened. “Are ye out of ye goddamn mind!” I stepped closer, and he wilted on the spot. “Stay back!”

I lowered the gun to the floor. “Rex, I’d never hurt you.”

“Shite,” he breathed, lips trembling in aftermath shock. “I know, lad. I’m just a little shaken is all.”

Adapted abandonment and condemnation sprouted against old, rooted reservations. I glanced around the gym, knowing it’d be the last time with a sad smile on my face. “How much do you owe him?”

Humiliation moulded his morose expression. “Fifty Grand. And I’ll pay it…” He flickered his eyes over the dead bodies. “I don’t know how to explain those, though.” Collapsing on a metal chair, he placed a hand on his chest, inwardly soothing his flustered heart. “I don’t know what to do.”

I squatted beside one male, frisked his pockets. Opening his wallet, I thumbed through business cards, instincts highlighting the green and gold emblem. “Jerry’s bar?”

Rex levelled me with a sidelong glance. “Jerry’s the big boss,” he substantiates unspoken ambiguities, nerves suffocating his erratic breathing. “Ye need to leave the East End, lad. Keep yer head down and stay safe. I can deal with them.”

I nodded, blinking damp from my eyes. “What about the bodies?”

“I’ll rid them,” he said, chewing his thumbnail. “Don’t ye be worryin’ about me, Warren Get out of here.” He shoved my shoulder, flapping a hand to the door. “Go, lad. Move on.” His voice broke, redness brimming his eyes. “Go on.”

I clenched and unclenched my jaw. “Fucking hell.” Wrapping an arm around his neck, I lingered a kiss atop his head, not wanting to let go.

He fisted my hoodie, muffling sobs against my chest. “Go,” he rasped, but I didn’t release him. “Don’t make this harder for me, lad.”

Dislodging the lump in my throat, I dipped my head, kissed his bruised cheek and staggered out the building.

Back at the bedsit, I rushed to pack my two holdalls, carefully placed the turntable at the bottom, stuffed drugs, jewellery and money inside spare shoes.

I’d leave tomorrow night, after dealing with a few loose ends. Yeah, I had to finish what I started.

Zipping up the bags, I set them near the table, sat on the chair and made a deck on the table. Shaping and rolling my joint, I balanced the roach between my lips, lit the end and inhaled well-needed detachment.

Recalling the message on my phone, I picked it up and read.

Unknown number: Hey.

Blowing out a slew of smoke, I hovered a thumb over the delete button.

Me: You changed your number?

Unknown number: New phone.

Unknown number: I am not hounding you, Liam. I was thinking about you, and, well, I wanted to know if you were okay.

I saved her as a contact.

Me: Where are you?

B: Home.

Collecting my bags, balancing the straps on my shoulders, I locked my front door, stuffed the keys in my pockets and walked ahead.

Me: Rex told me you were in the Bahamas with Conor.

Three minutes passed before her response.

B: Yeah, I soaked up the sun. It’s a beautiful place.

Me: Tan?

B: I wish. I burnt like a crisp and blistered.

Me: Still lily-white then?

B: Har! Har! You’re no better, Milky Kid!

I snorted, letting haze roll around the back of my throat.

Me: You with him?

B: What?

Me: Your dickhead boyfriend. Is he there now?

Another two minutes.

B: Why?

I pushed past her garden gate.

Me: What about your mother?

B: Did you just walk up the driveway?

I rapt my knuckles on her front door.

B: Liam! You cannot be serious!

Me: Open the door, B.

Bronagh unlocks the door, glaring at me beneath furrowed eyebrows. “What if my mother was home?”

I rudely entered, dropping my bags in the foyer. “You were on holiday,” I whispered, positioning my hands to the wall beside her head. “It was fun until Conor pissed you off, right?”

She narrowed her eyes. “My granddad is such a blabbermouth.”

I gave her a wolfish smirk. “Your mother blamed you—said you couldn’t handle your alcohol.” I untied her robe, parting the silk material. Fuck. Why does she wear something so sexy to bed? White lace adorns her flawless body. “She stuck up for dickhead, so you took the first flight home.”

“I shouldn’t have texted you,” she breathed, allowing my hand to smooth over her curved waistline. “What’s with the bags?”

I moved back, eliminated my hoodie and T-shirt.

Bronagh admired my chest, fingers tugging the waistband of my trousers. “You’re leaving.” I stepped out of my bottoms. Everything else followed suit. “I don’t know how I feel about that.”

I lowered to one knee, curled my fingers around her thong, pulling down to reveal her timed pussy.

“Liam,” she whispered, fisting my hair, “please don’t leave.”

Parting her lips with my thumbs, I swipe my tongue through her cleft, avoiding the spot I know she craves. I got time to kill, so I ravish Bronagh with deliberate strokes, teasing her throbbing heat. It’s been too long since we touched, but I’ll never forget what she appreciates. I suckled on her clit, earning myself a guttural mewl. “Like that?” I husked, devouring, smearing her arousal on my lips. “B?”

Her trembling legs buckled at the knees. I snatched the backs of her thighs, forcing her to stand. “I’ll come,” she cries, spine arching off the wall. “Liam.”

Bronagh’s sensitive, so I taunted her with further swipes, loving those protesting sounds she makes.

Bearing a cocky grin, I rose to full height, opened my mouth to fire a witty comment—and her lips slanted across mine. “Fuck,” I groaned, back colliding with the wall, capturing her in my arms. “B.”

Arms enveloping around my neck, she coerced me toward the sofa, hauling me atop her. I fit perfectly between her slackened thighs, cock hanging heavily between us. “Let me fuck you,” I growled, dragging her earlobe between gritted teeth.

Unclasping her bra, she flung it over the sofa, wrapping her legs around my waist. “Take your time,” she pleads, peppering kisses all over my face. “Don’t rush, Liam.”

“We got all night,” I reassured her, bracing one hand above her head, slamming my hips forward. “Fucking hell.” I buried deep, eased back to thrust again. “I need to fuck, B.”

Mouth parting on a hollow moan, she dug the heels of her feet onto my backside, silently encouraging.

I didn’t care for the longing look in her misleading eyes or the whispered sentiments she repeated in my ear. I needed hard, fast, uncaring sex—the type of sex where you lose yourself and forget.

“Oh, shite,” she purred, clinging to my body as I pummelled into her. “Oh, Liam. I missed this so much—missed you.”

I sank my teeth in her neck, adding pain, pressure, enough to silence her.

Bronagh came twice before I mustered enough strength to reach the finish line.

I should have left.

I should have checked into a hotel.

“Ride me.” Helping her mount my cock, I slapped her ass, sat back and admired those bouncing tits as she fucked me into submission. “Harder, B.”

Hand to my shoulders, she rolled her hips, bounced up and down my length, ass cheeks slapping against my thighs.

“Fuck, yes.” Cupping her breasts, I pinched her nipples, matched her thrust for thrust. “Don’t stop; I’m close.”

Three hours subsequent to hot living room sex, I crawled over her breathless body, hands fisting her pink bedsheets, hips pressed to hers. It didn’t matter how many times I overcame exuberance; I craved more.

She bared her pale body to me. Swollen, red predatorial marks bruised her neck, shoulders, stomach, back and inner thighs. Yeah, I’m a dick. I know Conor disembarks tomorrow, so I left my stamp all over his girl.

“Oh, Jesus,” she cries, fingernails piercing my back as she comes, milking my aching cock. “Liam.”

I eased out of her, slumped onto the mattress, face meshing into the pillow. “I am fucked.”

She dazedly nods her head. Vibrant red hair fanned across the sheets. “Do ye want a drink?”

“No.” Naked and soaked in sweat, I leave the bedroom, grab a joint and a lighter from my trouser pocket and return to her side. “Want some?”

“Please.” Propping onto an elbow, she watched me inhale, waiting her turn. “Did ye miss me, Liam?”

“Don’t ruin it,” I said harshly, passing her the goods. “I’m leaving the East End, B.” Her teary eyes diverted to the window to watch rain splatter. “I’m not coming back.”

A tear rolled down her cheek. “Can we stay in touch?”

“Sure,” I lied, kissing the column of her neck. “Fuck. I’m hard again.”

“Ye incorrigible,” she teased, blowing smoke toward the ceiling. “Do I want to know where the stamina amounted from?”

Julie, I thought, adjusting my chain. “No.”

“Did ye sleep around?”

“Did you fuck Conor?”

“Fair enough,” she quips, pressing a kiss to my shoulder. She held out the joint, and I shook my head. “Want me to ride ye again?”

I smirked, stretching out on the bed. “Let’s get some sleep first.”

I waited for Bronagh to relax beside me. In no time, breathing evened out, curled up on her side. Being careful not to disturb her, I soared from the bed, gathered my clothes and changed in the living room.

Unzipping one bag, I fossick through scattered contents, found bullets, slipped them in the chamber, equipped myself and discarded my phone.

Once more, with the clothes on my back and an extra bag, I ambled the streets with the morning sun as my witness, armed and ready for mass destruction.

Chapter 9

Alexa

Disembodied footsteps thudded around me. I felt a soft, warm hand knead aback my neck before two muscular arms elevated me off the ground.

Rousing to the sound of wearied, murmuring words, I pressed my cheek to my keeper’s chest, oddly embracing his closeness.

“Alexa,” Jace rasped in my ear, lips brushing my lobe, “I need you to open your eyes.”

I smelt a night of vodka on his breath. Nose wrinkling, I licked my dry lips, unquenchable thirst thickening my throat. “My head hurts.”

He positioned me on something cold, gently placing my back to a wall.

I lazily opened my eyes, hands numb, rested on the kitchen counter.

Jace dipped his head. Through sad, red brimmed eyes, his studious concern flickered over my twisted features. “Shit,” he murmurs, cupping a hand to his mouth. “Let me clean you up.”

Eyebrows snapping together in bafflement, I evaluated our previous disarray. He’s yet to clean the aftermath of our shambolic altercation. Broken bottles, glass and that hideous lace mar the wooden floor alongside overturned furniture and damaged picturesque canvases. “What happened to the ocean?” I croaked, scrutinising the paintings impaired four corners and ruptured art.

Jace stayed tight-lipped, drenching a hand towel with cold water. He inspected the scratches on my thighs, checked for glass shards and cleaned painless wounds attentively.

Breathing out an alleviated breath, I swallowed to satiate thirst, examining his inflamed, busted knuckles. “What happened to your hands?”

His fingers tightened around the cloth. “I got mad.” Leaving me on the counter, he meandered between overturned disruption and returned with a leather satchel. He individually organised medical equipment beside me. “Here.” He handed me an unopened vodka bottle. “Get some of this down you.”

Confusion weighed worryingly on my chest. “Why?” In a careful, guarded manner, he pressed a cold compress beneath my eye, and excruciating pain zapped through me, right to the bone. “Holy shit,” I shrieked, whacking his hand away, noting fresh blood on the cloth. “Jace…”

“Lid-cheek,” he said tightly, biting his lower lip. “You need stitches.”

I am confident that I paled. “Please tell me that you’re joking,” I argued, touching my raw flesh with analytic fingertips. Blood dampens my fingers, too much blood. “I’m going to be sick.”

“No,” he protests, unscrewing the vodka, cajoling me to drink. “Get it down you.”

Nausea pirouettes in my stomach. “No, Jace. I am seriously going to vomit—” I dry-heaved, shoulders hunching forward. I bury my head in the sink, retching nothing but bile-tasting saliva.

Jace rubbed my back, dabbing dribble from my lips and chin. “You need to drink vodka.”

Puffing out a regrouping breath, I set the bottle to my lips, guzzling ferocious dauntlessness. “Will it scar?” I asked, using the back of my hand to wipe my mouth. “I don’t want any needles.”

“I don’t know,” he answered honestly, preparing and snipping adhesive strips. “And I am not using a needle, Alexa. I do need to close the cut, though.”

I wriggled my clammy fingers, rubbing them on the ruined purple dress. “Thank God.”

Jace washed his hands, snapped on a pair of sterile gloves and pinched the hollowness beneath my eye.

Hissing through gritted teeth, I straightened, closing my eyes as he applied strips. “Why do you stockpile gloves?” I wondered aloud, downing another vodka shot. “It’s weird.”

“I’m a tattoo artist,” he reminds me, arranging a second stitch. “I think this might scar.”

Of course, my unfortunate-self was destined for additional imperfections. “Whatever.”

A line appeared between his meshed brows. “I am sorry,” he said, but I cared not for his meaningless expression of guilt. “I shouldn’t have lost my temper on you.”

Is this man seriously deranged? Such snarky remarks irritated the tip of my tongue. Jace, cruel, uncaring and unapologetic, plans to deliver me to a sadistic, perverted sexual predator yet he regrets scarring my profile. His incomprehensible interpretations continue to render me speechless. “No problem,” I muttered in disbelief, vodka beginning to take effect. “This,” I point to my eye, “is the least of my worries, right?”

Finalising the stitches, he tore off the gloves, hurled them in the sink. “I think glue would’ve been more effective,” he explains, unappeased by his butchered handiwork. “Those do the trick, though.”

What-the-fuck-ever. “Splendid.”

Unzipping a gym bag, Jace searched for a clean tracksuit. “Here.” He drops black slacks and a hoodie on my lap. “Put something warm on.”

His conflicted, confused state of mind disturbs me.

Slipping off the counter, being careful to dodge glass, I headed to the bathroom, closed the door behind me and ripped the dress from my body. I stepped into the jogging pants, lingered at the sink, checked my reflection in the wall-mounted mirror. “Shit,” I cursed, yanking on the hoodie.

Yes, Jace’s botched patchwork is going to leave a beautiful scar.

Thank you, asshole.

Cupping cold water In my palms, I soaked my neck to soothe overheated flushes and dried my hands with a rough towel.

I hear muffled music. He’s turned on the television.

Cracking open the door, I glimpse into the cavernous, echoing space, watching him prepare porridge at the microwave. I slipped a furtive glance to the staircase, eyes virtually popping out of my head.

Jace left the door open.

Previously, Jace claimed he’d stockpiled feminine hygiene products. His extensive journey to the other room and newfound earthy scent suggested otherwise. No, he hadn’t amassed said female necessities. His web of dishonesties stemmed from nervousness. He doesn’t want me to be cognizant of our surroundings, or for me to possibly escape and find help.

I eyed the opened door once more.

“Alexa,” he called, and I bristled. “Your food is ready.”

Before I could talk myself out of it, I belted across the room and ascended the stairs to the sound of his panicked voice.

Hurrying over the threshold, I sprinted down the narrow hall, hearing his loud footsteps bellowing behind me. “Come on,” I cried, thumping into the front door, rattling the handle. It flew open and strong winds greeted me, whooshing through my untamed hair.

Bare feet sinking into swamp-like grounds, I sprinted across vast greenery, directionless, knowing this impulsive escape was my last shot to freedom.

Mud sludges between my toes, the dark, starless sky blanketed our vicinage.

“Alexa!” Jace roared and, in frantic haste, magnetises toward me. “Don’t do this!”

I looked over my shoulder, seeing his nearing shadow and picked up the pace. Arms swinging at my sides, I caught my foot on a grass-obscured boulder, plummeted into overgrown speers and crawled hysterically, stifling my erratic sobbing.

“Alexa,” he groaned, his movements curtailing, seemingly hesitant. “Please.”

I waited, flattened myself to the ground, filthy palms smothering my mouth.

Brittle twigs cracked under his weight.

I held oxygen to the back of my throat, temples pulsing, igniting a painful headache. I regulated my breathing, forearms meshed to the mud and sniper through long, damp grass, deafening his desperate plea.

“I don’t want to hurt you.” His lie coincided with a click of a gun. “Don’t make me hurt you, Alexa.”

I locate a tree, snake my vibrating body around the coarse bark, trembling from uncontrollable adrenaline. I see Jace’s silhouette. He oscillates, hand falling to another tree, head lowering in what looks like a defeated stance. “Please,” he moaned, stumbling along, checking behind trees and kicking through overgrown grass.

Blinking back overwhelming tears, I waited for him to venture further, lessening my thunderous heartbeat. Timid and unsure, I retraced, crawling in the opposite direction. I thanked my lucky stars for the shrouding grassland.

In the distance, tempestuous waves crashed against the cliffside coalescing with ear-splitting thunderclaps, and a flash of lightning illuminated the depressing skies. Drizzles gradually turned into a violent downpour, beating harshly against me.

The cottage-like building came into my peripheral vision. Going back wasn’t an option as I knew he’d return eventually.

On the two occasions that I ineffectually fleeted from Jace, I automatically veered right. I need to reverse course and see what’s beyond—a hand snatched me by the scruff of my hair, ripping an alarmed scream from my throat. “Get off me!”

Jace wrapped his arms around my body, thwarting my spasmodic writhing. “Stop,” he barked, lifting and hurling me across one shoulder. “Quit fucking screaming, Alexa.”

“I hate you!” I yelled, laying into his backside with closed fists. Slapping two palms onto his ass, elevating my body into a strong position, I hunted beneath his bunched-up hoodie, located sodden flesh and sank my teeth into his skin.

“Alexa!” He flinched, smacking the back of my thigh. “That’s enough.”

I relented, sagging against his back, arms weakened downward. I opened my mouth, preparing to unleash uproarious vituperation. I cried instead, using the end of his hoodie to muffle throat-burning sobs.

Jace’s hold on me softened a touch, but he persisted, keeping me close until reaching the cottage.

I heard the door slam and lock behind us. He sloped the stairs, broken glass and fragmented ceramic crushing beneath his heavy-duty boots. “Change,” he ordered, chucking my body onto the sofa. “Now.”

“No,” I protest, curling onto my side, hiding my face under a threadbare scatter cushion.

For fifteen minutes, Jace busied himself, sweeping carnage from the floor and correcting overturned furnishings.

Tears streamed down my cheeks, and I tasted salty heartbreak on my tongue. I shivered against the cold, saturated clothes clinging to my skin.

Jace showered and changed into jeans and a black fitted T-shirt. He believes that I fell asleep. I am far from tired, though. Rather, I am wide-awake, watching him under the pillow.

Hauling a chair to the table, he becomes seated and downs vodka like water. His gaze briefly flashed in my direction, and I shut my eyes just in case. Dimness suddenly tranquilised the room, a soft light creating a peaceful atmosphere.

Another shot of vodka, he swallowed.

Reading something on his phone, he hovered a thumb over the screen, fingers whitening as he vigorously clenches. Tossing it aside, he stood, changed the television channel, selecting a radio station. Soft rock music resounded, quite relaxing.

My clothes will dry soon. Jace was right, though. I needed to change, warm-up. Stubbornness got the better of me. I’d instead freeze than obey him further. “Kill me,” I whispered, and his eyes jerked, finding my melancholic gaze, peering over the pillow. “Please, Jace. I can’t endure enslavement again. It hurts.”

“I’m not a bad person,” he said quietly, nursing the vodka bottle. “I’m a good guy, Alexa.” His ambivalent, saddened expression almost inflated hope. “For what it’s worth, I am sorry.”

The phone vibrated.

He ground his jaw, glanced at the screen and rubbed a tattooed hand over his face. Elbows to the table, he collapsed his head into two palms, wrestling his sudden frenetic gasping.

Jace’s radiating ambivalence and pain became distressing. I sat up, lowering the pillow to the floor and took cautious steps toward him. “Breathe,” I said, clutching aback his neck, thumb massaging his flushed skin. “Breathe, Jace.”

He choked back a painful sob, hands tousling his hair. “Alexa,” he moaned, unable to catch his breath, fingers tugging at the roots. “My…chest…”

Rushing to the sink, I soaked a hand towel, returned to his side and dabbed sweat dews from his creased forehead. “Slowly,” I encouraged, recalling Liam’s soothing voice and calm approach. “In and out, Jace. Nice and slow.”

Inhaling a choppy breath, he respired, repeating the process.

“Panic attack,” I whispered, perching onto another chair, keeping us close. “I get them a lot.”

He snatched my wrist. I froze, awaiting his hostile lambasting. “A lot?” he asked breathlessly, and I nodded. “It’s like drowning.”

I nod again.

Exhaling a shuddered puff of air, he loosened his vice-like grip on my wrist. “I don’t know what to do,” he said in a low, hollow voice. “I don’t know how to fix this without somebody getting hurt.”

I sank back against the chair, his words repeating inside my head.

It belatedly hit me.

“Stop,” he rasped, breathing heavily into a clenched fist. “I don’t want to hear this.”

“I escaped, Jace,” I cried, throat tightening on sobs. “I unclipped my wings. Please reconsider and let me go. I won’t tell anyone what happened between us; I promise—”

“No,” he barked, tumbling on the sofa. “It’s a non-negotiable transaction, Alexa. Quit trying to get inside my head and ready yourself for the morning.”

Through glassy eyes, Jace put the bottle to his lips, guzzling vodka. Clear liquid trickled down his chin and he left it there, offering me his poison.

I curled my fingers around the bottleneck. “Who is she?”

He shot me a sharp look. “Who?”

“The woman you plan to exchange for me,” I said affirmatively, knocking back a vodka shot. “She must be special. Why else would you go through such barbaric lengths to restrain me?” I half-joked, but his devastating countenance sustained. “After all this? The least you can do is edify me.”

Jace inched close, draping an arm across the back of my chair. “I hate myself,” he admits, tucking loose hair behind my ear. “Why you, Alexa?”

I didn’t understand the question. “No woman deserves what’s in store for me, Jace.”

“I know,” he agreed, working on a tight swallow. “It’s easier to hate you.”

“Do you?” I mused, lower lips rolling between my teeth. “Do you hate me?”

“No.” He swept a tear from my cheek with his thumb. His teary eyes mirrored mine. “I think it’s impossible for anyone to hate someone like you.” Snivelling, he fell back in his chair, staring into space. “Her name is Summer…”

(Jace’s flashback)

“The sun may rise in the East at least it’s settled in a final location. It’s understood that Hollywood sells Californication.”

Turning up the car radio, I drove with one hand. “Firstborn unicorn. Hardcore soft porn. Dread of Californication,” I sing, adjusting a pair of aviators over my eyes. “Come on.” Beeping the horn, I prompted the driver ahead to pass through green traffic lights, easing onto the accelerator.

I stopped at another set of traffic lights, drumming my fingers against the steering wheel.

Winding down the window to generate a soft summertime breeze, I drive at haste paste, frequently glancing at my wristwatch. “Fuck.” Forty-five minutes until a client’s due to land.

Turning a sharp corner, I bolt down the street, slam on the breaks and kill the black, 1980′s Chevy. Okay, so the pick-up truck has seen better days, but I love those four wheels and don’t plan on upgrading anytime soon.

Chin-wagging women gossip near the wrought-iron gates, theatrically criticising their lazy husbands. One bodacious brunette gives me a kittenish grin, absently buttoning her lilac cardigan.

I returned her fondness with a coy, tight smile, resting my back to the polychromatic wall, folding my arms.

Building doors bursting open, I observe, eyes skimming over the dispersing sea of heads, looking for soft, blonde, bouncy curls. Bag fixed to her chest, Summer bounds down the concrete steps. Her sullen expression and pouty lips, sending an ache to my heart. “Summer.”

Her green eyes sought mine, and she dashed toward me.

I crouched, gathering her weightless body in my arms. “What’s wrong, baby girl?”

“I hate school,” she complains, coiling an arm around my neck as I carried her to the truck. “Nobody likes me.”

“What?” Unlocking the truck door, I slipped her onto the booster seat, fastening the seat belt. “Impossible. Everyone likes you.”

She waits until I fall behind the wheel. “Why do they make fun of me?”

I turned at the waist, looking at her stropping in the back. “Who makes fun of you?”

“Those girls,” she stressed as if it were obvious. “They call me bad names.” Chucking her backpack on the floor, she crossed her arms, pouting like a duck. “They think you killed my mum.”

A painful slam hit me in the chest. “They are quite the storytellers.” I cannot pummel seven-year-old children. I can, however, beat the crap out of their fathers.

“They say that you’re weird,” she continues, and I frowned. “′ Cause you got all that inks on your skin.”

That’s a reasonable reason for churlishness, I suppose. “Do you think I’m weird, baby girl?”

She hesitated, so I leaned in, tickling her waist. “No!” she screamed, kicking her legs out. “I’m ticklish!”

“Really?” I feigned unawareness. “Who’d have thought, huh?”

“Stop it!” she laughs, blocking my half-hearted attack. “Okay! You’re not weird.”

“Good,” I alleviate, firing the engine. “I almost had to eat you.”

“I’ll eat you back,” she retorts, watching the trees fade through the window.

I kept an eye on her via the rear-view mirror. “So, about these kids…” I hedged, clicking my tongue. “Do you want me to have a word with your teacher?” I’ll be chewing Mrs Matthews ear off regardless. “Get her to keep an eye on stuff.”

“What would you do if somebody made fun of you or somebody that you loved?”

I’d punch them in the face. “I’d speak to an adult.”

Summer sighed, fixing her pink-glitter headband. “Okay. Maybe you should speak to Mrs Matthews for me.”

“I’m already on it, baby girl.” I altered radio stations, pausing at the traffic lights.

“Can we eat pizza?” she asked, admiring the black Peyton dolly shoes on her feet. “Oh! Can we go to the park?”

“Not tonight, Summer.” Steering ahead, I changed gears, relaxing in my seat. “Yes to pizza, though.”

“I hate my life,” she muttered under her breath.

I scoffed. “Don’t be dramatic.”

“You never take me to the park.”

“That’s a lie.”

“Is not.”

My cheeks sank. “I took you to the park last week.”

“No, you didn’t,” she retorted. “It was a whole month ago!”

“Oh, so I did take you to the park?”

Her silence stretched between us.

I glimpse over my shoulder.

Morose and deflated, she plays with her dungaree buttons, a million miles away.

I hate seeing Summer upset. She’s a good kid—never demanding, spoilt or expectant. Considering our circumstance, she seldom complains and accepts whatever I throw her way. It’s been fast-paced, impromptu without routine or foreseeable knowledge. Give her a break, I thought. “Okay,” I relented, and her eyes widened a fraction. “I’ll take you to the park—thirty minutes, though, Summer. I’m working on a client this evening.”

She nodded. “I promise to be really quick.”

Ten minutes later, I park the Chevy opposite a park where rumbustious children scatter in delight and amassed parents soak-up the sun.

Stationed picnics and smouldering throwaway barbeques pervade the humid air.

I was suddenly famished.

Summer held my hand as we crossed the road, entering the park through a metal gate. “I’m gonna sit over there,” I tell her, pointing toward the single bench, shaded by a tree. “Don’t go too far. I want to keep an eye on you.”

“Okay.” She skipped ahead, and then unexpectedly rushed back, wrapping her arms around my waist. “I love you, daddy.”

“Love you, too.” I nudged her toward the swings. “Have fun—and be careful around those boys,” I yelled in her wake, and a humiliating shade crept over her cheeks. “Or I’ll set the hounds on them.”

I didn’t own one dog, let alone a pack.

Summer was going to kill me for that line.

I sat on a bench and texted my manager to prepare him for lateness and tipped the sunglasses atop my head.

Scaling the metal climbing frame, Summer positioned her feet on the bars, learning from other children. While she’s occupied, I dialled the school office number, putting the phone to my ear.

The receptionist answered. “St Rom—”

“It’s Jace,” I cut in, fingers clenching the phone. “Jace Williams. Summer’s father. Listen, I don’t want to come across abrupt or argumentative, but this is the fifth time my daughter’s come home from school, stressing out over bullies.”

“Mr Williams—”

“I called last week,” I over talked, and she audibly sighed. “And you assured me that Mrs Matthews had dealt with it. Now, before you feed me any more bullshit? Fuck off. Either you address this situation professionally and help my baby girl, or I’ll take this to the council and sue your fucking ass.” Ending the call, I palmed my phone, a slew of profanities escaping my lips.

I espied Summer playing with two girls on the grass and a broad smile numbed my cheeks—

“Do you mind if I sit here?” a feminine voice asked, and before I could protest, she helped herself to my bench. “I need some shade.”

“No problem,” I lied, dragged my tongue piercing between gritted teeth. “Nice hat.”

Her long blond hair sits beneath a sports cap. “Thanks.” Leaning forward, she knots her shoelaces, exposing a silver of back and a heart tattoo on her lower spine. “I prefer running when it’s cold.” Her tight-fitted sportswear leaves little to the imagination. “We’re not getting much rain nowadays, though.”

I hummed in response.

“I love your tattoos.” She admired the ink around my neck. “I’m a fan.”

Good for you. “Do you have any?”

She nodded meekly. “Only one.” Arching her spine, she lifts her vest, showcasing a small tattoo. “I got it when I was seventeen.” She grimaced. “Now, I am left with a tramp stamp.”

I burst out laughing. “Can you at least blame it on the alcohol?”

“Unfortunately, no. I was a willing, rebellious participant who made an unpremeditated decision to get back at my father.”

I didn’t ask her to elaborate. “If you hate it so much,” Summer’s relocated to the colourful tarmac, playing hopscotch, “why haven’t you had a cover-up?”

Unscrewing a sports bottle, she thirstily downed water, and I found myself oddly fascinated by the way she licked her lips. Fuck. I need to get laid. It’s been long—too long since I took a woman to bed.

“I probably will,” she said, recapping her bottle. “When I muster enough courage.” She turned to face me, cheeks a dark shade of red. “I don’t normally do this, but I saw you sitting here and…” Embarrassment claimed her heart-shaped features. “Do you want to grab a coffee sometime?”

My eyebrows jumped to my hairline. “I don’t date,” I decided to be honest. “I’m too busy, and I got my kid to worry about—”

“Oh,” she exclaims, eyes darting around the park. “Of course. I understand. I mean, wow. Aren’t you a little young to be a father?”

It was an innocuous question. “Twenty-three is hardly too young in today’s world.”

“True,” she agrees, ready to flee. “How old is…?”

“Summer,” I add, and we stood in tandem. “And she’s seven.”

She does the maths inside her head. I wait for her judgemental comment, or haste departure. “Nice,” she whispered, lingering close. “Does she look like you?”

No, she’s Lucy’s double. “She has my eyes.” I glance toward the tarmac, eyebrows furrowing. “You can see for yourself…” Searching our proximity, I drowned out screaming children, checking near the swings. “I’ll be right back.”

I moved forward, extending my neck, peering at the slides. “Summer?” I called, wading between an apparatus and a towering wooden sandpit.

A kid jumped out before me. I dodged him, head dashing in every direction, body twisting. “Summer?”

Don’t panic, I thought, thudding heart rate accelerating, whacking against my ribcage. “Baby?”

Limbs becoming jelly, I stumbled, caught my frantic footing, ducked my head into the playhouse. I count the children, resurface, rake a hand through my hair. “Summer!” I shout, gaining the attention of other parents.

She’s hiding.

Why would she hide?

She knows I don’t like that.

Everything around me slowed down, and surrounding conversationalists dimmed.

Panic-stricken, I see a beaten-up white transit van, slowly waning into the distance.

You don’t need confirmation as a parent.

It’s an agonising gut instinct.

You just know.

“No,” I whispered, breaking into a fast sprint, evading advancing parents, jumping over strewn picnic blankets, belting toward the departing vehicle. “Summer!” I caught my boot on something, fell into a heap but staggered up just as quickly. “No.”

Not caring for oncoming traffic, I ran across the road while fishing out the Chevy keys, ripped open the door, collapsed behind the wheel and revved the engine, tires shrieking. I went full-throttle, tearing down the street, the white van speeding ahead. “Come on,” I barked, beeping the horn, zigzagging through vehicles. “Get out of my fucking way!”

One hand on the wheel, I tapped my phone to dial the emergency services when it vibrated in my hand.

Unknown number.

My heart stopped beating.

I blinked, slow, sweat on the ends of my lashes.

“I knew she was in that van.” Jace downed vodka. “What kind of father takes his eyes off his kid?”

I didn’t recoil.

I was devastated, heartbroken, feeling every ounce of his pain.

“I felt it,” he said throatily, a guttural sob, ripping from his chest. “I felt it, Alexa.” He slumped down the wall, bleeding inconsolable tears into his hands.

I fostered inner strength, numbed myself, wiped tears from my cheeks and sat on the floor beside him. “Jace.” Putting my arm around his shoulder, I coerced him into my arms. “It’s okay. You need to let it out.”

He relented, sagging against me, head falling to my thighs, fingers painfully digging into my skin. I stared at the wall while he broke his heart, wishing I could ease the pain for him.

Jace’s bottled-up emotions and agonising cries will forever invade my nightmares. It’s a gut-wrenching image, seeing such a strong, powerful man, sobbing like a little boy.

I had a sudden urge to protect him.

His arms wound around my waist, hugging me back, clinging to me like I’m his lifeline.

I whimpered a thousand promises in his ear. “We’ll get her back.” I comb my fingernails through his hair. “I’ll go, Jace.” I daren’t tell him what his little girl is going through. He’d never survive such gruesome knowledge. “I’ll voluntarily exchange my life for hers.”

“You shouldn’t have to.” He inhaled a choppy breath, releasing it in intervals. His hand fists my hoodie, almost as if he’s afraid of letting go. “What have I become?”

“You’re a father,” I tell him, drying his cheek with my thumb. “You’re doing whatever it takes to bring her home.”

“I need her, Alexa.” He sat taller, and our eyes aligned. “I need my baby girl,” he rasped, and I nod. “But I can’t do this to you. It’s fucking with my head…” Mental conflict and despair crucify him. “I don’t know what to do.”

“We’re bringing Summer home, Jace.” I stood, extending a hand. His fingers curled around mine, and he soared to his full height. “You need to bide us a few days,” I said, and he listened, digesting every word. “How quickly can you teach me how to handle a gun?”

His eyes bore into mine, puzzlement etching his hardened features.

“Her safety comes before mine,” I stressed, pacing back and forth. “But you can send me back—prepared and equipped. Flamur’s not stupid. He’ll send one of his men to collect me and make the exchange. I’ll feign protest. Shit, I’ll put on the waterworks if I have to.”

Jace pondered my idea. “What if they frisk you?”

“You can track me,” I suggest, patting down my body. “I’ll wear something—a bracelet, perhaps.” So many unanswered questions lingered between us. I ceased asking, though. He’s encumbered with guilt already. “Where’s my chain?”

Why hadn’t Liam traced my necklace?

He steeled his jaw, sinking onto the sofa. “We’re going to need more vodka for this conversation.”

I bite the inside of my cheek. “There’s a tracking device under the diamond.”

Jace gave me a terse nod.

“For this to work,” I sat cross-legged beside him, “we need to start being honest with each other, Jace.” Chagrined, I desperately hunted his eyes. “Jace?”

“The fire,” he husked, and I blinked rapidly in bewilderment. “They left your necklace at the crime scene.”

“What fire?” I probed, scratching the back of my neck. “Jace…”

His regretful eyes held mine. “Everyone thinks you’re dead.”

At a loss for words, I eased my head back. “What?”

Jace couldn’t respond. Overwhelmed and remorseful, he closed his eyes, pinching the lids with his thumb and forefinger.

I captured his hand, entwined our fingers together and put us shoulder-to-shoulder. “I’ve spent years running away from the monsters of my past,” I whispered, turning my head to face him. “I’m done hiding, Jace.” Understanding fired in his green hues. “I’m going to kill him.”

Chapter 10

Liam

Cheek meshed to shimmering marble floor tiles, I awakened with a painful hard-on, fenced in by women—naked women, I might add.

Our joint, inextricable limbs hindered movements. “Go away,” I croaked, closing and reopening my eyes. No, I still see variegated hair shades: short, long, unruly, matted and sweat-slicked. “Fuck.”

I tried rolling onto my back, but the boneless weight on my arm numbs the process. I craned my neck, swept a gaze over the attractive, tall and curvaceous brunette, sleeping beside me. Her perky breasts pressed up against my side, leg cocked over my thigh, pinning me to the ground. She has a decent face, beguiling features and is that a tongue piercing?

Fucking. Hell.

I examined the functionality of my semi-hard arousal with furrowed eyebrows. I cannot remember anything. I jogged my memory, recalled messaging Nate to relay orders and then taking a shower.

Yes, I definitely showered, ordered takeout and smoked a few joints.

What about the women, though?

I pondered harder for a perspicuous resolution.

Deeply emotional, grief-stricken and despondently comfortless, I’d sniffed cocaine, listened to nostalgic music and avoided the men.

Last night, however, possessed by intoxication and concupiscence, I wrestled against heartbreak and bereavement, invited women to my home and lost myself with incessant meaningless sex.

I shared alcohol and drugs with these women—do not know when or how I initiated foreplay or fucking. I assume such actions transpired—I wouldn’t be naked otherwise.

“Hey, handsome,” the blonde purred into the nook of my neck, draping an arm over my waist. “It looks like someone’s ready to play.”

“I concur.” The woman with plump lips and dark, lustrous hair nestles between my thighs. “More than ready.” Tongue peeking out, she ravished the underside of my length and, in a carnal, transfixed state, I licked my dry lips and awaited her hot mouth to engulf me. “Mm,” she moans, sucking me to the back of her throat. “Do you like that?”

She had hazel-coloured eyes, adorned with thick, fake eyelashes. I give credence to her beauty, but she’s not Alexa—none of these women surpasses or outperform my love.

“Stop,” I ordered, flinching when the blonde woman nibbled my earlobe. “Enough.”

“You heard him,” Nate drawled from somewhere, and I sighed with relief. “Get dressed and wait in the foyer. That’s an order.”

“Grouchy,” one quipped, standing in nothing but a lace thong. “You sound jealous, baby.”

Baby, I thought, freeing myself from the leaching web and stumbling to my feet.

Through tired, bloodshot eyes, I search for discarded boxer briefs, coming unstuck. Nakedness is the least of my quandaries, though. “Nate,” I said tightly, looking for used condoms. Surely, I hadn’t acted so recklessly careless. “I…”

“It’s sorted.” Nate comprehended my dilemma. “You’re not moving quick enough,” he barked at the blonde, clicking for the others to wait near the exit. “Move it.”

Placing my hands onto the kitchen counter, I put my back to the room and listened to Nate’s low, threatening voice as he forced them to sign non-non-dosclosure agreements. He administered six morning-after pills, and I only breathed when the door slammed in their departure.

Modelling all-black attire, Nate sits on the leather U-shaped sofa, signs the nondisclosure agreements and slips them into a leather-bound folder. “Am I permitted to speak freely?” He doesn’t look at me when asking such questions.

My jaw tightened. “No.”

He tossed a pen onto the coffee table. “Sir, I am not just an employee. I am one of your most trusted men and advisors and a founding member of The Brotherhood. With this in mind, I am inclined to express how irresponsibly foolish you behaved last night.” He unzipped a black holdall and chucked sterile, screw-top containers onto the coffee table. “You allowed unidentifiable, untrustworthy women into your home—a home where you store illegal drugs, weaponry and confidential documents. Not only did you fall asleep and give them free-reign to your privacy. You gave them access to unrepeatable keepsakes and irreplaceable diamonds. You exposed the safety of your men.”

“I lapsed and had a moment of weakness.” I balanced an unlit cigarette between my lips. “Fucking sue me.”

His green eyes burnt with venomous rage. “A tryst and sleeping with a bunch of escorts are more than a moment’s weakness, sir. It’s downright fucking senseless.”

“Watch your mouth,” I warned, and he slumped against the leather sofa in frustration. “Don’t forget who you’re talking to.”

“What if I hadn’t come here?” he mused, resting his elbows on his knees. “In a years’ time, you’d have women knocking the damn door, demanding childcare and hush-hush settlements.”

Filth and regret shrouded me in spine-chilling dread. “You obviated the problem to prevent such tragedies.”

“That’s irrelevant.” He pinned with me a scathing glare. “Sir, for once, just set the tyrant bullshit aside and listen—”

“I am a megalomaniac who likes to fuck. Divesting me of power and women is pointless. I am who I am.”

“Correct,” he interjects, rubbing a hand down his face. “You’re a smooth talker with the ladies. You own an empire and always get what you want. Contrariwise, you never, ever, lower your goddamn guard and expose your vulnerabilities. It’s not you. You don’t make those lousy fuck ups—ever.” His eyes searched mine. “It’s not your style, right?”

Heart thumping, aching, I averted my gaze, knowing his innocuous yet passionate speech came from a good place.

“You need to piss in those,” he reproached me softly, “so that I can screen you for sexually transmitted diseases.”

I light the cigarette, exhale a calming breath. I am not in the mood for small talk. I’d rather sequester in the penthouse, alone.

Nate watched me thoughtfully, rotating his thumb ring. “What’s on your mind, sir?”

“Besides the fact Brad warrants a backhander for this shiner,” I motion to my black eye, “not much.”

He curbed a smirk. “I stand by his decision. You were too inebriated—ready to kill your own. Putting you to sleep was the best possible outcome for everyone.”

I don’t correct him. I know he’s right. “He’s still catching a slap.”

“Brad’s expecting as much.” He stood, gingerly magnetised toward me. “Sir?”

An immobile pain strained my chest. “It didn’t work.”

His eyebrows burrow into a hard scowl. “What didn’t work?”

“Did you see the women? I selected a variety, and one of them…” I thought about the brunette with hazel-coloured eyes. “She resembled Her.” Picking them is a blur to me, but, when I roused and found that pretty, infectious smile, I understood prior demands. “She looked like Alexa.”

Nate remained tongue-tied, allowing me to continue.

“If loving, craving, grieving and needing her makes me weak?” I whispered, blinking back undesired tears. “Then, I am weak.”

He placed a cautious hand on my shoulder. “Until that moment in your office, I hadn’t realised how much Alexa meant to you, sir. You’re good at masking your emotions.”

“It’s how I learnt to survive,” I tell him, blowing out a cloud of smoke. “It’s how I learnt to breathe, surpass and overcome enduring suffering and life’s difficulties. Impassive detachment worked. I can do and say what I want and still sleep peacefully at night.

“And then I met Her. Alexa Haines.” I smiled in sentimental thought. “Like a breath of fresh air, Alexa collided into my life, so unassumingly perfect yet indelibly flawed. I had this intense urge to protect and save her from self-destruction, to bring her into our fold and abolish her grave demons.

“The day she ruined my Saint Laurent emblazoned shirt with that damn coffee,” I add, and he chuckled, “I knew she was different. The gravitational pull and connection? Fucking mind-blowing, Nate. Even if she’d never tracked me down, I’d have gone looking for her because I craved her that much. Such desires only intensified. Understand?”

He dipped his head.

“Now, I am in love with a ghost,” I said throatily, putting out the cigarette in a ceramic ashtray. “I, Liam Warren, will die loving the woman who claimed my heart. So yes, I misbehaved, imbibed drugs and alcohol and fucked my way through nameless women to forget, but I am only human. I hurt and bleed the same as everybody else. Immaterial to my notoriously high-status and bogus apathy.”

I stormed past him, collected the sterile containers, urinated in the bathroom and prayed my dick didn’t fall off.

***

“Feel the pressure—your backs against the wall. Love is gaining on you. You’re just about to fall. If you’re afraid to love, afraid to take a chance. You better hide your feelings. Get out while you can,” Nate sings, feeding the steering wheel between his hands. “‘Cause you’ll be going loco down in Acapulco. If you stay too long.”

I watched his horrific display with a grimacing snarl.

“You’ll be pulling out your hair, drowning in despair with a whole lot of nothing on your way to nowhere,” he proceeds in an oddly melodic voice, saluting the driver parked to his right, waiting at the traffic light. “You search for paradise—” I killed the music. “Sir, what the fuck? That was the best part.” He beeped the car horn, prompting the driver in front to move along. “Man, I was going loco in Acapulco!”

“Fucking hell,” I groaned, hangover irritating my temples. “It’s too early for this shit.”

“It’s never too early for the Four Tops,” he droned, turning the street corner. “Plus, it’s hardly early. Look at the sun.” He diverts into a drive-thru. “It’s booming on us.”

I rolled my eyes. “What the fuck are you doing now?”

He wound down his window.

“Hello,” a robotic voice chimed through the intercom. “Can I take your order please?”

“Can we get two double-sausage-and-egg-McMuffins? Two large coffees—black,” he emphasised, poking his head out the window. “No sugar, or that fake shit. What do you call it? Sweetener? It leaves a bad taste on my tongue.” He pursed his lips. “And chuck in some of those hash browns—extra crispy. I love those things.”

I huffed out an exasperated sigh, head resting to the headrest.

Jerking the vehicle forward, he waits at the second window. He paid for the order, tossed a brown paper bag onto my lap and balanced our coffees in the cup-holders. “Pass me a muffin, sir.”

I slap greasy fodder onto his palm. “Since when did we eat this shit?” I asked, sinking my teeth into late-breakfast. It’s pretty edible, actually. “What’s the sauce?

“Barbecue,” he confirms, chewing hash browns while driving with one hand. “I whispered an add-on—knew you’d protest otherwise.”

I sipped the coffee, nose wrinkling in disgust. “This tastes like piss.” Opening the window, I hurled our unpalatable beverages into passing shrubbery.

His eyes protruded. “I didn’t even get to taste mine.” Scarfing the reminder of his food, he scrunched-up the rubbish. “So, your text message.”

I light a cigarette, blow smoke through the window crack.

“The judge,” he drawled, easing on the accelerator and merging onto the M4, “Gary. I located his file and ran a soft background check. His squeaky clean, sir.”

No, Gary Pattison is far from righteous and honourable. It’s called money, power and influence. He’s fortunate enough to sit at the pinnacle of an authoritative table. Such privileges guarantee legal protection and safeguards inexcusable benefits.

Nate noted my unwillingness to comment. He steers the car onto the uneven tarmac, kills the engine and turns in his seat to face me. “I’m not allowed to ask questions.” Glimpsing at the church building, he clicked his tongue in short deliberation. “Well, your guy’s here, so what’s the plan?”

“Let’s go.” Opening the car door, I soared from the passenger seat, smoothed a hand down my shirt.

Ascending the concrete steps in unison, Nate opened the main door, stepped aside for me to enter.

Stained-glass windows cast many-hued shadows on the medieval floor, the church, a marvellous quintessence of concave and baroque architecture, immersing me with empty chills and sickening anxiety.

“Take me to church,” Nate sings, dipping his fingers into holy water, half-heartedly blessing himself. “Okay, I am going to hell for this.”

I threw him an amused smile. “Hades was on the table beforehand.”

“Still,” he shivered, his condemning eyes digesting monumental shrines, “I get the feeling the eternal fires of hell just added me to insufferable torture chambers.”

“We haven’t done anything,” I assured him, and he breathed. “Yet.”

“Sir,” he whisper-shouts, following me through the wooden pews. “Look at Jesus.”

I found Jesus’ gaze. His ostentatious graven image dominates the back wall—an all-seeing eye, sacrilegious denouncing and warding off wicked wrongdoers. “I didn’t know you abide by Catholicism fate, Nate.”

“I don’t,” he stated firmly, cutting the Lord’s son with a scathing glare. “Having said that, entering hallowed grounds and spilling sanctified blood is something fucking else entirely.”

Husky laughter vibrated in my chest. “Again, I will ask, who said anything about killing somebody?”

“You are Liam Warren.” Nate produced a mordant, knowing look. “There ain’t no other reason for us being here.”

Touché.

I entered the vesting room and skimmed over the sacristy items. “What’s his role?” I lifted gold-plated cast-off altar bells, pinged them. “Gary, I mean.”

“Choir service,” he explains, opening a bread box. “They look like stale milky buttons.” He pops one through his lips, tongue cleaved to the top of his mouth. “These motherfuckers don’t melt.”

I tossed a lavabo towel at him. “Why are you eating those?”

“Always wondered what sacramental bread tasted like.” He regurgitated mush onto the towel. “Overrated.”

Unlocking another brown door, I entered an unilluminated narrow hallway, admiring long-stretched vitrail windows.

My footsteps faltered.

Thanks to my distressing past, profound perspicacious abilities characterised and aided me through life. I sense fast-paced danger, deadly threats and inexpugnable gruesomeness. I am no soothsayer, but I am sharp-witted.

“Have you read the bible before?” Nate thumbs through stockpiled hardcovers on the bookshelf. “What about mythology?”

I reach for the Desert Eagle, clammy fingers curling around the cold handle. Pausing near a closed door, I close my eyes, listen to a muffled disturbance on the other side—another unspeakable memory to tarnish my thought process.

“Fear not,” Nate reads a passage, “for I am with you.”

I abruptly kicked the door handle, dismantling the flimsy lock.

Throned behind a mahogany desk, Gary bellowed from his seat, frantically fixing his unzipped trousers. “What is this?” A hot flush threatened his puffy cheeks. His emitting arousal permeates the humid, stuffy air. “Warren?”

Gun pointed at his head, I rapt my knuckles onto the desk, unable to steer my promising glare. “Get up,” I ordered, and a young boy crawled into my peripheral vision. “Stand.”

“I can explain—”

“Shut up!” My angry voice slices through Gary’s pathetic whimper. “You. To the wall.”

Aquiver on restless legs, the young lad, whose eyes never left mine, pressed his back to the wall.

“Nate,” I barked, and his shadow befell on me. “Who is the Devil?”

“The personification of evil,” he said in a hushed, distressed tone.

“And what is the extent of Satanic power?” Gary almost stood; I jerked the gun. “Move one fucking muscle, and I’ll end you.”

“Immutability,” Nate proceeds, glaring at the man cowering behind his desk. “Profound immorality and wickedness.” Diverting his attention to the lad, he asked, “How old are you?”

“Eleven,” he whispered, nerves rattling his bones. “Please can I go home?”

I smoothed my finger over the trigger, aloofly watching the lad. “Have you read the bible?”

His white robe buries his small frame. “Yes.”

“Then you understand that evil is incarnate in the Devil,” I said, and he nods. “A fallen angel who terrorises the world through evil. As his servant, do you see how easily I can allure innocent souls to my saviour?”

He flatted his lips.

“I asked you a question,” I shouted, the muscles in my shoulders coiling.

“Yes,” he sobbed, chapped lips wobbling. “I think I understand.”

“I was sent here today to fortify a tribunal of penance.” I tower over him, deliberately instilling fear. “My God is not yours. He’s the worst of our kind, and he’s very fucking angry. That man,” I cocked the gun, and Gary pleaded his pitiable excuses, “is not the Lord’s servant. He is a wolf in sheep’s clothing, prying off the innocence of a young boy.”

The boy’s wet eyes eased to the floor.

“This will be your last encounter.” I fist his collar. “Learn the proverbial principle. See no evil. Hear no evil. Speak no evil. If you leave and spout your mouth off about what’s transpired here today, I will reappear beneath the safety of your bed and drag you to satanic infernal. Have I made myself abundantly fucking clear?” He glanced at Gary for guidance. “Don’t look at him. He’s nothing but a demonic soul masked in misleading vestments.”

I shoved him toward Nate, who dodged the lad’s blundering fall. His knees crashed against the floor.

“Repeat,” I ordered, and he scampered toward the door. “Now.”

“You are the Devil’s servant,” he cried, wiping tears from his cheek. “And you will come for me—for all that I have witnessed.”

I stationed to Gary’s side, landing a harsh squeeze to his shoulder. “If what?”

“If I talk.” He cried for his mother under breathless whimpers. “See no evil. Hear no evil. Speak no evil.”

“Good lad.” I tipped my chin to Nate. “See him out.” I wait until they’re gone, spin Gary around to face me. “I am going to pretend that I didn’t just walk in here and see a kid’s head between your thighs.”

He swallowed an audible gulp. “I can explain.”

“Yes.” Tucking the gun into my trouser waistband, I unbuttoned my suit jacket and perched onto the desk ledge. “Do clarify why dignitaries abuse their power.”

“You’re no better,” he retorts, fingers whitening as he clung to the armrests. “Who are you to judge me, Warren? You’re one of the most corrupt assholes to roam the streets of London. Need I remind you, that, if it weren’t for my adjudicator position, you’d be a convicted felon, rotting in a prison cell.”

Fair enough. “I never required nor pleaded judicial misconduct.”

“No, but your loyal goon did,” he spat, easing back in his seat. “Bradley Jones. That son of a bitch audaciously entered my private home and held a gun to my head.”

“Really?” I asked in a bored tone. “What possessed him to act so inappropriately?”

His shaggy grey eyebrows met in the middle. “A little birdy tells me that Chief Superintendent Reginald Burden is a friend of yours,” he speaks slowly, punctuating each syllable. “Tell me, Warren. How much does it cost to have such an influential man in your back pocket?”

I laughed dryly. “I fear that you were misinformed, Gary. I look after Reginald, yes, but it’s me who invertedly holds the power cards. In actuality, why don’t we put your ludicrous hypothesis to the test?”

Unlocking my phone, I dial Reginald’s number and put him on loudspeaker. “Before you speak,” I explained, watching the seconds tick over on the screen, “I want to point out that Gary Patterson’s listening.”

Reginald stayed silent.

Nate reappears, locking the door behind him.

“Gary’s upset,” I tell him, dusting lint from my suit sleeve. “He believes it was you who shared classified information with Brad Jones.” I looked at the sweating pig. “My uncontrollable goon,” I enunciated, boring into him with dark eyes, “threatened poor, childlover Gary at gunpoint.”

“I found hidden evidence,” clarifies Reginald, clearing his throat. “A young kid tried to press charges back in the 1990s—the same kid went missing two days later. Patterson had close friends and allies at the metropolitan when he was just a Barrister.”

“Uncharged nor sentenced,” Gary stressed. “I wasn’t convicted—I most certainly had nothing to do with any kid’s going missing. Listen, I don’t want any trouble, alright? I’m a good guy. I work hard on the stands and offer my services to the catholic community—”

“And fuck little boys,” Nate pipes up, pure rage in his dark aura.

Gary stared at the phone. “Chief, Brad Jones promised you’d take care of any backlash if I acquitted Warren’s charges. He was looking at a minimum of fifteen years.” His eyes jerked, greeting judgmental ones. “Possessing two firearms, throwing knives, banned knuckle dusters and Class-A drugs—not to mention assaulting a police officer. I did you a favour. Instead of lording it over me? You should be thanking me for infallible ruling and generosity.”

“I don’t articulate such gratitude, so don’t take it personally. Reginald,” I quipped, and he addressed me. “Delete Gary’s file and send him abroad.”

Reginald sighed into the receiver. “Warren.”

Puzzlement moulded Gary’s hardened features.

“Reginald,” I said once more, enjoying the fact that I am getting under Patterson’s skin. “I am going to make a mess. I expect you to clean it.”

“Of course,” Reginald agreed, the chair he sits upon groaned as he changed positions. “Anything else?”

“Yes, actually.” I took out a pocketknife from my inner suit pocket. “Confirm how much I pay you to be in my back pocket.”

“What?” Reginald asked, and I imagined his confused countenance. “I am forever at your service, Warren. You pay me nothing for I am eternally appreciative of all you’ve done for me.”

“Interesting.” I end the call. “What were you saying about me needing others?”

Gary glared at me beneath rutted eyebrows, fingers laced together on his thighs. “You’re a bully, Warren.”

“I know,” I agreed, flipping open the honed blade. “And you’re a sexual predictor who’s about to lose his cock.”

He bolted out of his seat, but Nate’s unseen flying fist shattered his jaw. Roaring in excruciating pain, Gary slumped onto the chair, begging I show mercy.

Snatching his wrist, I overturned his hand and stabbed the blade through his palm, nailing him to the armrest. “I am callously cold-hearted, bloodthirsty, ruthless and violently unforgiving.” Flipping open another switchblade, I forced his other hand to the chair and stabbed through his meaty flesh. “I am arrogantly conceited and obsessed with power.”

Nate yanked Gary’s purple, and gold stole, forcefully knotting it over the man’s wailing mouth.

I unzipped Patterson’s belt buckle. “I am not, however, an advocate of child molestation.” I accept a serrated knife from Nate, snatch the man’s cock and brandish the pointed edge. “I draw the line with that one.” Penetrating his girthed flesh, I sawed through his flaccid member and butcherly vasectomised. “Keep him still.”

Through bulging, teary eyes, Gary thrashed in animalistic contortion, rupturing his lacerations. Blood trickles down his involuntarily shaking hands, lingering dews thickening at his fingertips.

Ripping the cloth from Gary’s mouth, I stuffed his amputated cock down the back of his throat and then lighted a cigarette while he chokes himself into silence.

“Alexa was molested,” I whispered, but Nate’s familiar with the Haines case. “I am hardly ignorant to these unspoken travesties. I know how dark this world can be, but her historical abuse left me with a sense of advocacy. Now, I am not saying that I’ll go looking for these crimes; however, since knowing her, I feel the need to do more than pretend heinousness doesn’t occur around me.”

“You’d never leave a child alone in a room with a monster, sir,” he assures, extracting the blades from Gary’s lifeless hands. “Don’t blame yourself for what happened to Alexa. Not when she was a child. Not when that building burnt down.”

His bolstering words had the opposite effect.

“You just saved that kid,” he goes on, wiping the blades against his black trousers to remove blood. “And God knows whoever else this,” he slapped Gary’s head, and it sagged forward, “fucked up monster tarnished.”

Nate loathes paedophiles. Who doesn’t? After what happened to his younger sister, I sense these unpleasant circumstances cut him deeply. And I imagine they resurface bad memories, ones he buried. “How is your sister?”

“She’s good, sir. My aunt said she made some positive progression. She goes out with friends to socialise and stuff.” He shrugged. “Got herself a boyfriend.”

“Boyfriend, huh?” His disapproving snarl inwardly tickled me. “Fret not, brother. If he hurts one of ours, I’ll be sure to pay him a visit.”