5. Bell
5
BELL
O ne month later
I strode briskly down the street. I’d been right. I liked New Orleans.
It had a charm, a panache, that I loved. There was always music and the smell of delicious food cooking everywhere I walked.
This street in the Warehouse District was no different.
The old, brick buildings were all renovated, many painted in vibrant colors. Some bars and cafés were doing a brisk business nearby. I saw a couple leaning against their bicycles as they ate huge sandwiches outside a sandwich shop.
The breeze caught my hair, and I pushed it back behind my ear. I knew I should have tied it up today. But when I’d pulled on the cute, green corduroy jacket I’d nabbed for a steal at a local thrift shop, I’d wanted to leave my hair down for once.
I turned the corner.
There was a busy bar on the corner. The sign above the door said Smokehouse, and on the patio, a group of men and woman all talked and laughed, sharing drinks. Next, I passed the closed doors to Ember. I’d heard about the hottest club in the city, though I guessed it wouldn’t open until later, when the sun set and the party really started in the Big Easy.
These businesses were owned by Dante Fury—one of the legendary Fury brothers.
In the week I’d been in New Orleans, I’d heard plenty about the Fury brothers. I’d seen Dante’s picture, along with his girlfriend’s, in the newspaper. He was darkly handsome. I had no idea what his brothers looked like, but apparently, they’d all met in foster care. I was sure they were all impressive.
I stepped in front of the building on the corner and stopped. Nerves flitted through my stomach. Even though the glass door was closed, I could hear the distant sounds of grunts, and the thud of music. I slid my hands into the pockets of my jeans.
Hard Burn . The best gym in the city for learning to fight. I’d read about the owner—Beauden Fury. His bio said he’d been in the military, then he’d been a mercenary, then he’d become a boxing champion. There had been a small picture of him with the article that showed him from the back. He’d been wearing boxing gear with Fury emblazoned on the back of his silky, black robe and his dark head bowed.
Even without seeing his face, I’d felt the strength ebbing from him.
I touched my arm, rubbing it gently. I needed the best. I needed to learn to fight and defend myself.
Because the nightmare hunting me had found me again.
A mix of emotions filled me: fear, terror, anger, helplessness, and a choking sense of unfairness.
I wanted to tip my head back and cry, “Why me?”
But I stuffed those emotions all the way down and dragged in a deep breath. Playing the victim never helped.
I’d be no one’s victim.
Especially not Carr’s.
I pushed open the door to Hard Burn and stepped inside.
The sounds of fighting were louder, along with the throb of music. There were lots of boxing rings, each one defined by red ropes, although not many with people in them. I guessed it was too early in the day. There were a few people at the back of the gym, lifting weights. I saw one big guy in a sweat-stained tank holding onto two long ropes, lifting his arms up and down.
I figured that once people finished work, Hard Burn would be full.
As I stepped farther inside, smells hit me—sweat, deodorant, and the sweet undertone of a cleaning product. I fiddled with my hair. I was currently back to my natural black again. I sighed. But not for long. I dyed my hair every month, but this month, I’d just wanted some little piece of the old me.
For a second, I thought of the only night where for a few glorious hours, I’d felt happy, safe, and normal.
Those hours in a cheap motel on the Louisiana border.
I shivered.
I’d relived every single moment of the hours I’d spent with Beau so many times, often with my fingers between my legs. I dragged in a breath. I couldn’t afford to daydream. Today, I had to focus on the future me. The one who could fight and defend herself.
Beauden Fury was the best, and I needed him.
“You lost, girly?”
I turned to see an older man—probably in his late fifties or early sixties—staring at me. He had a bald head, and what I guessed was some Latino heritage. His dark brown eyes regarded me steadily.
“I’m here to see Beauden Fury.”
The man’s dark brows rose. “He know you’re coming?”
I tried not to fidget. “No.”
The man sniffed. “You’re too young, girly. He’s not a fan of the boxing groupies.”
What? It took me a few seconds to realize what he meant. Beauden Fury must have women coming looking for him a lot.
“No. I want to learn to fight.”
The man cocked his head. “Well, then. My name’s Gio.”
“I’m Bellamy.” Or at least I was now.
“All right, Bellamy, I can share our class timetables with you—”
I shook my head. “I need to learn to fight. I need Beauden Fury to teach me.”
Now, the man’s brow creased. “He don’t give many private lessons, and only with experienced fighters.”
Desperation and despair welled inside me. If I couldn’t fight, Carr would kill me.
Gio must’ve seen some emotion on my face. His expression warmed a little with sympathy. “Look, why don’t we talk over some options—”
I shook my head. “I shouldn’t have come.”
I had no idea what to do next.
If I couldn’t fight, what were my options?
Keep running.
Keep surviving.
Keep being hunted.
I took a step backward.
Gio held out a hand. “Don’t go, girly. Let’s talk. I’ll make you a coffee.” He glanced back over his shoulder and something like relief filled his features. “Better yet, why don’t you talk with Beauden? He’ll give you good advice, whatever problems are chasing you.”
Lifting my head, I looked past Gio to the man striding through the gym.
He’d clearly just showered, and was wearing black athletic shorts and no shirt. He had a T-shirt in his hand.
My mouth went dry.
He had powerful, muscular legs, and thick slabs of muscle over his abs and broad chest. All of it was covered in ink. His brawny arms were also covered in tattoos. A mix of flowers, swirls, and geometric patterns.
I froze. My brain stopped working.
It was ink I knew. Tattoos I’d traced with my tongue.
My head jerked up. I got the impression of thick, shaggy black hair, but my gaze was locked on the rugged face that had haunted my dreams. Those familiar gray eyes.
Beau.
My Beau was Beauden Fury.