3. Trick
TRICK
That scream. I’ll never forget that scream as long as I live.
Marie Durand has no business making a sound like that, one that rips my heart out like she owns it. Sam gave orders about me and Hugo staying in the shop, but fuck that. He doesn’t get dibs on the asshole who made Marie scream.
As fast as my anger came on, it fades away.
I don’t hear my footfalls as I race behind Sam, but I hear Hugo’s as he tries to catch up to me. He won’t. But he tries. I don’t feel the muggy night air, but I know it’s there. And the sharp stab from scar tissue in my right knee as I run? It hardly registers.
A sergeant once told me I don’t fight at all. I simply become violence. I think he meant that as a compliment, but I never asked.
There are different terms for it, “the fog of war” being the most common of them.
But it’s always been that way for me when I’m heading for a fight.
I’m not in my body anymore. I’m planning my next move.
The last time I had a good fight? Too long, honestly.
Can’t recall it. But this guy gave me all the excuse I need.
I pass Sam on the way there—I’ve always been the fastest of the three of us.
The weak streetlamp flickers overhead, growing long shadows across the pavement, but I don’t miss the way the stranger shifts his weight as I square up to him.
Rookie mistake—he’s tipping his hand, showing me he’s about to come at me with his left.
I grin, rolling my shoulders to loosen up, and crack my neck for good measure. This is gonna be fun.
And this guy? This punk in the hoodie, jeans, and lace-up boots, with his stupid hammer tattoo and his cocky smirk? He’s going down.
I’m not sure I’ll let him get back up, either. My vision narrows to beats, almost like snapping a picture with a camera. I take in one sight after another, disconnected from their movement.
In my periphery, Hugo’s got Marie a few feet behind us, one arm around her shoulders. She sobs into his chest. She looks so damn small like that, and it doesn’t sit right with me.
Marie’s always been this quiet little thing, yeah, but she’s not weak. She’s smart, sharp, carries herself like she’s got the weight of the whole library on her shoulders. Seeing her like this—terrified and trembling—it’s like someone’s dumped ice water down my back.
Let’s go.
I step forward, letting my knuckles brush against my palms, my fists already aching for contact. “You’ve got two options, boy. Option one, you walk away now and pray to whatever god you believe in that I don’t follow you. Option two…” I grin wider, my teeth flashing. “You don’t walk away at all.”
He doesn’t take the hint. Guys like him never do.
His punch comes fast, but I’m faster, ducking out of the way and slamming my fist into his ribs. He grunts, stumbling back, and for a second I think he might be smarter than he looks. But no, he comes at me again, this time swinging for my jaw.
I let him get close enough that he thinks he’s got me. I almost feel bad for him. He can’t read an opponent for shit. But then I slam my elbow into his face. Blood spurts from his nose, and I can’t help but laugh as he curses and staggers back.
“Oh, come on,” I say, wiping his blood off my arm. “That all you got?”
Behind me, Hugo calls out, “Trick, quit playing with him. End it.”
But he’s got the reason to play with this punk wrapped up in his arms. A punch for every tear on her cheeks sounds like a fair trade.
I can’t stop. Not yet. It’s been too long since we’ve defended someone worth defending, and I’m savoring this. The weight of my fists, the crack of bone on bone—it’s the kind of therapy you can’t get in a gym.
The guy lunges again, and this time I let him clip my arm, just enough to make it interesting. Let him think he’s tiring me out, or that he could get the upper hand. It’s funny.
“Nice shot.”
He smirks with blood on his teeth. “You should be running. All three of you. You have no idea who you’re fucking with.”
“Have you checked the scoreboard, son? You’re outnumbered. None of us are running from someone like you.”
“You don’t know what I’m like.” He comes at me with a roundhouse kick that he telegraphs a mile away.
I catch his foot and twist, sending him spiraling in the air before he lands with a thud on the hard-packed dirt parking lot. He’s panting now, desperate, swinging wild when he gets to his feet. A disorganized, frantic attack. This is too easy.
I’m gearing up to put him down for good—a slam to the head should do it. But something flashes in the dim light. A knife.
My grin drops as my disappointment grows. “Seriously? Are you pulling a knife? I thought we were having fun. Chickenshit.”
“Fuck you!” He lunges for me with the blade pointed down the side of his wrist.
He’s been hiding something this whole time.
But before I can move, Sam’s there. He snatches the guy’s wrist in a vise grip, twisting it until the knife clatters to the ground. Then he punches him—hard. Hard enough to drop the boy to his knees, gasping for air. Sam doesn’t stop until he’s flat on his back, groaning.
I would be too, if I ever went up against Sam. I’m glad I never have. No one punches like Sam Cane. I can take a man down easy enough if I want to, but Sam hits like it’ll be the last chance he ever gets. His arm is a jackhammer slamming into flesh.
And just like that, it’s over.
I should feel satisfied. This little shot of fighting adrenaline after flirting with Rebecca Flowers should have taken the edge off of not getting laid. That woman got me keyed up. I still don’t know why Sam turned her out.
But as I stand here, my systems come back online, and I feel my body again.
An acrid stink…blood. I smell it on my hands, my shirt.
His blood, not mine. I’m okay. There’s the throb in my knuckles, the tightness in my wrists.
Familiar, all familiar. My body knows this feeling—the crash after a fight.
The rush of it coursing through me, making me queasy.
Not from the violence, but from the leftover adrenaline?—
Sobs. I hear sobs.
When I turn, my eyes land on Marie, and all that adrenaline in my chest twists into something else. She’s still bawling in Hugo’s arms, her face buried against his shoulder like she can’t bear to look at me.
Fuck. I’ve scared her.
Sam’s jaw is tight, and he motions toward her. “Stand down, Trick. She needed this over five minutes ago.”
I hate that he’s right. I know that was why he didn’t want me and Hugo in on this—he knew we’d fuck this up. But I couldn’t stop myself even if I’d wanted to. Marie’s scream took the choice away from me.
Or am I just telling myself that so I feel better about the way she won’t look at me?
I step toward her with guilt rotting in my chest. I didn’t mean to scare her—I just got caught up in the fight. Someone who scared Marie should be scared themselves. They should pay for what they did to her.
But Sam is right. I could have made it fucking quick. Instead, I dragged it out for my own satisfaction.
Marie looks up when I get close, her face streaked with tears, her cheeks red and blotchy. My chest aches at the sight. Even now, she’s a stunner. Sweet brown eyes, those soft cheeks. I can’t see the dimple in them—she’s as far from smiling as she’s ever been, and that kills me.
“Hey,” I say softly, crouching a little to meet her gaze. “It’s okay now. He’s done. I’m sorry if I?—”
“You scared the hell out of me,” she chokes out, cutting me off. “I thought?—”
“I didn’t mean to, Marie. I’m so sorry.”
She takes a deep, shuddering breath. “I thought he was going to hurt you. Or Sam. Or Hugo. I thought you were…”
My heart does this stupid thing in my chest, like it’s trying to climb into my throat. She wasn’t scared of him. She was scared for us. For me. And because I dragged it out, I made her scared for longer than she shoulda been.
I’m just as bad as the asshole on the ground.
“Marie…” I don’t know what to say. All this time, I thought I was having fun, drawing it out because I could, because he needed to be punished, but I didn’t stop to think about what she was feeling. About how this whole thing looked to her.
I wanted to play the hero, and instead I became the villain.
I crouch lower, trying to catch her gaze. “I’m sorry, Marie. I wasn’t trying to scare you. I just…” I shrug, giving her a sheepish smile. “I was having a little fun. He needed to pay for whatever he did to make you scream like that.”
She shakes her head, her eyes glassy. “That guy could’ve killed you, Trick.”
The way she says my name—soft, broken—hits me like a semitruck. And I’ve been hit by a semitruck. That was a bad day. This is worse.
I’ve had a thing for her since the moment she came back to town, a woman grown. All curves and sweetness. That hair? I’ve dreamed of what it’d be like to wake up next to it piled on my pillow more times that I’d ever admit.
I’ve tried to bury it, ignore it, laugh it off, but standing here now, with her looking at me like that, it’s impossible to deny. Knowing she was upset for me in all that? Icing on the cake.
I swallow hard, forcing myself to look away before I do something stupid, like kiss her right here in the middle of the street. I force the words out. “I’m okay, Marie.”
“Hey,” Hugo says, his voice low as he gentles her out of his arms. “Let’s get her inside. She’s shaking.”
But she lies, “I’m fine. I’ll be fine.”
“You will be, yes,” he says firmly. “Once we get you inside. We’ll get you a cup of tea, and you can sit on Sam’s fancy chair he doesn’t let anyone else sit on.”
She sniffles and snickers. “Always wanted to sit there.”
“Sometimes I sit there when that little shit isn’t around. Don’t tell on me.” He wraps an arm around her shoulders to guide her. Her giggle is faint, but it’s there, and that’s worth everything.
I can’t help but glance over at Sam, who’s still standing over the guy, his fists clenched. He’s smarter than me. Always has been. He tagged in because he knew I was drawing it out. He knew she couldn’t take it.
I should have trusted him to make the right call.
And now, watching her with Hugo’s arm still around her, I hate myself for making her cry. I hate that I made her feel like this.
And more than anything, I hate that I’m falling for her.
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