2. Jack
Jack
I’m on my way home from Silas’s when my phone buzzes in my pocket. Casting it a quick glance, I see it’s a text from Frank.
Fight in Vancouver. One week. You want in?
I stare at the screen, my mind racing over how I’m going to swing it.
I need to cover the cafe, though Eli usually doesn’t mind picking up extra shifts if he isn’t scheduled. Otherwise, I can ask Mason. I’ve got Chrissy running point on the baking, so the ovens will stay hot whether I’m here or not.
Before I can fully talk myself out of it, a second text pings through, cementing the decision.
It's a hundred thousand pot. If you come,you're the favourite.
Holy shit.
A wave of hot, dizzying relief hits my chest. That’s the kind of money that completely changes the game. It gives me breathing room—hell, a safety net wrapped in a violent bloody bow.
Without giving myself time to overthink it, my fingers tap out two words.
I'm in
Arriving at my apartment, I immediately call Chrissy.
She’s solid, agrees to cover for me, and says her friend can help as long as I slide her some cash.
Easy.
Out of a hundred-thousand-dollar pot, it’s a drop in the bucket.
I spend the rest of the day mapping out my schedule before heading down to the gym to sweat out the nerves.
With Finn teaching, I’m forced to spar with Vance. Vance gets the job done, but he’s a loose cannon. He loves the dirty, no-rules aspect a little too much, forcing me to constantly check his attitude.
I remember one session months back when his knee came up hard and connected flush with my balls.
The blinding, nauseating pain dropped me to my knees, stealing every ounce of air from my lungs.
When the haze finally cleared and the agony dulled to a heavy ache, something snapped.
I had acted out of anger, kicking him in the head.
When he went down, I pulled him into a chokehold before he could blink, locking him down until he went completely limp. It took a full hour for him to wake up.
Our trainer was screaming bloody murder, threatening to ban me forever—right up until Finn walked back in, stepped up to Vance’s unconscious body, and slapped Vance’s pale face a few times before confirming that he was indeed “out like a fucking light.” He had grabbed my bicep, looked our trainer dead in the eyes, and told him that “Vance was lucky I hadn’t killed him” before hauling me away from the wreckage.
Looking back, it’s kind of funny, and Vance never threw a low blow at me again.
Lesson learned.
Simple.
* * *
The week passes in a blur, and by Friday night, I am knee-deep in packing my gear bag I’ll need, when a knock rattles the front door. I pull it open to find Silas and Hale standing on the porch.
“Hope you don’t mind. Hale wanted to come and say goodbye,” Silas says with a small shrug, one heavy hand resting on Hale’s shoulder.
The boy is still too skinny, but he’s put on weight since we rescued him, and I notice for the first time that the dark shadows under his eyes have finally vanished.
He doesn’t look like he’s carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders anymore, he’s just being a kid.
“Yeah, no worries. Come on in,” I say, stepping aside.
Hale walks straight past me, heading for the kitchen, a clear sign he’s learned I keep a constant supply of chocolate chip biscuits in the house. Sure enough, he returns a second later with one in each hand.
“Still packing?” Hale asks quietly, his mouth half full.
Silas looks at me with a soft, steady gaze as I nod. “Yeah, just about finishing,” I say, pointing back toward my bedroom.
“Let me help,” Silas says, quietly
Before I can protest, Silas walks past me to my room.
Hale turns on the TV, drops onto the couch, and shoves half a biscuit into his mouth.
Given that he was supposedly the one who wanted to say goodbye, he isn’t saying a lot.
It reinforces my suspicion that Silas was the one who needed to see me off and just used the kid as an excuse.
I walk into my room to find Silas standing over my open suitcase, frowning down at the contents.
I lean against the doorframe, crossing my arms. “Everything alright?”
He turns, pointing a thumb over his shoulder. “Yeah. You forgot socks. And you’re going to want another sweatshirt. It freezing in Vancouver.”
I let out a dry laugh, walking over to my dresser to haul out a bundle of socks before raiding the wardrobe for a heavy hoodie and a jacket. Lifting them up, I give them a little shake. “That better, Dad?”
He lets out a sharp scoff, though his eyes betray a sudden, unguarded expression, before he drops down onto the edge of the bed next to the suitcase.
I watch him stare down at his hands, and when he looks back up, our eyes lock, and I don’t look away. His expression is warm, carrying a depth of care that feels entirely foreign. It’s how someone looks when they genuinely love you, not that I’d ever really known what that felt like.
My old man never showed me an ounce of affection, and my mother died when I was ten, leaving behind only the memory of heavy, brutal hands.
A sudden wave of suffocating guilt slams into my chest, stealing my breath.
I’m lying to him.
I’ve told both Silas and Finn that I’m flying out for a catering business conference. Finn had thought it hilarious that cafes had official conventions but bought the excuse without a second thought. Finn and Silas had never questioned it because they both trusted me.
Standing here, looking at a man who has quietly become a fixture of safety in my life, the lie tastes like ash in my mouth.
Not a soul in Campbell River knows what I really do when I step off the island.
By the time Silas and Hale finally leave, my nervous system is fried. I’m terrified I’m going to slip up, terrified a stray word will give away the blood and brutality waiting for me in Vancouver.
The second the front door clicks shut; I lean my forehead against the wood and let out a long, shuddering sigh of relief.
Roll on tomorrow.
I need to get out of here, step into the ring, and finally catch my breath.
* * *
I arrive at the Tsawwassen Ferry Terminal and drive onto Highway 17.
Frank sent me directions earlier: Follow Highway 99 until I hit an old composting site further along the coast, then keep going until I find the manufacturing plant he’d acquired for the fights.
I pull up around nine at night. My fight isn’t until eleven, so I’ve got plenty of time.
A neat row of luxury vehicles sits outside the rusted building, so badly out of place they might as well have neon signs over them.
A sleek limo pulls in beside me, and I know immediately that I’m in the right place when a man and woman climb out.
She’s wearing a striking red dress, teetering on high heels she clearly isn’t used to walking in, and enough diamonds to light up the car park.
He’s considerably older, and my mind immediately goes where yours probably did.
Am I right?
I follow them inside, chuckling as she stumbles across the gravel, her dress dragging through the dirt. The man snaps something at her that I can’t make out. She fires straight back, and whatever she says pisses him off enough that he stalks away, leaving her to navigate the uneven ground alone.
Real fucking gentleman.
The heavy door opens, and low bass and the roar of voices hit me immediately. I catch a glimpse of the warehouse before the door swings shut again.
It’s a full house.
I follow the woman inside, and the heat and noise close around me as the door clicks shut behind us.
Women in designer dresses scream from the edges of the crowd while men roar at the fighters, spit flying as they shout for blood.
In the centre of the warehouse, two men are tearing into each other.
Blood runs from cuts across their faces, but one of them still grins, flashing a broken, bloody tooth.
I smile. This is where I feel at home, amongst blood, fists, and sweat.
I push through the crowd, scanning for Frank, and spot him standing on a makeshift platform built from two cinder blocks and a thick wooden plank. It’s high enough to give him a clear view of the ring and the entrance.
Two massive bodyguards flank him, and I smile, baring my teeth at the one who thinks taking a subtle step toward me is a good idea. I have to bite back a laugh. If I wanted to get to Frank, those two wouldn’t have stopped me.
That’s the funny thing about people here. They look at me and underestimate me. I don’t have the sheer size of Silas or Mack, so they assume I’m weaker.
They’re wrong.
I’m six-foot-two and solid muscle, and I know how to use my body as a weapon.
I step up to the platform, and Frank catches my eye. He waves his hand, flashing me an easy grin.
“Boy, you do not want to cross this little pup,” he tells one of the guards. “He’d kill you with one bite.”
The man looks me up and down, one eyebrow lifting as he smirks. “Sure. This pup doesn’t look that big.”
I shrug, keeping my tone light. “Happy to show you if you like. Just name the place. Or…” I motion with my head toward the ring.
The guard steps back into line. I ignore him, my attention snapping back to Frank.
“Am I still on time?”
Frank nods and points a thick finger toward the ring.
“Yeah, pretty much. This guy in the green just won’t go down. Stubborn bastard. He reminds me of you.”
I glance toward the canvas.
The fighter in green circles his opponent. His face has already taken a beating, skin slick with sweat and dark blood, like someone poured a bucket of it over him.
Rough.
I turn back to Frank. “Who am I up against?”
Frank frowns and reaches down for his battered clipboard. Frank is old school to a fault—he refuses to use modern technology. His exact words are still burned into my memory:
“People can fucking find you, Jack. You don’t want that in my line of work.”
He scans the page, looking up at me with a touch of concern in his eyes. Well, that’s interesting.
“Julian Moreau. You might remember him.”
My eyebrow lifts. “Who?”
“You put him to sleep in Nanaimo.”
Oh shit.