Chapter 11 Bleed Quiet #2
“Spoken like a man with no standards.” He set the cup down and leaned back in the booth. “So how's the stepson settling in? Everything good on that front?”
“He's dealing with some shit. Nothing I can't handle.”
“You always say that.” Rafael's tone was light, no judgment in it. “Even when you're handling about fifteen things at once and running on three hours of sleep.”
“I'm fine.”
“Right. And I'm the queen of England.” He grinned and took another sip of the terrible coffee. “You know what your problem is, Declan?”
“I'm sure you're about to tell me.”
“You're too goddamn stubborn to ask for help when you need it. You'd rather grind yourself into the ground than admit you might be in over your head.”
“I'm not in over my head.”
“Okay.” Rafael raised his hands in mock surrender. “If you say so.”
We sat in silence for a minute. The waitress came by to refill our cups. One of the truckers paid his bill and left, the bell chiming as the door swung shut behind him.
“You want some advice?” Rafael asked.
“Not particularly.”
“I'm giving it anyway.” He leaned forward, forearms on the table. “Whatever's going on with your stepson, don't let it eat you alive. You're allowed to have your own life, Declan. You're allowed to set boundaries. You don't owe anyone martyrdom.”
I looked at him. “That it?”
“That's it.” He sat back, that easy grin returning. “Take it or leave it. I'm just a guy drinking shitty diner coffee and making unsolicited observations.”
“Noted.”
“Good.” Rafael drained the rest of his cup and winced again. “Fuck. I don't know how you do it.”
“Practice.”
He laughed again and shook his head. “Alright. I'm heading out. You good to drive, or do I need to call you a cab?”
“I'm good.”
“Alright then.” He stood and tossed a few bills on the table for his coffee. “See you around, Declan. And hey, nice work tonight. Carter didn't stand a chance once you got inside his guard.”
“Thanks.”
Rafael gave me a two-finger salute and headed for the door. I watched him go, then turned my attention back to my coffee.
My phone buzzed. Text from Troy.
Troy
You coming home tonight?
I stared at the message and tried to figure out what the right answer was.
Declan:
Yeah. Late. Don't wait up.
Troy:
Wasn't planning on it.
I finished my coffee. Paid. Headed out into the cold.
The walk home was about fifteen minutes from the diner, a familiar route through neighborhoods I'd known for years.
I made it three blocks before the feeling hit.
Being followed.
It wasn't loud. Wasn't obvious. Just the wrong rhythm of footsteps behind me, someone matching my pace too precisely. The instinct that came from years of being alert to threats, of knowing when a detail was off before my conscious mind could name it.
I didn't turn around. Didn't change my pace. Just kept walking while my brain ran through options.
Could be nothing. Could be paranoia from a long night and too much adrenaline still in my system.
Could be a threat.
I took a turn down an alley that cut closer to home.
Narrow passage between buildings, dumpsters on one side, brick wall on the other.
Snow was packed hard at the edges where people had walked, old and gray under the streetlight glow.
The space forced confrontation if someone was actually following, left no room for ambiguity.
The footsteps followed.
I made it halfway through the alley before I heard them speed up. Heard boots hitting pavement with purpose instead of caution, the rhythm changing from surveillance to attack.
I spun just as the attacker closed distance.
He came in fast and professional, no hesitation in his movement. Threw a jab-cross combination that I blocked with my forearms, then followed with a low kick aimed at my knee with enough force to shatter it if it landed clean.
I checked it with my shin, absorbing the impact. Countered with a hook to his ribs that he slipped by angling his body, moving like someone who'd spent years training to avoid getting hit.
We circled each other in the dim alley light. Both of us breathing steady, breath fogging in the cold air between us. Both of us reading the other's movement, looking for tells and openings.
This wasn't random street violence. This was someone trained. Someone skilled enough to know what they were doing.
He came at me again, faster this time. Threw a feint high that pulled my guard up, then drove a knee into my midsection that I didn't fully block. The impact hit my already bruised ribs and the air left my lungs in a rush. Pain exploded through my torso, white-hot and immediate.
I staggered back. He pressed forward, capitalizing on the opening.
Threw a spinning back fist that caught me on the temple. My vision blurred, the alley tilting sideways. I stumbled into the brick wall, barely getting my guard up in time to block his follow-up, a straight right that would have put me down if it had landed.
He was good.
I pushed off the wall and drove forward with a double leg takedown that caught him off guard, my shoulder driving into his hips. We hit the pavement hard, the impact jarring through my already damaged body. I landed on top, tried to establish position and control.
He bucked his hips with practiced precision, reversed me with a technical bridge, and suddenly I was on my back with his fist coming down toward my face in a hammerfist that would have broken my nose if it connected.
I turned my head at the last second. His knuckles scraped concrete instead, the sound of it sharp and brutal. I grabbed his wrist with both hands, pulled him down closer, and drove my forehead into his face with everything I had.
His nose crunched. Blood sprayed hot across my face, metallic and immediate.
We scrambled apart, both breathing hard now. Both got to our feet. Both bleeding and hurting but still functional.
My ribs were screaming. The cut above my eye had reopened from the headbutt, blood dripping into my vision. My hands ached from two fights already tonight, knuckles swollen and throbbing.
But I'd been fighting my whole life. Pain was just information, data to catalog and work through.
He came at me low, changing levels fast. Drove his shoulder into my midsection and slammed me back against the dumpster. The metal rang like a bell, the sound echoing through the alley. My spine lit up with agony, nerves firing in protest.
I brought my elbow down on the back of his neck. Once. Twice. Felt him grunt with each impact, his grip loosening slightly.
He drove a fist into my kidney in retaliation. The pain was immediate and total, radiating through my entire side in waves that made my legs weak.
I kneed him in the face, driving my knee up as hard as I could. He released me and staggered back, blood now pouring from his nose and mouth.
We were both hurt now. Both moving slower. The alley felt smaller, the walls closing in, the space shrinking to just the two of us and the violence between us.
He wiped blood from his face with the back of his hand, eyes never leaving mine. Cold calculation behind the pain, assessing damage and options.
I caught his next punch with my left hand, twisted his wrist with both hands using leverage instead of strength, used his momentum to slam him against the brick wall.
Drove my elbow into his face once, the point of it connecting with his cheekbone.
Twice, feeling cartilage give way under the impact.
He headbutted me in response. My vision went white, the world disappearing in a flash of pain. Blood poured from my nose, hot and metallic, running down into my mouth.
We broke apart. Both bleeding now from multiple points. Both breathing hard, sucking in air through damaged faces, our breath hanging in clouds between us.
My legs were shaking. The adrenaline from the earlier fights was wearing off, leaving nothing but exhaustion and accumulated damage. Every breath hurt. Every movement sent pain shooting through my ribs in sharp bursts.
He could see it. Saw me favoring my left side. Saw the blood in my eyes. Saw the way I was struggling to stay upright, weight shifting to compensate for injuries.
He moved like he was going to come at me again, muscles tensing for another attack, then stopped. Looked at me with cold calculation that said he'd gotten what he came for.
“Message from a friend,” he said. Voice flat and professional, no emotion in it. “Back off or next time it's not a warning.”
Then he ran.
I started after him but my ribs screamed in protest and my vision swam and by the time I could move properly he was gone. Disappeared into the maze of alleys and side streets like he'd never been there at all.
I stood there gasping, bleeding, trying to process what the fuck had just happened.
A message and a warning. Someone wanted me to know they could reach me. Could hurt me. Could end this whenever they wanted.
I wiped blood from my face with my sleeve. Started walking home faster than before, checking over my shoulder every few steps, eyes scanning the shadows for movement. My boots crunched through frozen puddles, ice cracking under my weight, the sound too loud in the quiet streets.
The house was dark when I got there except for the flickering light of the TV through the living room window. Troy's bike was in the garage, chrome catching the overhead light.
He was home.
I let myself in quietly. Locked the door behind me. Set the security system with hands that were starting to shake now that the adrenaline was fully wearing off.
The living room was exactly what I'd expected. Troy sprawled on the couch, TV playing some late-night show he wasn't watching, beer bottle still in his hand but mostly empty.
Asleep.
He looked younger like this. Guard down, face relaxed in a way it never was when he was awake. The bruises on his jaw were fading to yellow-green. The cut above his eyebrow was healing clean.
I stood there watching him breathe. Watching his chest rise and fall in the steady rhythm of deep sleep.
I grabbed the blanket from the back of the couch. Draped it over him carefully, trying not to wake him.
His hand came up automatically. Grabbed the edge of the blanket. Pulled it closer without waking.
The same way he used to as a kid. When nightmares woke him up and I'd cover him back up and sit on the edge of his bed until he fell asleep again.
I stood there for a long moment. Just watching him. Memorizing the way he looked peaceful for once instead of wound tight and defensive.
Then I forced myself to move. Headed upstairs to my room. Stripped off my bloody clothes. Got in the shower and let hot water wash away the evidence of the night, watching blood and sweat circle the drain until the water ran clear.