Chapter 56 Jagger
JAGGER
“Where’s Hawke?” I ask.
“No idea,” Ford answers from the back seat while Roman pulls onto the main road leading to The Body Shop.
“You don’t know?” I push.
“You know how Hawke is,” Ford grumbles. “He disappeared right after the fight. Haven’t seen him since, and he isn’t answering his phone.”
Of course, he isn’t.
“Any idea why Gus wants to meet?” Ford asks.
I scrub my hand over my face, wincing when my fingers rake against the damage from Morgan’s fists.
Fuck, that shit hurts.
Giving me the side-eye, Roman says, “You forget you had the shit kicked out of you tonight?”
“I’ve been a little preoccupied,” I mutter.
“You gonna tell us what happened?” Roman pushes.
The idea of keeping the truth from them is more appealing than I’d like to admit, but considering where we’re headed, I have no choice.
Reaching for the oh-shit handle, I shift in the passenger seat and rip the truth off like a Band-Aid.
“I told Morgan I’d throw the fight if he’d give Violet her house back. ”
Silence.
Nothing. But. Silence.
It’s even worse than if Ford would’ve knocked me upside the head like I deserve. And fuck, would I deserve it.
Unable to stand it, I say, “Look, I know it was a bad idea, but—”
“No shit.” Ford’s hand connects with my temple, and I wince all over again, seeing stars.
Yeah, I might have a concussion.
“What were you thinking?” Roman demands.
“I was thinking—”
“With his dick,” Ford interjects. “He was thinking with his dick. What have I told you, Jag? Women are good for one thing—”
“Finish that sentence,” I growl. “I fucking dare you.”
“Let it go,” Roman snaps. “Both of you.”
Twisting in my seat, I say, “One day, a girl’s gonna knock you on your ass, Ford. And when that day comes, I expect an apology.”
“For what?” he argues. “For saying shit like it is? Because of Vi, you’re willingly throwing our business in the dumpster—”
“Are you forgetting how tonight ended?” I demand. “Because of Vi, I won. She sacrificed her house for us—”
“And now we’re on our way to visit Gus,” Roman snaps.
“Neither of you are wrong, all right? Ford, Jagger messed up. He knows it. We know it. It is what it is. But Ford?” His tone softens.
“Jagger’s in love with Vi. And you might not know what it feels like, hell you might not even agree with it, but if you want Jagger to get his head out of his ass, then you need to start accepting her.
If you don’t, he’ll only get better at keeping shit from us, like he did with this ridiculous fight. ”
Roman’s right. I don’t want him to be, but it’s true. I never thought I’d risk my brothers for anyone. Not one damn soul. But tonight? I guess we learned there’s one exception, and she means more to me than anything in this world, even if it means we’re fucked in this moment.
My head hangs forward as I try to come up with a game plan, or at the very least, an apology. After all, they’ve earned it. “I know I messed up,” I mumble. “I tried to fix it, and I thought I did, but…”
“Now, Gus wants to meet,” Roman finishes. With a flick of his wrist, the click-click of the blinker echoes through the quiet cab of his car as he pulls into the strip club’s parking lot. He finds an empty spot seconds later, then turns off the engine.
Resigned, Ford asks, “What do you want us to do, Jag?”
Hell if I know. I’m still trying to wrap my head around why Gus wants to meet in the first place. What about tonight would’ve been different than our regular Harden events? Nothing, except…tonight there was a predicted outcome. The question is, was Gus aware of it?
“Follow my lead,” I mutter. “I know I don’t deserve it, but I promise I’ll fix this.”
With a low exhale, Ford shoves open the door and steps outside. Not acknowledging me. But not fighting me on it, either.
“He’ll be all right,” Roman says. He climbs out and leaves me alone in the car.
Sure, he will.
The place is emptier than normal. Probably because it’s two in the morning and most were at the fight.
Or maybe not. I’ve only been here a handful of times.
I look around the establishment. Like the last time, a girl is on stage as a sexy beat plays through the speakers.
In nothing but pasties and a thong, she spins around the pole, and I glance toward the bar in search of a game plan.
“We’re here to meet with Gus,” Roman announces.
A man in a black T-shirt and dark jeans takes us toward a booth in the back.
Even with a possible concussion, I don’t miss the strain radiating off him.
Yeah…shit’s about to get real. Then I spot him.
Gus. He’s facing us, talking to someone across from him.
Brown hair cropped close to the head is all I can see. Until…
“Shit,” Ford mumbles under his breath. It’s so quiet, I’m surprised I hear him at all. He looks up at me, and I shake my head, silently telling him to keep moving and not show our hand while keeping my expression under wraps, no matter how pissed I am.
Ethan fucking Morgan.
His face is even more mangled than I remember. A nasty bruise and some solid swelling make it almost impossible to even see his right eye. Tape covers the bridge of his nose, confirming I broke it earlier tonight. Good. The asshole had it coming.
Why is he here?
Despite feeling like I’m running on empty, my heart pounds in my chest. It spreads adrenaline and frustration through my veins at speeds that leave me laser focused until the rest of the world fades around me, just like when I’m in the ring. I welcome the familiarity with a deep, cleansing breath.
I’ll get us through this. I have to.
When Gus notices us coming, he motions for us to sit on the opposite side.
Instead, Roman grabs a nearby table. The screech of its legs against the linoleum floor is like nails on a chalkboard as he drags it closer.
Adding three seats around the edges, he offers me the nearest one, and I sit down.
Ford does the same on my right. We keep the left one empty in case Hawke decides to show up, though I doubt he will.
“Still holding a grudge, I see,” Gus murmurs.
Untucking an envelope from his leather jacket, Roman offers it to the guy from the front. He takes a quick glance inside before handing it to Gus.
“Tonight’s cut,” Roman clarifies.
Gus doesn’t bother looking inside. He simply sets it on the table and rests his hand on top of it.
Dragging my attention from the stack of cash to Gus, I ask, “Want to tell us why we’re here?”
“You and I have a problem,” Gus says.
Yeah, no shit.
I sit back in the chair, feigning boredom. “What kind of problem?”
“You see, my nephew here,”—Gus’s glare cuts to Morgan—“he says you cheated.”
No fucking way.
I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from losing my shit, but it doesn’t stop Ford.
“This guy wants to talk about cheating?” Ford laughs. “Did he tell you about last—”
I knock Ford’s foot beneath the table, and he shuts up quick, though he doesn’t appear too happy about it. Ignoring him, I offer, “If you’d like to challenge the refs’ calls, you’re more than welcome to.”
“My nephew insists you had an agreement.” Gus steeples his fingers in front of him. “One on which you failed to deliver.”
So Gus did know. Interesting. Or maybe it isn’t. Maybe I should’ve expected it. Intel like this could’ve earned Gus a pretty penny. There’s only one problem. Instead of it paying out, it screwed him over.
Regardless, it shouldn’t be my problem, but Morgan’s turning this entire shit show on me. Like it’s my fault I couldn’t betray my brothers in exchange for my girlfriend’s house, which should’ve never been on the docket in the first place.
I breathe in deep through my nose but don’t shift in the seat no matter how hard it feels to sit still. “I’m aware of what I lost,” I answer.
“Yes, but you see, what you are not aware of, is what I lost,” Gus continues. The same, unnerving glare cuts to Morgan, and Gus drops his voice low. “And I hate losing.”
Morgan slams his palms against the table. “I swear it was a sure thing—”
Gus lifts his hand, silencing him. Morgan shakes his head but manages to swallow the rest of his words, though he doesn’t look too happy about it.
With a bark of amusement, Ford leans back in his chair, spreading his legs beneath the table.
“Let me guess. Your nephew told you an easy way to make some money. So you loaned him some cash to place a bet on tonight’s fight because he swore it was a”—Ford lifts his hands and does air quotes—“sure thing. Then, when he lost, he came here bitching to you.”
Gus turns to Ford, his eyes thinning. “You find this funny, Mr. Harden?”
“Nah, what’s funny is how much shit my brothers and I get for being a Harden and getting hand outs for every little thing, but this guy”—Ford motions to Morgan—“gets his ass handed to him, and instead of dealing with the repercussions like a man, he comes whining to Uncle Gus. Talk about nepotism at its finest.” He scoffs. “Am I right, Gus?”
Damn you and mouth, Ford, I want to grit out, but the die has been cast, and all I can do is sit and watch and wait.
My attention shifts from my brother to Gus.
The ball’s in his court. Is he going to take our side?
Is he going to see reason? Or is he going to lean into the nepotism my brother referred to and bail out his nephew while screwing us over in the process?
Statistically speaking, the man’s a wild card.
I’ve known it from the beginning. It’s why doing business with him is risky.
It’s why my uncle and father were so scared for us.
And yes, they had good reason to be, but I never thought we’d get here.
That we’d potentially land on Gus’s bad side despite our best attempts to stay in the clear.
Keeping my hands on the table, I force them to stay relaxed, refusing to give even the smallest hint of what I’m internally battling.
Finally, Gus breaks the silence. “Gambling is not for the faint of heart. My nephew lost, and there will be repercussions.”
“Thank fuck,” Ford says in a way that’s both relieved and cocky all at once.
“However,” Gus continues as if my baby brother hadn’t spoken at all, “now that I know I cannot trust your organization, my nephew will be allowed to take bets for the foreseeable future.”
Ford’s chair clatters against the ground as he shoves himself to his feet. “What?”
“We had an agreement,” I seethe.
“You promised to play fair with people from The Drift. Instead, you coordinated a faulty bet. And that, I cannot tolerate.”
“Bullshit!” Ford seethes, oblivious to the bouncer behind him reaching for the gun on his belt. “If you’d won like you thought you would tonight, we wouldn’t be—”
“Roman,” I snap.
On his feet in a flash, Roman shoves Ford away from the table and grabs the back of his neck. ”We’ll be outside.”
As they both disappear toward the front, the bouncer settles down, appearing bored.
That was close. Too close. I’ve always known dealing with Gus could be dangerous.
Even though we took the Ford approach and looked at the guy like he was nothing but a landlord and we were renting space from him, it’s never been difficult to recognize how much power the man actually possesses.
To be fair, I’m pretty sure it’s why my father’s scared of him, even if he’d never admit it out loud.
Gus Toro is not a guy you want to piss off, and we’ve never even come close to crossing the line.
Not until tonight. Time to tread very carefully.
Turning back to Gus, I say, “I apologize for my brother’s…outburst.”
His chin dips. “It’s understandable.”
“But he does make a good point,” I add.
A muscle beneath Gus’s eye jumps, but he doesn’t say anything else.
“When we first approached you, we agreed to give you a cut of all winnings in exchange for access to The Drift as well as the opportunity to take a few minor bets here and there. Have we ever not fulfilled our end of the bargain?”
“You’ve always come through as agreed,” he admits, albeit grudgingly.
“Then, I fail to understand why our agreement needs to change.”
“It doesn’t.”
My brows pull. “Allowing your nephew to encroach on our business doesn’t change our agreement?”
“Do you understand how capitalism works, Mr. Harden?” he asks.
I bite my tongue to keep from pointing out my position as an economics grad student. “I might know a thing or two, yes.”
“Then, I’m sure you understand the importance of competition. Until today, you’ve been playing Monopoly. It’s made you greedy. Lazy. Overly confident. That changes now.”
“What are you saying?”
“I’m saying, you may still use The Drift to plan your evenings. My nephew, however, may now also accept bets, and we’ll let the people decide who they’d rather use to book their wagers.”
Is he serious? Heat surges up my spine at the thought. Trouble is, I can’t see a way out. Not without burning every bridge we’ve built. It’s problematic at best. Life-ruining at worst.
“And if we don’t agree?” I ask.
His black, lifeless eyes hold mine from across the table. “Then our agreement is terminated.”