Chapter 22
22
BLOOD
I walk Ricky to the office door. “Thanks for the help, man.”
“No problem. It should be ready in about twenty-four hours.”
I step out into the gym and pull the door closed. “When you get it, give it to me, not Maxine.”
Ricky’s brows knit together. “Right, Boss.”
I reenter the office, round my desk and glare at Maxine.
“Thanks for doing this for me.” She concentrates on the hem of her biker shorts.
“No problem.”
“Ricky didn’t mention a price.” Her head pops up. “I have money. I want to pay you or him something.”
“Not necessary.” I force my voice to stay neutral, but even I heard the edginess.
“But—”
I lean my palms on the desk. “Are you gonna tell me why the whole side of your face is fucked up, or are we just gonna keep ignoring it?”
Her fingers fly to her cheek. “I guess Carmella’s still pissed off I got the bigger locker. She landed a good one during practice when I wasn’t expecting it.”
“Bullshit,” I spit out the one word, my stomach churning with acid.
“No, really, she was pissed off Francesca and I have bigger lockers than her. Petty shit, but, of course, her anger is what makes her good in the cage.”
I bark out a harsh laugh. “Is everything that falls out of your mouth a fuckin’ lie?”
When she bites her lower lip, the lie is confirmed. I’d just listened to her give Ricky all kinds of info for the passport, but who knows how much of it was true.
“I mean, are you even from California?”
“Before I came to Tijuana, I lived in California, yes, right off Sunset Boulevard.”
“And is your last name really Parker, and your birthday in November?”
“Since the whole passport is going to be a fake, I guess it doesn’t matter, does it?”
“How did you learn how to do that—answer a question without really answering?”
“Says the outlaw biker.”
“Right, I’m an outlaw biker, so I’ve been double-dealing and lying about shit most of my adult life, but if the birth year you gave Ricky is true, then you’re only twenty-two.”
“That’s right.”
“So, how did someone who’s only twenty-two learn life’s lessons so fast?”
“Survival.”
The one-word answer opens another can of fuckin’ worms.
I lower myself into the chair, mentally exhausted from her back and forth. Making believe she’s telling me the truth, then double-backing with another lie.
“Someday you’re gonna have to let somebody in, let somebody help you.”
“And that somebody is you?” Her words drip with sarcasm.
“I don’t know.” I jerk my chin to her bruised face. “But you sure ain’t doin’ a good job of it by yourself.”
She pushes out of the chair, her eyes on fire. “Who are you to talk? You’ve got a whole club of brothers behind you, always covering your back. What do you know about standing up for yourself, fighting for everything and being alone?”
She spins around and stomps toward the door.
I rush behind her and slap my palm on the splintered wood, slamming the door shut, caging my body behind her.
She looks over her shoulder and nods toward the glass wall. “Everyone can see us.”
“I don’t give a shit.” I grind my hips against her ass. “Maybe I’ll just fuck you right here against this door, put on a little show for everyone to see, ‘cause fuckin’ seems to be the only time you’re honest with me.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means your body doesn’t lie, can’t lie with the way it responds to me,” I rasp in her ear, letting the heat of my breath sear her skin. “The way it gives me what I need and takes what I offer. It’s the only fuckin’ time you’re real. No fake stories, no lies, just you and me giving and taking.”
I grab her hip, twisting her around. The swell of her breasts rises and falls as she gasps in little spurts of air. Anger, no—frustration etched over her face.
“If only you’d trust me.” I thread my fingers into her hair, loosening her braid. “I know I could help you.”
“You helping me and me trusting you wouldn’t end well for either of us.” She squirms out of my hold, and I don’t try to stop her. “After tomorrow night, you won’t have to worry about me anymore, ‘cause I’ll be long gone— a little less than a memory.”
MAXINE
Blood steps aside, and I slip through the door, immersing myself in the crowd, the noise, the hard pounding music of the gym, anything to distract my brain and my body. Blood’s words echo in my head with truth. Sex was the only time I truly gave myself over to Blood. It was a safe space, a place where I didn’t have to think about yesterday or tomorrow. A place where I could just be.
I long to tell Blood about fixing the fight, but going against Hector has way worse results than going against Blood. If I deceive Blood, he would hate me, but if I go against Hector, he will kill me—or worse. I know firsthand how he doles out punishment. Almost like he knows a person’s weakest link and incorporates it, but I can’t think of any of that now.
In thirty-six hours, I’ll be gone from this place forever.
Eye on the prize—Eye on the prize.
Away from Mexico, and far, far away from the horrors of Hector. It won’t be easy to start a new life, but, after surviving the last five years, I can withstand anything thrown at me.
Late at night, when I can’t sleep, I fantasize about living in a remote town maybe in the middle of the country. Wyoming, Colorado, maybe even go up north to Montana. Far away from my birth state of Oklahoma or California, where my life imploded.
No more living just below the radar; from now on, I would do everything the right way. Live a life I could be proud of instead of always hiding, fearful of what the next day would bring. I would stand on my own two feet without help from anyone.
Survival.
I threw the word out to Blood, and even he didn’t have a response. A light in his eyes told me he knew exactly what I meant. Perhaps I wasn’t the only one with secrets. He was quick to ask me questions about my life, but maybe I should quiz him on why he became an outlaw biker. I have a feeling his story rivals mine.
We were thrown together due to circumstances, each sensing the desperation in the other. Two lost souls drifting, each trying to find some sort of peace allowing us to sleep at night without nightmares haunting our dreams. Or demons plaguing our days. A place where we could find freedom.
BLOOD
Survival.
I drag my fingers through my hair as the word swims through my head. Maxine spit it out so plainly, like it explained everything, and in a way, it did. I’d dealt with survival every day as a kid until I finally fought back. Now I have a whole club of brothers behind me, but Maxine is right—she has no one.
Diesel knocks on the door, then enters the office. “You all ready to make a shit ton of money tomorrow night?” He sits in the chair opposite my desk, pulls a blunt out of his cut and lights up.
Most of the fighters have gone home for the night. Just a few stragglers, including Maxine getting in some last-minute strategies.
“Absolutely.” I motion for the blunt, then hit it hard ‘cause, fuck, I need it with all the static in my head.
“Smoke said you’re gonna use the strippers from The Tropics as fight girls.” He waggles his fingers, and I pass the weed. “Shit, man, you went all out.”
“Gotta give the people what they want.”
Since we closed The Tropics for the night, the strippers were more than happy to trade one venue for another. Especially since they are getting paid the same, and all they have to do is take turns prancing around the ring in a string bikini between bouts.
“Got guys coming in from Vegas and L.A.”
Diesel offers me the smoke again, but I wave him away. “Probably some of those tight-ass Hollywood execs who like to get down and dirty. They throw cash around like they’re mad at their money.”
“And the beauty part is we don’t have to worry about the cops. Sure does beat the bullshit we had to go through in the States.”
Paying our weekly installment to the local cops ensured the night would go off without any interference. Although we’d been here a year, it still amazed me. Back in the States, we’d have to pull off an event like this in an abandoned warehouse way under the radar, and still pay the cops a bundle to look the other way. Not so in Tijuana. The cops look the other way for a very small fee. Shit, some of them even come and bet on the fights. Fuckin’ crazy.
I open the bottom drawer of my desk, pull out a bottle of Jack and two glasses, then I pour each of us a shot. We raise our glasses, and one of the trainers bursts in, his eyes wide, his breathing labored. “Come quick!”
Diesel and I exchange a look then bolt out of the office, following the trainer into the men’s locker room, then further into the showers.
A crowd forms at the entrance, but I push past them, then freeze.
“Fuuck!” I bellow, wrapping my arms around my waist.
I gasp in air, but I still can’t breathe. No matter how hard I try, I can’t get enough air into my lungs. My legs weaken, and I sink to my knees, but the pain continues. A deep, intense burning sorrow relentlessly spreads throughout my body—crippling me.
“No, no, no,” I mumble.
Diesel’s hand clamps my shoulder, but I shrug him off.
I lift my head, hoping I’d seen wrong, but, no, Javi still hangs from the rafters in front of me.
“Cut him down, damnit,” I yell. There is a scurry of activity around me as I struggle to my feet.
Diesel and some of the other trainers lay Javi on one of the benches. I lean over him, brush his hair off his face, then ease his eyes shut. “I’m sorry, kid.”
Diesel points to a piece of paper pinned to Javi’s shirt. “What’s that?”
I pull it away from the material and read it:
“This is what happens when bikers interfere with people who don’t belong to them.”