THIRTY-THREE
Harry
It’s the morning of Gigi’s first initiation test, and I spent yesterday bringing her to orgasm rather than teaching her last-minute techniques – like the fucking cunt I am. That’s why it’s 5 a.m. and I’m at the shooting range practising my aim with a firearm. The earmuffs are discarded at my feet, the piercing ring borderline sore in my ears but a welcome distraction from my bad decisions.
I’m not sure why my favourite stress release is violence.
Notice someone touching my woman? Forced to spill blood and torture a man.
Torture said woman into oblivion with multiple orgasms? Shoot bullets at a dummy corpse.
An even bigger worry is that my anger hasn’t lessened my skill. I’ve shot the full magazine of bullets with perfect precision right in the heart of the target as if it’ll help to ease the ache in mine. Christ, how pathetic.
I keep pulling the trigger even when it’s clearly fucking empty, the lone barrel drilling with each shot until I drop it to my feet when I can’t stand it anymore. I reckon my aggravation has a lot to do with a five-foot-nothing brunette who should be miles away from this place rather than chasing the opportunity to be a criminal as if it’s a fucking sprint.
Her screams after I stained her skin with a poker taint my dreams. That should have been enough to fuel my determination to keep her away, but I’m fucking selfish, and I wanted her close. If she refuses to leave, I have no other option than to keep her near. But it’s all come around too fast.
The hairs on the back of my neck stand on end when the door to the shooting range opens. No one should be in here this early. There are no heists today where extra practice is required.
Crouching to my feet, I hesitantly pick up the firearm as a form of defence even though it’s lacking bullets. When Richard rounds the corner, I find myself frowning even further. Still, I straighten my shoulders in greeting.
“Rich—Boss, what are you doing here?”
If he notices my slip-up, he refuses to pick up on it. “Please don’t tell me you were going to shoot me, St. James.”
“I think I’d die before I even attempted to kill you, sir.”
He chuckles, but we understand the truth in the statement. I wouldn’t be leaving this room alive if I attempted to assassinate Richard … no matter how much I fucking ache to.
“It’s not like you to be at the range so early in the morning,” he says, and my teeth grind as I await what he’ll say next. “Something on your mind …?”
There’s no point lying to him. It’s one of his worst traits, his ability to sniff a liar from a mile off.
Picking my words carefully, I say, “I think we both know why I’m down here.”
He nods. “I imagine it has something to do with someone’s initiation later today.”
“I suspect she’s fighting Green.”
He cocks a brow. “Have you told her?”
I shake my head.
I’ve been sworn to secrecy – he knows that.
Richard takes a few steps closer towards me, and my hands start to shake with the force it takes to refrain from decking him right in the face. He leaves a torturous pause before saying, “If there is any misconduct between you and the Thomas girl, I’ll know.”
I stop myself from grinding my teeth out of fear he’ll hear. “Something tells me we’re not talking about the initiation.”
He grins, displaying his teeth, but I struggle to see the emotion. “Don’t let me down, St. James.”
And then he walks away.
Hours later I’m standing on the outskirts of the ring with my arms folded over my chest. Andy stands close by my side, muttering nonsense about some bloke on the undercard having a good right hook. According to the handbook/codex/whatever the fuck it’s called – the one we receive when we’re accepted into the Circle – recruits are allowed to call on one another to fight out their differences. The cockiest of the bunch tend to use events like this to publicly display their hatred for one another.
Said guy with the good punch knocks his opponent to the floor, and the crowd erupts in chaos. The ref starts counting down from ten, but it’s obvious no one is getting up from a shot like that. Poppy stands at the ringside, jumping around on the balls of her feet in preparation. Meanwhile Gigi is in her changing room. I stood outside her door for close to an hour debating whether or not to face her, but I’m a fucking fool, and I chose not to. As soon as the handle twisted, I bolted in the other direction and kept my head down.
The boxing ring isn’t square like in typical sports – it’s circular in a nod to these people’s roots. The whole thing is fucking corrupt, but I can’t deny I was an intrigued man once, and I fell for this sort of crap too.
The idea of fighting someone to see whether you’re a worthy candidate is fucking cruel, but I’d rather that option over Gigi stripping down naked at Pixies or killing a man like I was forced to.
Before I know it, Andy is tapping my arm as Poppy ducks under the ropes and steps into the ring, waiting for her opponent.
“Who you got money on?”
“Fuck off,” I tell him.
“Wouldn’t put it past me if Poppy put some illegal shit in her gloves,” Oliver says, approaching my side.
I like the guy, but having two people on either side of me sets my teeth on edge, giving me the impression I’m being stared at from all angles. I’ve yet to see where Richard is hiding out, but it’s like I can feel that creep’s haunting gaze from a mile off.
Gigi ducks under the ropes and steps into the ring. Without even realising, my right foot is bouncing like I’m some kind of nervous wreck. She’s small, especially compared to Poppy, but I don’t doubt that with enough training she’d be a fucking warrior. Have we done enough though? I highly doubt it.
Her eyes don’t find mine, but I imagine they’d tell me she’s nervous too. It doesn’t take a genius to know that having a crowd people to witness you potentially getting knocked out is stressful.
“Dude, stop,” Andy says, referring to my jittery body.
My heartbeat thumps so loud I’m convinced that if anyone steps much closer, they’ll hear it. As if the redhead already has, Poppy turns to me, and she displays her signature fucking smirk.
When the bell rings to signal the start of the fight, I find the rounds go past quickly. The first few minutes, however, feel like fucking hours as I watch from the sidelines. In the first round I genuinely think Gigi might stand a chance. She’s blocking punches and throwing jabs in rapid succession, even throwing a few combination shots into the mix. If she doesn’t manage to knock Poppy out, then she’ll definitely be able to hold until the final whistle.
The second round goes past steadily. She gets a few punches in, and when she busts open Poppy’s lip the crowd roars. Her grin is contagious, and I feel my lips spreading like a magnet.
Fuck, this beautiful fucking woman might actually win.
But my hopes are shattered when Gigi turns around after the third bell and suffers a knockout punch to the back of her skull that sends her body folding to the floor.