10 - Fear The Reaper
Logan
“Leave,” Scar orders, but as I stand, he fires me a glare darker than the pits of fiery hell. “Except you. You stay.”
This isn’t going to be pretty.
My arse meets the wood, cold and unyielding, which is fitting, considering the crushing weight of my uncle’s stare.
As if I’m a scolded puppy being reprimanded for christening the carpet.
Metaphorically speaking, I did. Scar’s perspective was black and white.
I just dipped it in the end of a fucking rainbow.
The boys slip me a look, as if to say ‘good luck. You fucking need it.’
As I wait for them to leave, I take a look around.
It hasn’t changed since I was a kid. It still harbours the same dark, imposing atmosphere that claws at your throat the second you step through the heavy oak doors.
That same large mahogany desk, bearing the marks and scratches made by a younger, more reckless version of my best friend.
Scar used to lock Clarke in here when he had one of his emotional meltdowns, forcing him to write pages upon pages of lines as punishment.
I must not try to drown my issues with vodka.
I must not overdose for fun.
Yeah, he was a right bubbly teenager.
A portrait of the two of them hangs proudly on the wall, their matching suits making them appear more father and son than ever.
They both wear wide grins, like their worlds hadn’t shattered to pieces minutes before.
There’s a minibar in here too, nestled in the corner. Kept under lock and key, of course.
Dad returns, with a towel tucked under his arm. He lobs it at me. I catch it in my fist and rub it vigorously over my hair. By this time most of the water is either under my chair, or soaking into Ezio’s leather seats, so the whole charade is pointless.
With my trusty sidekicks gone, I suddenly feel like a criminal who’s been brought in for questioning. Scar pulls the cigar from his lips, tapping the powdery residue into the glass ashtray on the desk. For now, he’s avoiding eye contact, prioritising his essential needs over me.
“I gave you warning, son,” Dad’s voice lowers to a growl, as he crosses his arms in front of his chest. “I asked you nicely.”
I scoff. “Nicely? How was threatening me asking nicely?”
Scar silently flips the iPad onto its side, with the self-control of a virgin in a brothel.
My stupid face lighting up the screen makes me wish I had a time machine, so I could go back and punch myself in the face before making any more terrible decisions.
Although, I’m not suggesting Cordelia was a terrible decision, but getting suckered into taking part in Clarke’s wicked games? That’s regrettable.
“It meant nothing,” I force the words out, even though I’m lying through my teeth. “Clarke dared me to do it. We used protection.”
I purposely omit the details about the condom; no one needs to know about that.
“If Clarke dared you to jump off a cliff, would you do it?” Dad snaps, then quickly backtracks. “Don’t fucking answer that.”
I snort. He knows my loyalty to the boys. “It’s over. Got a taste, and I’m done.” I wave a dismissive hand to emphasise the point.
“You better hope that’s all it was, Ragazzo,” Scar seethes, staring daggers at me so hard, I’m sure I can feel the goddamn blade twisting in my gut.
“You’re overreacting,” I shrug my shoulders, pretending it’s no big deal. “It was just a quick fuck.”
Scar’s beefy hand strikes the table with such force; the ashtray jumps in the air. And so, do I.
“If your ‘quick fuck’ has any negative implications on the deal I have with her mother, I’ll be gunning for you. Now get the hell out of here.”
I stand abruptly, chewing my lip so I can't say anything else that’ll land me on my uncle’s shit list of people he intends to kill.
It’s a long fucking list; I’ve seen it. I don’t stop walking until I reach the front door.
Ezio’s car rumbles to life, and the boys both nod as I slam the passenger door shut.
Ez gives me the side-eye from behind the wheel.
“Everything good?”
“Fucking peachy.”
The guys run me back to Knightsbridge so I can fetch my Harley. After a frosty farewell, I mount my bike and block out the world with my AirPods.
I’m in over my head, over my head.
I yank them out with a snarl. Never a truer word spoken, Lit, but I could do without the reminder right now, thanks very much.
The engine roars, and I’m out the gates in a flash. I follow the signs into Brixton. There’s no chance of returning home after the shit show of a day I’ve had. No, I need to feel. I need to feel pain. I need to ache and bleed and atone for all my fucking sins.
The Vault is a dingy little nightclub on the edge of Brixton. It’s not a hot spot for tourists and tends to attract mostly unsavoury guests. The type you might find in a back alley with a crowbar.
For that reason, it’s one of my preferred places to hang.
You see, this place has a secret glossed over by its thoroughly ordinary exterior.
From the outside, it’s just like any other joint this side of town.
Blacked-out windows, colourful graffiti splashed on the walls, a barricade blocking the entrance, all the usual stuff.
There’s a mass of muscle guarding the door, but he takes no notice as I sneak behind the red rope. People in the queue kick up a fuss, but that’s not my problem. Most of the staff here still recognise me.
The dance floor is crammed full of partygoers, sweat-soaked and gyrating to the pulsing beat of the music.
I push past, and the stench of cheap perfume hounds me, an intoxicating temptation that once would have had me ravenous for more.
Now, it only serves to turn my stomach. A thick layer of smoke obscures the way forward, but my subconscious remembers every inch of this building.
The steps at the rear of the room lead me to my destination.
As I descend deeper, the new music echoes through the walls, heavy and cathartic.
I’m not sure you can really call it music, to be honest. It’s the type of sound that vibrates through your entire being, makes you want to tear things apart or smash something to smithereens.
Full of dramatic bass lines and powerful guitar riffs designed to awaken your innermost carnal desires.
The cage is the first thing you see when you reach the bottom. A huge, imposing metal structure, built to contain those brave enough to fight. To challenge one another in a bloodthirsty war of physical and emotional strength. That’s what we do down here. We fight.
Fight to battle through our anger and emotions.
Fight to overcome our shadowed pasts.
Fight to rise above our bleak futures.
Everything in life is a violent struggle for survival.
There are two guys in the cage already, going at it, tearing each other apart.
Shirtless, showcasing their chiselled physiques and stacked muscles, only capable through juicing up on steroids.
I’m sure of that because I’ve spent countless hours training, keep to a strict diet, try and get enough sleep.
I have never been that jacked up. Most of us are lean, toned; lightweight, but deadly.
Blood spews from the heavier guy’s nose, staining his skin in a crude declaration of war. The other dude’s missing the lower part of his lobe. Probably torn or chewed off in a previous fight.
It’s like the wild west here, anything goes.
Well, the refs try to enforce rules, but they’re usually overthrown by the threat of becoming a walking target.
I’ve witnessed knives, knuckledusters, chains, broken bottles, the lot.
And once we’re in there, there’s no getting out until someone falls, or taps out.
“It’s The Reaper!!”
My attention diverts from the fight, to where two girls are rushing towards me. One blond, the other brunette. Both attractive if you like Barbie dolls with big tits.
“Ladies,” I smirk in a smooth tone that reeks of confidence.
“You’re soo much hotter in the flesh!” Blondie squeals, her fingers curling around my bicep, as if it’s perfectly acceptable to grope random blokes body parts. Now, if I did that to her, we’d be telling a different story.
“Will you sign my boobs?” The brunette hits me her best puppy-dog eyes and launches a sharpie in my face.
I never really understood the whole ‘sign my tits’ thing. Like, are you trying to piss your boyfriend off, or are you just averse to paper? Maybe they’re eco-activists trying to save the trees and all that bullshit.
“Sure,” I say, nabbing the pen.
Her top dips low on her chest as it is, but she still seizes the material between her fingers to yank it down further, giving me better access.
She’s got a nice rack, but the whole action takes me back to Cordelia and her plunging neckline, and how much I wanted to swing at anyone who so much as breathed in her direction that night.
My dick hardens in my boxers, reminding me it enjoyed the view too.
I exhale a breath and press the nib to the brunette's skin. I scrawl TR close to her cleavage, then add a little tombstone cross. And when she looks down at her chest, she’s ecstatic because I signed it off with an x.
I force a grin on my face, and flex, whilst her friend snaps a picture for her Instagram page.
Satisfied, they walk off, giggling and waving their arms around animatedly.
I was famous here at one point. Undefeated, too.
When Mum was taken from us, it’s the only way I could get through the fucking days.
The only way I could cope with the guilt of not being able to save her…
At seventeen I was the youngest fighter they’d ever had through the doors.
Young, and already filled with so much hatred and remorse.
Behind the registration desk is a guy donning thick-framed glasses and a green mohawk. His chin rests in his hand, a bored, vacant look on his face. When he spots me, his lips split in a grin. Our hands clasp in a firm handshake.