Chapter 12
Hayden
“Meant To Live-Switchfoot”
One month later…
Thirty fucking days since I last saw my Firefly standing outside that warehouse with tears in her eyes and my name breaking apart on her lips.
And I’m losing my goddamn mind.
I haven’t seen her since that night.
Not at the races.
Not at school.
Not anywhere.
It’s like she vanished into thin air.
I tried finding her.
Christ, I tried harder than I should’ve.
I drove past the Fitzgerald Estate twice like some pathetic stalker hoping to catch a glimpse of her through her window. I even went back to Brimstone High’s parking lot like a creep.
Nothing. No Ophelia. No Firefly.
I don’t even have her number. The old one has been disconnected for years.
A ghost.
That’s what she feels like now.
A haunting.
And the worst part? Every single night I still expect her to climb into my thoughts and ruin my sleep anyway.
Which she does.
Every. Damn. Time.
“Ghost.” Ryker's voice snaps me back to reality. I glance up from the clipboard in my hand while Chaos unfolds around me inside the Dungeon.
Tonight’s fight pulled a packed crowd. Cigarette smoke curls beneath flashing red lights while drunk assholes scream over bets from every corner of the underground arena.
Money. Violence. Blood.
Business as usual.
I’ve been working here full-time since I got out of lockup. Scheduling fights. Collecting payouts. Keeping drunk idiots from stabbing each other before the main events even start.
Honestly?
I’m good at it. Maybe too good.
Turns out prison prepares you pretty well for managing violent men with anger issues.
“The Deluca brothers are trying to skip out on payment again,” Ryker says while tossing me a thick envelope of cash.
Why is Ryker even here? Caspian can’t stand him and Ryder for reasons I’m not privy too, but what I do know is that Kayla was fucking Casp for a bit. He’s a crazy motherfucker for doing so, but who am I to judge.
I’m not innocent in all this. Well, not with Kayla. She is not my type.
She’s not blonde.
“Okay and…” I say, and Ryker smirks.
“Just letting you know what I overheard when I walked in,” he says, and I nod.
“Which one?”
“Both,” he says, and I sigh heavily and crack my neck once.
“Fantastic.”
“Figured you’d enjoy it.” He smirks.
Truthfully? I kind of do.
“So why are you here?” I ask, and his eyes shoot down to the envelope then back up to me.
Right.
Payment.
“Okay, okay. I’ll stop asking questions,” I say, and he laughs.
I throw the envelope into the safe beneath the counter then shove the clipboard at him before stalking through the Dungeon towards the poker tables in the back corner.
Harley wasn’t for this side of the business but Caspian and Maverick talked him into it, and the minute he gave them the green light they made this part of the building their own little gambling corner.
The crowd parts slightly when they notice me coming. Funny how fast reputations spread underground. Three months ago nobody knew who the fuck Hayden Marks was… now?
Now drunk idiots lower their voices when I walk by.
As they fucking should.
The Deluca twins sit at the far poker table pretending they don’t see me approaching.
Nico and Matteo.
Mid-twenties, trust-fund coke dealers with rich parents and inflated egos. The kind of guys who think wearing expensive watches make them dangerous.
Spoiler alert… it doesn’t.
Nico spots me first and mutters, “Aw, hell.”
Matteo immediately throws his cards down. “We already told your guy we’ll have the money next week,” he says with annoyance dripping in his tone.
So I drag out the empty chair across from them and sit down calmly. That usually scares people more.
They share a look.
A frantic one at that.
Good. I want them to be scared.
“See,” I say conversationally, “the thing about the Dungeon is we’re not really a layaway program.”
“Relax, Ghost. It’s eight grand. You’ll get it,” Nico says, forcing a laugh.
I tilt my head slightly. “You got eighty seconds before I break something expensive.”
Matteo scoffs loudly. “You think because you won a few fights around here you’re suddenly tough?”
Wrong fucking answer.
I grab the poker table hard enough to flip the entire thing sideways. Chips and cards explode everywhere while people jump back shouting. Nico barely managed to stumble away before the heavy wood slams into the wall behind me.
The music keeps playing.
Nobody intervenes, not even Caspian, who just walked through the front doors.
This is normal here.
I stand slowly while Matteo shoots to his feet. “You fucking psycho!” he yells as Nico steps forward, puffing out his chest.
“You don’t scare u—”
I hit him before he finishes the sentence.
My fist cracks across his nose hard enough to spray blood over the cards scattered on the floor. The crowd nearby instantly erupts into drunk cheers.
“GET EM’ GHOST!” someone yells, and I roll my eyes.
Nico crashes against another table clutching his face while Matteo lunges at me stupidly.
Wrong choice, pal.
I sidestep him easily and slam his head down onto another poker table with enough force to crack the wood beneath him.
The entire Dungeon howls with laughter while Matteo groans as I lean down close to his ear.
“You know what prison taught me?” I ask quietly. “Rich boys bleed exactly the same.”
Then, I grab the back of his expensive shirt and yank him upright before patting his pockets myself.
Wallet. Cash. Rolex.
Mine now.
Nico spits blood onto the floor while glaring at me murderously. “You can’t just rob us.”
I grin slowly. “Looks like I just did.”
The crowd laughs again as Ryker and Caspian appear nearby, both leaning against a pillar and looking entertained as hell.
“You done redecorating?” Caspian asks while eyeing the destroyed poker table.
“Almost.” I grin.
Matteo finally shakes enough sense back into himself to pull out his phone with trembling hands. “Fine! Fine. Fuck!”
Three minutes later, the money transfers through. Eight grand plus interest. I glance down at the twins while pocketing the Rolex too.
“What about that?” Matteo demands weakly.
I shrug. “Asshole tax.” I chuckle as Nico wipes blood from his face furiously.
“This place is fucking insane,” he states, and I lean down until we’re eye level.
“No,” I say quietly. “This place is organized. Difference matters.”
Then I walk away while the crowd cheers behind me. Ryker falls into step beside me, shaking his head. “You enjoy this way too much.”
I glance back at the bleeding twins still arguing with security.
“Probably.” I laugh, but he stops short.
“Ever thought of joining up?” he asks, and I raise a brow.
“Patch in? Is that what you’re asking me?” And he shrugs.
“Listen.” He looks around first before leaning closer. “D’mitri is getting out of hand and my father is going to need someone who he can trust and is batshit. You fit the bill.” He laughs but I don’t.
I’m not sure if that’s the life I want for myself or for Ophelia.
Shit. Ophelia. Fuck!
“Thanks for the offer, Ryker, but I’m good for right now,” I say, and he nods.
“Respect,” he says, giving me his knuckles.
He finally leaves, and I get back to work.
We have one more fight tonight, then I can head home and relax. Tomorrow is my day off and I’m looking forward to just chilling.
By midnight, the final fight starts. Eliana versus some massive bitch named Tonya from Southside Brimstone.
The crowd goes feral while I lean against the cage collecting bets. Eliana absolutely dismantles the chick in under four rounds. Blood sprays across the mat and someone throws a chair.
I laugh when some chick flashes her tits, but tonight the Dungeon makes a killing and so do I.
By the time the crowd starts clearing out, my pockets are heavier than they’ve been in years.
Enough for rent, food, and maybe I can finally buy the truck I’ve been eyeing online. A beat up black chevy pickup sitting in some old mechanic’s lot across Daggerspoint.
Nothing fancy.
Rust around the edges with an engine that’s loud as hell.
Perfect.
The thought unexpectedly drags me backward in time.
My fifteenth birthday, laying in a stolen pick up with Ophelia curled against my chest beneath a blanket while stars stretched endlessly above us. Her soft laugh. Her fingers tracing tattoos I didn’t have yet across my skin.
“You ever wanna leave Brimstone?” she asked me once.
“All the time.”
“Where would we go?”
“Anywhere you are,” I tell her as I kiss the top of her head.
Jesus Christ.
The memory hits so hard I actually press a hand against my ribs.
I miss her.
Not just physically. I miss talking to her. Hearing her laugh. Feeling like maybe the world isn’t completely rotten when she looked at me.
A month without Ophelia feels worse than prison some days. At least prison gave me something to fight.
This?
This is just emptiness.
I finally leave the Dungeon around three in the morning exhausted and smelling like smoke, blood, and sweat.
The streets of Daggerspoint are mostly dead this late. Neon lights flicker across the cracked pavement while my bike growls beneath me through empty intersections.
I barely notice the black SUVs until they box me in. Two matte black G-Wagons swing out from side streets suddenly, trapping me between them hard enough to force me to slam on the brakes.
“What the fuck?” I yell as my pulse spikes.
My hands flex while I calculate exits. Weapons. Distance.
The SUVs stop around me silently.
Expensive.
Tinted.
Dangerous.
Not cops.
Something worse.
The driver side door of the front G-Wagon opens slowly. A massive man climbs out first. Bald. Tattooed neck. Suit jacket stretched over shoulders built like concrete walls. Definitely armed.
Then another door opens behind him and he steps out.
Taller. Older. Sharp dark suit tailored perfectly. Salt and pepper beard trimmed cleanly. Rings flashing beneath streetlights while polished dress shoes crunch against the gravel.
Power rolls off him quietly. The kind that doesn’t need to shout.
He studies me calmly before speaking.
“Hayden Marks?” he asks in a thick Irish accent.
Every bone in my body goes rigid.
“Yeah,” I answer slowly. “Who’s askin’?”
The older man smiles slightly. Not in a friendly way.
“Flynn O’Patrick,” he says smoothly. “The man who got ya outta lockup.”
My stomach drops.
Oh.
Oh, fuck!
The man extends his hand casually like we’re businessmen meeting for coffee instead of criminals standing in the middle of a dark street at three in the morning.
“Nice ta finally meet ya, lad.”
Holy fucking shit!