Chapter 8 Lance
Lance
Present Day
The heavy bag swings with a dull thud, its chain rattling overhead.
I hit it again, harder this time.
My knuckles split open, blood seeping through the tape, but I don’t stop. The only thing keeping my head quiet is the rhythm of my fist meeting the leather.
I reset my stance and shake my shoulders out as I loosely hold my arms up.
When I was young, I was angry. Angry about who I was and never being enough. Angry at a world that had made up its mind about me. Fighting was the only thing that quieted the noise. My nanny Beverly was the first person to put me and my cousin Tyler in Jeet Kune Do.
Something about if we’re going to give each other bruises, might as well do it properly. My parents never came to a single class, of course, but Beverly showed up every time.
She said fighting was like chess. Think three moves ahead, read your opponent, and know when to sacrifice to win the game.
“The queen is the most powerful piece on the board, but she’s also the most patient. She doesn’t announce herself, she waits until the board is set and then she strikes.”
Now, I think she was talking about herself. After all, she integrated seamlessly into our lives only to betray the family, poison my sister, and run off.
Her name’s not even Beverly. It’s Cassandra Troy.
And if that doesn’t prove she never really gave a shit about me, then I don’t know what does.
Sometimes, I wonder if she had a hand in sending me down here. But that’s ridiculous. Helping Freddy try to take down the founding families is not the same as forcing me into a broken life entirely.
I’m always trusting the wrong fucking people.
The training room in the Lye is nothing special. Concrete walls, bare bulbs that flicker when the ventilation kicks on. A heavy bag, one I’ve knocked off its chain more than once, a wall of mirrors with cracks running through them. In the middle is a padded ring, one you’d see in a boxing match.
It’s a hell of an upgrade from the early days.
Back then, fights rotated through pop-up locations, and sometimes, they still do.
Abandoned warehouses, factory basements, anywhere that could be cleared out fast if the Feds got too close.
But Myrddin wanted something more permanent, something controlled.
A hub. And since my father had already been having Myrddin force people into loan defaults so they could steal Montgomery land, doing the same for the tavern was a no-brainer.
Then Art came along and let Frederick get in his ear about calling in on that loan default, and nabbing the place.
Now, the Round Table pours drinks upstairs while I bleed below.
And it smells like bleach down here.
Fresh bleach, layered over a copper scent that never goes away no matter how much they scrub.
The door to the training room swings open.
Benjamin Voltaire has a particular way of entering a room like he owns it and everyone in it. I assume that’s from years of him not being enough and having to posture as though he is.
“Lance.”
He says my name like we’re friends, and it rubs across my skin like sandpaper.
I turn, wiping sweat from my forehead with the back of my taped hand. Benny’s in the doorway, waxy hair combed back, that avuncular smile plastered across his face like he’s here to take me out for ice cream.
Behind him, there’s a kid.
Eighteen, maybe. Lanky, like he hasn’t grown all the way into his limbs, brunette hair that flops over his pale forehead, wide brown eyes scanning the room like he’s looking for the exit.
It reminds me of when I was that kid being brought in by Freddy and introduced to the man who taught me how to survive, Graves.
“Busy,” I say, turning back to the bag.
“You’re never too busy for me.” Benny laughs, his Italian loafers clicking against the concrete. “Come on, boss, don’t be like that. I thought we had bonded over Freddy on Upside Down Rock.”
Bonded is a strong word. But I had hoped him growing a conscience and helping me save Juliette was him turning over a new leaf.
But a leopard can’t change his spots.
“I brought you a gift.”
“Take it back.”
He laughs again. “Stop it, Lance. This one is Art approved. You’ll like it, promise.”
That gets my attention.
“This is Percy,” Benny puts a hand on the kid’s shoulder. “Percy, this is Lance Calloway. The best fighter we’ve got. You’ll be learning from him.”
Percy gives an awkward half wave.
“I’m not a teacher,” I say.
“You are now. Percy’s found himself in a bit of a bind with Myrddin. Gambling debts.” Benny tsks. “His father tried to help, but, I guess the apple doesn’t fall far, you know?”
“Funny you talk about fathers, Benny. Where’s yours again?”
His face drops. His parents never stayed around to bring him up properly. They stuck him in Rosebrook Prep and let him shack up with his aunt and her husband—the now-dead Marcus Montgomery.
“Probably with yours.”
Touché.
“Percy’s got potential.” He walks a slow circle around the kid like he’s inspecting livestock. “Just needs someone to show him the ropes.”
I wonder if the fear on Percy’s face showed so plainly on mine when I first got dragged underground.
“When?”
He shrugs. “Depends on how generous Myrddin’s feeling.”
“Benny, come on, man, that’s suicide. He’ll get killed.”
“Then you better teach him how not to,” he says. “Unless you’d rather I find another way to occupy your time? I’m pretty sure Freddy left some nice footage of your most killer wins. I could hunt those down, make sure they get in the right hands, if you’d prefer.”
My fingers curl into fists.
Benny smiles, and claps Percy on the shoulder again, hard enough to make him stumble.
“Kid, listen to everything Lance tells you. He’s kept himself alive down here for years. A special weapon for us.” He pauses at the door, looking back at me. “That’s no small feat.”
When Benny leaves, Percy doesn’t move.
I should tell him to get out. Tell him he’s dead if he stays. He’s bait, plain and simple.
Instead, I say, “You ever been hit before?”
He blinks. “I—no. Not really.”
Christ.
“First thing. Keep your hands up. Always. Even when you’re tired. Even when you think the other guy’s done. Hands up.”
Percy nods.
“Let me see you do it.”
Percy lifts his fists in front of his face, and he’s so goddamn tense I could knock him over with a single finger.
He’s going to die in the pit.
“Wider.” I walk toward him, kicking his feet apart with my shoe. “Weight on the balls of your feet, not your heels. You stand like that, you’re gonna be on your ass before the first hit. And it’s concrete out there, not a padded mat.”
He adjusts, and it’s marginally better.
“Good. Tuck your chin. Elbows in.” I move him into the position I want to see, and he does it all without complaint.
But his body is trembling.
I circle him, the way Benny did, and I hate myself for the parallel. But this is different. This isn’t about ownership; it’s about keeping this kid breathing.
“What’s your full name?”
“Percival. Percival Galois.”
“Galois,” I repeat. “You got family besides your dad, Percy?”
He shakes his head.
“He know what you’re doing?”
“Doubt he’d care either way.”
I know what it’s like to have a piece-of-shit father who couldn’t care if you live or die.
“Keep it that way,” I say. “The less people know, the safer they are.”
“Safer from what?”
I hold up my hands, palms flat. “Hit me.”
“What?”
“You heard me. Hit me.”
“I don’t want to hurt you.”
“Try.”
He throws a punch. It’s weak, more of a tap than a strike.
“Rotate your hips. Power comes from your core, not your arm.”
We go like that for a while. After about an hour, Benny comes back and hugs Percy to his side like he gives a shit.
Watching him slip so effortlessly into the role that used to be Freddy’s makes me sick.
When they leave, I unwrap my fists, the tape pulling away from my split knuckles. Underneath the red-stained white, there are scars that never quite heal. Bones that have set wrong and ache when it rains.
I toss the bloody tape into the bin and roll my shoulders, feeling the familiar pinch in the left one; just another tick on the map of scars my body has collected like destinations.
A rib that tweaks if I move the wrong way, a knee that cracks when I bend, and a molar that isn’t real anymore.
The body keeps the score even after the brain checks out.
Six years of this.
Six years of loyalty to the kid I sliced palms with and swore I’d pick over everyone forever.
The door creaks open again, and I half expect Benny to waltz back in, but then I hear humming.
Genevieve.
Her hair’s twisted into a chaotic mess, red pieces escaping everywhere. Her earbuds are in, and she’s singing—if you can call it that—completely off-key, her head bobbing while she pushes a mop across the concrete, dragging it in long, steady strokes like she’s scrubbing history out of the floor.
She looks ridiculous.
But also, she looks light. I’m used to seeing her with a scowl on her face, but right now, she just seems like a girl with a mop, murdering a song I don’t recognize.
My heart does a weird twist, and I shove it down immediately.
Annoying. That’s what she is.
It pisses me off she isn’t aware of her surroundings in the least.
It also pisses me off she’s here in general.
Fucking Art. Asking me to keep an eye on his girl, not telling me he gave her new responsibilities.
She spins around and our eyes lock, and she yelps, swinging the mop handle like she’s trying to kill me with it.
I don’t move, just watch her with the tape looped lazily between my fingers.
She drops the mop and it clatters, skidding across the floor and rolling beneath my feet. She yanks her headphones out, eyes narrowed like I was the one interrupting her.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?”
I quirk a brow. “I was here first.”
“Yeah, well, maybe make a noise next time so you don’t give someone a heart attack.”
“Not my fault you were too busy serenading the bleach bucket to notice me.”
Her cheeks flame red. “I wasn’t even really singing, dick.”
“You’re telling me that wasn’t your normal voice? Thank God.”
“You’re such an asshole.”
I nudge the mop with my foot. “What were you planning to do with that thing anyway, bludgeon someone to death?”
“It could be a weapon if I needed it to be.”
“I could have knocked you off balance in two seconds flat.”
“Whatever,” she says. “What are you doing down here anyway?”
“Training.”
“Oh.”
Silence settles between us, neither of us wanting to acknowledge the truth: I’m down here to prepare for the same thing she’s cleaning for.
Then, for some godforsaken reason, she walks closer to me.
I go rigid, every nerve firing, and stand up.
She nudges her shoulder toward mine, but she’s so short, it hits my side instead. “Very villain-esque of you, training all alone in a secret lair.”
“It’s quieter down here.”
She hums, her gaze drifting past me to the hallway.
“How far do the tunnels go?”
I shrug. “Far enough.”
She nods, but her eyes linger longer than they should.
“Curiosity about this place will only cause you problems.” I flex my split knuckles. “Art’s negligent for letting you down here, but asking questions? The people who run this shit won’t like that.”
She watches me with a curious sort of focus, like she’s trying to line up all my edges and see how the pieces fit together.
“You like it?” she asks. “The fighting?”
I don’t know why I’m entertaining this conversation with her, but the words come anyway.
“I’m good at it.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
Our eyes meet, green hooking into brown, and for a second the floor shifts.
“Does it matter?”
She cocks her head. “Probably not.”
The way she says it makes me think maybe it does, but acknowledging that means acknowledging I see her, and that’s the last thing I need. So we stand in the quiet, pretending we’re not two people carrying this secret in our pockets while they unravel at the seams.
I clear my throat, slicing the moment in half. “Why are you even down here?”
“What’s it look like, genius?”
“You shouldn’t be here alone.”
“I wasn’t aware you were taking on babysitting duties, Champ.”
“And I wasn’t aware you couldn’t follow basic instruction, Half-Pint,” I say.
She bristles, her chin lifting.
“Basic instruction?” she repeats. “I’m sorry, I must’ve missed the part where I signed up to be your concern.”
“You didn’t. Yet here you are anyway, being a problem.”
“News flash. My life doesn’t revolve around orders you bark out. I was told to clean, so here I am.”
“Fine, forget about it, then. I’m only watching out for you because of Art, but I won’t waste time fighting about it. If you have no sense of self-preservation, what do I give a fuck?”
“Great. Good talk.”
She moves directly in front of me, close enough that I can smell that obnoxious scent she wears, and I could swear she’s picturing a thousand ways to stab me through the heart.
My foot rolls on top of the mop handle.
Then she bends until her head is centimeters from my lap, her ass in the air, the hem of her shirt riding up just enough that my pulse stutters.
And I may hate everything about her, but I’m not fucking dead.
A low, traitorous heat punches through my gut.
Groaning, I scrub both hands through my hair like I can physically rake the image of her out of my skull. “Goddamn, you’re difficult.”
“And you’re an emotionally stunted douchebag.”
I frown.
She stands back up and tosses the mop between her hands. “What? I thought we were listing off personality traits.”
“For fuck’s sake, Genevieve. Just… Care about yourself enough to not get snatched up or killed, okay?”
“Careful, Champ, almost sounds like you’re worried about me.”
And I hear it, too, truthfully, and I hate that she’s misconstruing it as anything other than a forced protection on my part.
I reach out, grab the mop, and tug.
She doesn’t let go, so when I pull, she flies into me, her body slamming against mine. I rise with the motion, twisting her and pinning her back to my chest.
One hand rips the mop from her grip and the other wraps around her throat. Not tight. Just enough to hold her still.
It takes a second to register what I’ve done. That every inch of her is pressed to every inch of me, heat locked between us like a fuse waiting for a flame.
She’s breathing hard, the silence pressing in.
“See?” I rasp. “Less than a second. That mop was more of a threat to you than to me.”
She swallows and her pulse skitters beneath my palm.
I ease my grip from her throat, but I don’t move. Instead, like an absolute fucking idiot, I keep my body right up against hers.
“Anger makes you predictable,” I say. “So does panic. Tools don’t mean shit if you don’t know how to keep your emotions in check.”
She nods and I finally release her, flexing my fingers after I do.
“Next time, don’t wander around alone.”
I reach down, grab the mop, and hand it back to her.
“Right. I’ll be sure to send you my itinerary.” She snatches it from me, pops her earbuds in, and then right before she’s about to disappear, she hesitates. “If you want to walk me to my apartment, I’ll be done in about twenty.”