Chapter 25
GEMMA
In the nine months I’ve worked at the Mill, Thursday nights have become my favorite and not just because Jensen gives us a cut of the door.
Jen runs things the way Tank did. If you have beef with someone, you can challenge them, one of two ways—you can make it formal and take it to the basement where people pay to watch you air out your grievances.
Or, if it can’t wait for a spot on the basement roster, you can do it in the Mill’s parking lot—but if you want your revenge above ground, Jensen fights the last man standing.
There hasn’t been a fight in the Mill’s parking lot since he took over after Tank died.
Before I started working here, I never stepped foot in the basement.
Never knew how big it actually was until I worked my first shift.
Upstairs, Sera works the bar for the regular crowd while Jensen runs things down here from a makeshift bar in the corner with a limited drink menu—shots and beer—while hundreds of people crowd around a bloodstained patch of dirt so they can watch Cade beat whoever is brave enough to step onto it, senseless.
Last week, Sloane nearly twisted his ear off for sending her three shoulder dislocations in a row, at the hospital’s ED.
Grudge matches are few and far between. Thursday nights are most often a way for the men in this town to earn a little extra cash.
After they pay their entrance fee, they fight their way through the tiers, until they inevitably get to Cade.
River and I work the crowd, running drinks, while side bets are made on everything from which fighter gets booted first to how many women hit on Cade between fights.
Things were going good. Better than good, actually, considering that the basement was crawling with creekers.
There are very few places in Barrett that they see fit to step foot it and the Mill is one of them and they’re usually on their best behavior, especially after rumors started circulating about what Jensen did to his little brother in the open field across the street from this place.
To them, Ethan has become a cautionary tale about what can happen to you if you forget who you are and where you come from when you cross the bridge and decide to rub elbows with the riffraff.
Most of them know I’m from Clearwater. That I packed my bags when I was seventeen and crossed the bridge so I could take care of my grandfather because there was no one else and there was no way in hell I was letting him rot in a nursing home.
It makes me an outsider—not that I ever cared about fitting in with the golf club set.
It earns me vague looks of confused distaste, like what I did wasn’t a choice I made out of love, but rather something that happened to me.
A disease I caught. One that might be contagious.
Walking through the crowd between fights, I divide my attention between a tray full of tequila shots and longnecks, and the jostling crowd.
Setting my tray on the edge of the table, I begin to hand off drinks.
It’s strictly cash down here, so I’m making change when I feel a rough, unwelcome hand start to slide up the inside of my thigh.
Startled, I jerk back, the sudden movement tipping the few remaining drinks off my tray and onto the ground while the man who touched me laughs.
“Whaddya you so jumpy for, Gemma?” he asks, leaning into me on a cloud of tequila fumes. I recognize him instantly. His name is Bret Barnes. We went to high school together. He used to be friends with Ethan. “You don’t remember me?”
“I remember you, just fine, Bret,” I say, flicking a wary look around the table before I stoop down to start picking up the bigger pieces of glass while I watch him carefully in my peripheral. “Thought you were living in Dallas these days.”
“Just here visiting my folks,” he drawls, leaning forward in his seat. “What are you doing here? Still living with your hillbilly grandpa?”
Around here, just visiting my folks is usually code for my wife caught me cheating and filed for divorce.
Whoever she is, I hope she takes him to the cleaners.
“Money must be tight if you’re slingin’ your ass around down here, huh, Gemma?” Bret says, angling his smug face into my line of sight in an effort to get my attention. “But then again, slingin’ that pretty little ass of yours was more of hobby than a profession, wasn’t it?”
Ignoring him, I focus on cleaning up my mess as quickly as possible. “Sorry, about that,” I force out on a pleasant tone while I use my bar towel to mop up as much of the mess as I can. “As soon as I’m finished, I’ll go get you boys a fresh round on the?—”
Before I can finish, I feel rough fingers wrap themselves around my ponytail and give it jerk.
“While you’re down there, why don’t you be a good little slut and suck my dick?
There’s an extra ten spot in it for you,” Bret sneers down at me, yanking my head between his spayed legs while his buddies laugh.
Panic rippling through me, I whip my head back, ripping my hair from his grip while he and his drinking pals keep laughing. They stop laughing when they see the broken beer bottle I have pressed against the inside of Bret’s denim clad thigh.
“I think it’s time you and your friends head on home, Bret,” I tell him, leaning forward just enough to press the heavy shard of glass in my hand, through the fabric of his jeans.
Standing up slowly, I send a quick look around the table.
They’re all watching me with varying degrees of hostility—some look like they want to drag me into a dark corner and teach me a lesson, while a few of them look like they agree with me—it’s time to leave.
“Ya know… I don’t think I will,” Bret tells me, with a self-assured smile, flinty glare flicking over the broken beer bottle in my hand like he’s daring me to use it. “I’m not gonna let some river jumpin’ whore tell me what to do.”
“Thinking never was your strong suit,” I remind him before dismissing him to address his friends.
“Ya’ll have ten minutes to get out of here.
You don’t call it a night and leave on your own, I’ll have to get my boss involved—and we all know you don’t want that.
” Tossing the broken bottle on the table, I look at Bret.
“Have a nice night,” I tell him before I pick up my tray and walk away, headed for the bar.
Weaving my way through the crowd, I spot Cade.
Between fights, he’s sitting in a folding chair, not far from the ring, nursing a bottle of water while women preen and prance around him, trying to get his attention.
They might as well be invisible for all the attention he’s paying them.
Cade’s focus is centered on Bret and the table full of drunk assholes I just 86ed.
Oh, shit.
Before I can intervene, River snags my arm while she’s passing by with a tray loaded with longnecks and shots. “Jen needs ice,” she says loudly, pitching her tone above the noisy crowd. “You think you can run upstairs and?—”
“I’m on it.” Flashing her a quick smile, I bob my head, while letting my gaze pick through the crowd until I find where Cade had been sitting only moments ago.
He’s not there. Feeling my gut clench, I find the table where Bret’s holding court with his buddies.
He’s still sitting there, staring at me like he’s just waiting for me to run to Jensen and tattle on him.
Cade isn’t there either. “You happened to see where Cade went,” I ask River, still scanning the crowd.
“He’s got about a half hour until his next fight,” She tells me as she starts to move away from me. “He usually runs upstairs to check on Gun when he has the time.” The last of it is delivered over her shoulder while she starts to push her way through the crowd to deliver her drinks.
Dropping my tray off at the bar, I snag the five-gallon bucket Jen keeps behind it for ice runs before pushing my way through the crowd.
On my way to the stairs, I tell myself that if Bret and his buddies are still here after I get back from the ice run, I’ll get Jen and Austin, the bouncer, involved.
Climbing them, two at a time, Austin spots me and gives me a smile.
He’s a sweet kid and he idolizes Jensen.
From what I gather, Jen found him in Dallas—not real sure how they met but I know Austin would open a vein for him if he asked and if the way he looks at River when he thinks no one is paying attention, is any indication, he worships the ground she walks on.
“Want me to get that for you, Gemma?” Austin asks, tipping his chin at the bucket I’m swinging along beside me while I climb.
“You’ve got enough to worry about around here,” I tell him, softening my refusal with a smile of my own on my way past him. “Jen’s gonna have to break down and install an ice machine down here, one of these days.”
“Riv’s working on him,” he says, laughing while I move through the doorway. “If anyone can talk him into it, it’s her. She’s a dog with a bone when she’s made up her mind about something.”
Remembering my own experience with River and just how relentless she can be, I laugh. “Don’t I know it.”
Stepping onto the main floor, I spot Sera behind the bar, mixing up a round of margaritas for a trio of women sitting at the bar. The woman in the middle is wearing a T-shirt that says, Kiss Me—I filed for Divorce Today.
Wondering if she’s Bret’s soon-to-be ex, I can’t help but laugh.
Practically empty by Mills standards, I smile and exchange quick hellos with the generous handful of regulars who’d rather take advantage of the breathing room they’ve got upstairs, rather than satiate their bloodlust with the bare-knuckle brawls that are going on in the basement.
Spotting me on my way past the bar, Sera offers me a flat, how’s it going smile.
I’ve been to Sloane’s Monday night gathering a few times now and while better, things between us are still awkward.
Returning her smile, I move past the bar, on my way to the short hallway that houses the staircase that leads to the upstairs living quarters and the bar’s office where Jensen yells at liquor distributors, on my way to the back door.
Pushing through it, I pick my way across the darkened patio, weaving between empty picnic tables, on my way to the shed that houses the ice machine and a stackable washer and dryer that qualify as an antique.
Flipping the light on, I’ve got the ice machine open and I’m shoveling ice into Jen’s bucket when I hear the shed door open and close behind me.
“I know this whole talking to each other thing is new,” I say, shaking my head on a laugh while I drop my last scoop of ice into the bucket and close the lid on the machine. “But if you needed ice, you could’ve just?—”
Turning around, I expect to see Sera standing behind me, waiting for me to be done so she can fill her own bucket.
Instead I find Bret, standing between me and the shed’s only exit. He’s holding the shard of broken beer bottle I threatened him with earlier.
Shit.
Cursing myself for being so stupid, I school my features into a mask of calm confidence. “What the hell do you want, Bret.” It’s a stupid question. I know what he wants. He already told me.
“You know what I want,” Bret drawls, his flat gaze crawling up the length of my body, taking in my Daisy Dukes and the tight tank top I’m wearing while he starts to fumble with his belt. “And you’re gonna be a good Barrett slut and give it to me.”
Shit.
Shit.shit.shit.
Adrenaline dumping into my system, I crank my hands into fists. “The fuck I am.”
“That’s what they all say.” Laughing at me, belt undone, Brent starts to make his way toward me. “Don’t worry, Gemma. If you do a good job, I’ll still give you the ten bucks I promised?—”
One second, Brent is stalking his way toward me, the next he’s flying, launched forward by the door being kicked off its hinges.
Watching him land in a heap between me and the door, broken bottle landing in the dirt, several feet away, I look up to find Cade standing in the gaping hole where the door used to be.
“Hey, Bret,” Tone casual, a wooden Louisville Slugger gripped in his fist, Cade steps through the opening. “I thought that was you. Long time, time no see, motherfucker.”
“NO!”
Before I even have time to react, Sera is shoving her way past her brother, putting herself between him and the man he seems intent on murdering.
Shoving her hands against Cade’s chest, she looks up at him, shaking her head frantically.
“Your son is upstairs,” she reminds him, her voice drenched in panic.
“Think about that—Gunner is upstairs. He’s waiting for you.
You can’t do this to him—not again. He needs you. ”
Chest heaving against the push of Sera’s hands, Cade flicks a hard glare over me before he aims it at the man slowly struggling to his feet between us.
“You have until the count of three to get the fuck out of here,” Cade practically snarls at him while he adjusts his grip on his bat, his eyes tracking every one of Brent’s movements. “One…”
Cade doesn’t even get to two before Brent is gone.