Chapter 38
Thirty-Eight
NOW | SISK
Iturn and head back toward the man in the chair. He might think he’s in charge, but he’s just the first domino. He watches me approach with a smug smile already pulling at his mouth. “I’m Lola,” I say, offering my hand.
He takes my hand, bringing it to his lips instead of shaking it. “Vic Danner. I run most of what matters around here. Fights, girls, debts. You want something, it goes through me.” His tongue flicks out, wetting his lips.
“So, Vic—what’s a girl gotta do to get a drink around here?” I ask, like I’m only half-joking and already bored of the game.
He snaps his fingers without taking his eyes off me. A guy nods and disappears into the crowd.
I move toward the empty seat beside him.
“Right here, sweetheart.” He taps his knee, his eyes dragging over my body. “Don’t be shy.”
I want to tell him to go fuck himself. But I came for answers—and I’m not leaving without them.
So I smile enough to look flattered instead of calculating. “I guess a little fun never hurt anyone,” I tell him, and instead of settling into the obvious empty chair, I swing one leg over and sit on his lap.
His hands go to my waist like it’s a reflex. The drink arrives fast. A tall, clear-stemmed glass with a clear liquid inside. It’s probably just vodka, I tell myself. The rim’s been dipped in blood red sugar, and nestled inside the drink, melting slow, is a black lollipop shaped like a teardrop.
I stare at it too long. My blood chills. Millie.
Vic says something low near my ear, but I don’t hear it. My mind’s already racing. I take the glass slowly, pretending not to hesitate. He watches me as I lift the lollipop, twirling the stick between two fingers like I don’t care.
“Looks like your fighter has something to say,” he rumbles.
I look up and see that Jax is standing close, with his eyes narrowed on Vic. “Riot,” I say smoothly, like we rehearsed it. “Meet our investor.”
Jax’s eyes flick: me. The man. The seat I’m in. The hand resting lightly against my knee. A glass on a nearby table shatters, spilling its contents across the ground. No one seems to notice, but I do.
“Back off,” Jax growls, the words ripped from his chest.
The man tilts his head—like he’s studying a wild animal through glass. “I like him,” he says, amused. “He’s got balls.”
“Don’t test him,” I say, voice even, a thin veneer of control over the rising panic. “He’s worth more upright.”
The man moves his thumb one inch—almost lazily, like it was always harmless, then turns to his guys. “Double it,” he says. “I want to see what this one does when he’s pissed.”
Jax starts forward, but I move first. I lift the lollipop, touch it to my tongue. “Trust me, Riot,” I say—calm, but with an edge. “Remember Mils? She said we could trust Vic.”
For a second, I think he’s going to snap Vic’s neck, but then the red in his eyes flickers and vanishes, leaving his blue ones, though the fury in them stays.
Shit, I should’ve told him. I didn’t give him a single reason to believe in this. I couldn’t though, he would’ve shut it down before we even got through the door. Now all I can do is hope he trusts me enough to see this through.
Jax takes a step back. He doesn’t turn away, but he retreats.
I turn back to Vic with a fake smile. “So,” I say, tapping a nail against the glass, “what’s in this thing?”
He chuckles. “Who the fuck knows. Some kind of gin. Girls love this shit.”
“Do they?” I say, staring down at the obsidian teardrop.
“Next fight’s up!” Someone shouts.
Cheers rise. A guy scrambles up the rusted scaffolding with a piece of chalk, scrawling the matchup for everyone to see: RIOT vs. TRENCH.
People push toward the ring. Someone near me whispers, “Who the fuck is Riot?”
I flick my gaze back to Vic. “So how does this work, exactly? You find the girls, they get addicted, and then what—?”
His fingers press lightly against my thigh. “Now, now,” he grunts out. “Why ruin the fun with questions that don’t concern you?” His hand moves again to test the edge, but I don’t flinch. I lift the glass and take a slow sip and swallow.
Vic leans back, clearly pleased with himself. “I can tell. You’re the fun kind of trouble,” he says.
I glance toward the ring where Jax—Riot—is stepping into the ring. Please, win quickly.
The black teardrop lollipop is starting to melt now, bleeding streaks through the clear liquid. I turn to Vic. “Seems like a lot to handle. Fights, bets, the bar. Keeping all these guys in line…”
He hums, eyes flicking toward the ring. “Takes discipline. Fear helps.”
“Yeah?” I glance at the guy barking odds from the corner, then at a group of kids barely old enough to be out of high school talking trash. “You do it all alone?”
“Can’t trust most people.” He taps the rim of his glass. “If you want something to run smooth, you have to run it dirty.”
I raise a brow. “So what’s the dirtiest part?”
He chuckles. “Depends who you ask. The ring’s loud, but the real weight’s upstairs. Counting rooms, deliveries, favors owed. Paper trails that aren’t on paper.”
“Sounds exhausting.” I lean in slightly, just enough to keep his attention. “You ever think about letting someone else handle one side of it?”
His eyes narrow. “Why? You offering?”
“Maybe. I could make your recruitment process a lot cleaner. No more chasing down strays. I have influence at St. Clair High. I know which girls are already looking for an escape, which ones are ripe for it. I can get them hooked and in your pocket before they even realize they have a choice. For the right price.”
He watches me too long, a calculating look that makes my skin crawl.
“We’ve got a shipment coming in Tuesday.
Salt Wharf. Back hangar by the oil tanks.
No paperwork, no questions. Why don’t you stop by and we can talk business?
” He gestures with his chin toward Jax, a dismissive smirk on his face.
“Bring your bodyguard. Things get ugly down by the docks.”
My stomach twists, but I don’t let it show. I smile, tilt the glass, and pull the melting black teardrop from its stem. I drag the tip slowly along my bottom lip. “I’ll be there.” I lick it slowly, like I’m savoring it.
Jax is already stepping over the low metal barrier and onto the concrete platform.
No ref. No rules. Just blood and whoever’s still standing at the end.
His shirt’s gone now—discarded somewhere—and I forget to breathe.
Pitfire, he’s beautiful. His shoulders are broad, slabs of muscle that taper to a lean, tight waist. The intricate black ink of his tattoos coils around his entire body, the lines stark against skin already dusted with a sheen of sweat.
Every muscle in his torso is etched and defined.
Across from Jax, with his skin like granite and a tall black mohawk, it’s his opponent, Trench. His knuckles are already red and split open, wrapped in tape. He grins as he watches Jax, who looks raw by comparison.
A flicker of unease surges in my stomach. I thought I’d feel smug. In control. Confident. He’s going to use the magic, of course he’s going to use the magic. I don’t need to worry. I tell myself twice for reassurance.
The first punch lands hard. Jax stumbles back, catching himself too late. Another, his shoulder takes it. He doesn’t fall, but his body folds with the hit. I wince. Shit. He’s just making it believable, I tell myself. That’s all this is. He’s drawing it out.
Another blow connects. His ribs this time. Vic whispers. “You sure about him?”
My nails dig into the sugar-stained rim of my glass. The lollipop’s halfway melted now, bleeding black through the drink. “You are gonna thank me when he’s done.”
In the ring, Trench lifts both arms, turning to the crowd like a prize bull. They roar. Stomp their boots on the concrete. Chant his name. He grins, soaking it in, teeth chipped like they’ve bitten through more than just food.
That’s when Jax moves. A blur of fury and precision. He drives his shoulder into Trench’s spine. One, two, three hits to the ribs. The crowd explodes. Jax doesn’t wait—he pivots, fist slamming into Trench’s jaw so hard the man stumbles. The chanting turns to shouting.
Vic laughs, low and delighted, eyes locked on the ring. “Oh, he’s better than I thought,” he says, voice dark with appetite. “I smell money.”
My pulse kicks harder. He’s fighting hard—but suddenly I’m not sure it’s going to be enough.
Trench recovers fast. He wipes blood from his mouth, laughs, and then comes back swinging with all his weight behind it. His fist catches Jax across the side of the head with a sickening crack.
I gasp.
Jax goes down to one knee.
My stomach twists in agony.
Get up. Get up. Use it.
Trench doesn’t wait. He grabs Jax by the shoulder and drives a knee into his ribs. I see Jax fold, hear air tear out of his lungs.
This was my idea. My chest tightens, overwhelming and nauseating. I push up from my seat without thinking, but Vic’s hand snaps around my wrist and yanks me back down hard.
“Easy,” he murmurs, smile still in place for the crowd. “You don’t wanna spook the odds.”
“I need—” I swallow it down. “He’s fine.”
Vic studies my face. “You don’t look like you believe that.”
I force a smile, lift my glass, and take a sip I don’t want. “He’s got this,” I say to both of us.
In the ring, Trench slams Jax into the concrete.
Jax rolls, slow this time. Blood streaks his mouth.
One of his eyes is already swelling shut.
It hits me then, the awful truth: Jax will use his magic to save strangers, to protect boneheads, to stop things from getting worse for everyone else.
But he won’t use it for himself—not if it costs him something, not if it turns him into what he hates.
My nails dig into my palm as I sit there, trapped, smiling, pretending.
Please be selfish, just this once.
Trench stands tall over him now—shoulders heaving, arms raised, as if it's done and the crowd is already his.
Jax doesn’t move.
I squeeze my eyes shut. To the Pit, I think, not knowing where the thought comes from or where to direct it. For fuck’s sake, you need him well. You need him angry. You need him whole. So do something.
A deafening bang echoes through the warehouse. Somewhere overhead, a loose sheet of metal tears free and slams against the ground.
The crowd gasps and I open my eyes.
Trench flinches. He misses the swing. He misses everything.
Jax is already up. Already behind him. I don’t even see the strike, only the aftermath—the way Trench’s body locks, buckles, drops like stone.
The crowd erupts. Vic claps beside me, eyes gleaming. “Well, well,” he says. “Didn’t see that coming.”
I force a smile, pretend my heart isn’t tearing itself apart in my chest, and I lift the glass like a toast, though my hand shakes.
“There’s more where this came from,” Vic says, handing me a wad of cash.
“Tuesday at the dock?” I ask, my voice even.
He grins. “Ten sharp.”
He calls me back. “And Lola,” he says, his voice roughens, all the false warmth gone. “If I find out you bargained with The Pit for that win…” He drags his eyes from me to Jax, then back again. “I’ll take both your heads, before The Pit can claim either of you.” He jerks his chin toward the wall.
I look up.
FIGHT CLEAN OR DIE DIRTY.
No bargains. No tar. No cowards.
I just turn and walk toward Jax. Every step across the blood-wet floor feels heavier than the last, the bundle of cash in my hand feeling less like a victory and more like a payment for a piece of his soul.
I got what I came for, and Jax paid for it.
He didn’t even ask why, simply did it, for me.
I hate that I added to his pain when he’s already carrying too much.