16. Rip
Rip
I’ve not gotten my hands dirty in so long that I’m going crazy.
No torture, no fighting—I can’t even provoke people how I want to.
The most action I’ve had is with Ryland, but he’s so boring that it stopped being fun three weeks ago when he ran out of snarky comments and took the hits.
Now he lives in our storage closet, getting fed twice a day and entertained only when we feel like being bothered with him. Like a pet. How dull.
Recently, when I’m not messing with Ryland, filming with Kingsley and Thomas, or trying to ignore my filthy, inappropriate thoughts about a guy I have no business thinking about, I head to Fight Club.
If I can’t blow off some steam with my fists, the next best thing is watching others do it, even with the risk that comes with being close to the arena.
Often, I imagine being them, throwing a right hook at a man’s throat and reducing him to a sputtering wreck on the floor.
I can’t stand this undercover bullshit. It’s restricting me from being my true, passionate self.
Thomas has come with me once, but he doesn’t care for it as much as I do.
He’s too worried about getting caught, but besides that one time Kingsley was there, no one has paid us any attention.
It’s a club with members from various walks of crime, so they’re only interested in the fights, not our identities.
But today, Thomas is oddly insistent on joining me. I park the red Honda down the street from the old warehouse, hiding it between the trees like usual.
I stole a car. I wasn’t going to, but on my way here, the lonely vehicle was so exposed and ripe for the taking, I had to do it.
Going from driving my own vehicle everywhere to walking in the muggy Louisiana air is not a change I ever want to make again.
I’ll deal with Mother’s criticisms about jeopardizing the job because I’m too lazy to use my own two feet when the time comes.
We’ve left the car and are heading to the warehouse, and Thomas is still nagging in my ear. “I don’t understand why you won’t answer me. I’m your brother—I should be the first one you tell.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose. “If I had known you were going to pester me the entire outing, I would have told you to stay with Ryland.”
He places a hand on my shoulder, halting my movement, and stands in my path. “What is going on between you and Kingsley?”
“Nothing,” I repeat for the fiftieth time today.
“You’re a bloody liar.” Thomas pokes my chest, and I stumble a bit. “Are you hooking up with him?”
My veins fill with tension, and I look at him outrageously. “Are you mad?”
“No. I heard you,” Thomas says, each word deliberate. “An empty water park echoes, you know.”
Oops. Thomas is no stranger to hearing me with someone. Honestly, it’s happened so many times he isn’t particularly phased, but he’s never thrilled about it, either. I like to joke that it brings us closer as brothers, but he reckons we could use a bit less closeness.
“Sorry you had to listen to that,” I mutter genuinely. “Again.”
I walk again, and Thomas follows. “I didn’t know you’re into guys.”
I slip my hands into my jacket pockets. “There are some things you don’t know about me.”
He scratches at his brow piercing. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
Because I was trying to ignore it myself. “You know now, don’t you?”
Thomas quickens his pace, struggling to keep up. “Okay, then I’ll ask something else: why Kingsley? Don’t you think it’s a little unprofessional to get tied up with him, considering everything?”
“Good grief, Thomas.” Teeth clenched, I grip my brother’s shoulder tightly, nails digging into him, and he stops in his tracks. “I’m getting close to him by whatever means necessary, not getting ‘tied up.’” I’ve finally found something that can get through to the hollow bastard. That’s it.”
My efforts with Kingsley have fallen flat until now. He’s still not an open book—nowhere close to it—but at least it’s not like I’m talking to a brick wall. And maybe I’m reaching, but I think he enjoys my company.
Not that I don’t simply enjoy what we do together. I enjoy feeling him, hearing him louder than anyone’s ever heard, and getting off on him. I can’t get enough of Kingsley, but there is an ulterior motive. It’s not how it started, but it’s how it is.
Shit, is that what I’m doing? Fucking around with him because I want something from him? An uneasiness settles in my stomach, but I ignore it.
Thomas leans away from me, his brown strands falling into his face. He pries my fingernails from his shoulder, eyes disbelieving. “Jesus Christ, mate. Okay.”
I let him go with a huff and continue, putting distance between us.
Thomas may not believe me, but I’m not lying. Yes, Kingsley and I are fooling around. No, it doesn’t mean I’m into what we’re doing enough to get wrapped up in him. Having heart ties to one person has never been my thing. One quiet, privileged prince with a cute arse will not change that.
As soon as we get to the arena, that familiar scent of sweat, blood, pain, and humidity washes over us.
The building is filled to the brim with violent, rowdy people watching as one man beats the other mercilessly into the ground; it’s incredible.
Thomas and I grab a corner spot near an exit so we can easily bail if things get hairy.
The ref lets it go on for way too long, and by the end of the fight, the poor man is such a bloody, crippled mess that they need three guys to drag him out of the arena. Meanwhile, the crowd cheers on the smug bastard who won.
The next couple of idiots looking to beat each other bloody are walking into the arena in seconds.
I immediately recognize the crazy-eyed, scary-looking man from last time: Victor.
He’s got more fire in his eyes than before.
I feel bad for whoever has to fight him after the embarrassment he faced last time.
I look to the other side of the arena. Victor’s opponent’s back is facing me, and the tall fucker in front of me is hindering my view, so I’m struggling to get a good look. But when I can finally see some of him, my heart sinks.
Thomas nudges me with a cheeky grin. “It’s your boy toy.”
“He’s not my boy toy,” I grumble, eyes locked on Kingsley.
My brother laughs gleefully, but I tune him out. How can I pay attention to his silly taunts when Kingsley’s about to go head-to-head with the vengeful man whose neck he mangled? He could barely beat him last time, and I don’t want to watch Kingsley end up splat on the ground.
The referee announces Victor and Kingsley’s rematch, and the crowd goes wild. My stomach is churning watching the hungry scowl on Victor, and for some goddamn reason, I’m holding back my legs from running past the fence and fighting Victor myself.
A whistle blows, and the match begins. Like a bear, Victor lunges at Kingsley, narrowly missing him when he dodges.
He pulls the same move again, but this time Victor is too quick and lands a solid punch to his gut, making him double over.
Then lands a right hook to the jaw, and blood flies out of King’s mouth and onto the floor.
It’s only begun, and Kingsley is off to an inauspicious start.
Tired of the tall guy before me obstructing my view, I push to stand. Some guy behind me yells at me for blocking him, but I don’t care. Kingsley’s getting his shit rocked in the arena, and it’s all I can focus on.
They go back and forth, swinging and lunging, with some hits landing and others barely missing.
I suck hard on my tongue piercing as blood continues pounding in my ears.
I can not do something irrational. Now is not the time to act crazy over a perfectly normal fight between a maniac and the man I think about more often than I care to admit.
Victor steps back, giving King the room to stand up again, but I know that wild look in his eyes. Hell, I’ve had that intense, raging glare myself. Victor isn’t letting him get up for the hell of it.
Kingsley is standing when Victor lifts his foot, slides his hand into his sock, and pulls out a sharp, gleaming knife. Kingsley doesn’t even see it coming before Victor’s jabbing it toward his gut.
“Fuck,” Thomas mutters with a gasp.
Victor swings again, but King jumps back just in time, over and over.
Instead of stopping the match, the ref is sitting on his arse and watching it go down as if he doesn’t have a fucking job to do.
You can’t bring a knife into the arena. It’s a rule.
But then again, when you’re in a place that’s built around bending the rules, anything can become fair game.
Kingsley’s back hits the net, and Victor’s right before him when he charges at him. My lungs are on fire as I shout my head off, similar to the rest of the crowd. Only their shouts are out of joy, while mine are out of pure, heart-stopping fear.
But then King whips around, grabs Victor’s arm, and knocks the knife right out of his hand.
His fist collides against Victor’s nose, and then he dives for the dropped weapon.
Kingsley holds it up to Victor’s neck, not speaking a word because his firm stance and hard glare say it all.
Victor’s eyes search for a solution, but quickly—and smartly—realizes there is none.
With a grimace, he throws his hands up in surrender.
My body deflates as I sigh. Fucking hell.
The dimwit ref throws Kingsley’s hand up in cheer. “Give it up for King!”
“I almost thought he wouldn’t pull it off,” Thomas says as we watch men haul Victor away.
That’s what I was afraid of, too, but he proved me wrong. He always proves me wrong. I need to stop underestimating Kingsley.
“I wonder what the punishment will be for Victor’s little stunt,” he says.
Not sure what consequences they have set in place here, but it doesn’t matter. Victor wanted to kill Kingsley. He almost did kill him, and he could try to again. He brought out a knife and turned the fair fight into a trap, and had King not been on his A game… fuck.
Gripping my shorts, I take a deep breath, but it does nothing to calm me. All I can think about is making Victor pay for pulling a stunt like that. I want to break his fingers off one by one for trying to touch what’s not his.
I don’t know what it is about the man of few words. He’s a pretty boy with more issues than I’d ever guessed, and his silence makes me want to beat his head in, then suck him off until he can’t stay quiet no matter how hard he tries.
Which means the only one who can touch him is me.
“Tommy,” I say sweetly, meeting the eyes of my younger brother. “Cancel your plans for tonight. We’re spending the evening with Victor.”
Unkempt hair, sour expression, so much muscle that there’s no way he isn’t on something—there he is. Victor Plaster.
He’s in the bedroom of his apartment, drinking what’s probably his fourth beer of the night based on the dozens of empty bottles scattered around the room. He’s cleaned up his wounds from the arena and is now lazily watching TV in his bed like he didn’t try to murder someone for a petty win.
“Are you sure you want to do this?” Thomas whispers as we peer through the bushes.
I’ve never been more sure of anything.
Victor soon nods off with a beer in his hand and the TV blaring. Tommy gets the window sill open in a quiet snap, and suddenly we’re in Victor Plaster’s bedroom.
We’re immensely quiet, and he sleeps like a log, so he doesn’t even stir when I climb onto his bed and lie beside him. How the hell is he sleeping like he’s had a hard day at work? This shit is like lying on a rock.
“Victor,” I sing. He doesn’t budge, so I raise my voice. “Victor, rise and shine.”
His eyes flutter open, but he’s way too dazed to tell what’s up as he licks his chapped lips. Growing impatient, I sit up, grip his blue pajama shirt, and pull him toward me. Victor yelps as if someone broke into his home. Oh, wait.
“Who the fuck are you guys?” he shouts.
I smile like the sweet, innocent man I am. “It doesn’t matter. We’re here just for you.”
Victor gives a harsh push to my chest and rolls off the bed. He goes for the door, but Thomas is already there, ready to slam his fist into his eye, sending him tumbling to the floor.
I dust my hands on my shirt. “You tried.”
“Fuck you,” he spits. “Tell me what you want.”
I crouch down beside him. “I don’t want a thing.”
Victor stares at me, dumbfounded, and sweat drips from his forehead. Must be from fear, which isn’t something I expected to see out of him.
“Are you with Tanner?” he asks after a second. “I told him I’ll have the money by next week. He said it was fine.”
Ah, Victor must be in debt. Then why is he spending his free time fighting and not working to get the money? Ridiculous.
“Tanner? Never heard of him.” My fist lands on his jaw, making his head fly to the side. “I only know you and what you did at the fight tonight.”
His eyes widen as he remembers. “Man, I was just trying to win. I wasn’t gonna kill the guy.”
“Yeah, it sure looked like it,” Thomas scoffs.
I stand and smash my foot into his head, sending blood flying from his mouth like he did to King. “How pathetic do you have to be to bring a weapon to a fistfight? And you’re a goddamn liar because I know you wanted Beaumont dead.”
His lips pull into an ugly scowl. “Lots of people want Beaumont dead. I ain’t the first.”
Lots of people? I ball my fists at my sides. How dare he talk so casually about this?
As I reach for my knife, Thomas, knowing me, pins Victor down. “Anyone who has a problem with Kingsley has a problem with me.”
Seeing the sharp, shiny knife, he waves his arm in panic. “Look, man. I won’t do anything to him again. I won’t even fight him again, alright?”
Victor struggles in Tommy’s grip, but even with his strength, he’s no match for my brother. He’s been holding people down for me since we were teenagers.
“I know you won’t.” I sigh, glancing at my blade. “You won’t have the chance to.”
My knife slides over his wrists, and blood spurts out. He’s a total, struggling, panicked mess until I watch the light slowly leave his eyes, and he stills.
He slides against Thomas, who’s zoning out with that blank stare he gets when things turn violent.
I stare at Victor’s lifeless body, my mind racing with a million thoughts, wondering if I made the right choice.
It was an unnecessary killing. If we aren’t careful, it could get back to us and blow the entire operation, and for what?
“Rip,” Thomas asks, his voice flat. “Why did we do this?”
But that question reminds me why it was all worth it.
“Because no one touches Kingsley.” Except for me.