I loved him more than anything. Then he was taken from me. Ripped away violently.
I drag my fingers along the thin gold necklace around my neck. The only piece of my mother I’ve ever had. She died before I could even remember her. Cancer, I think. My dad never talked about it. But he did the best he could to raise his only child in the life he chose.
Now, I’m here, in this dingy strip club, with stitched up gunshot wounds, trying not to down a bottle of vodka just to numb the pain.
Life’s a real bitch.
“A, look! I found this flyer at my boyfriend’s MMA gym.” Roxy slides into the barstool, a mischievous grin on her face, and plops a folded flyer in front of me. “I know how much you love to kick all the boys’ asses,” she says with a wink. “I thought this might be your thing.”
I glance down at the crumpled paper, a picture of a cage and the words “Fight Night” scrawled across the top. “I’ve had enough ass-kicking for one week, thanks,” I mutter, wiping down the sticky bar counter.
Ivan scoffs, leaning against the liquor shelves behind me with a scowl. He grumbles in Russian before shooting Roxy a glare. “A is done with this fighting business, for a long time.”
Roxy waves the flyer in front of me with a playful glint in her eye, ignoring Ivan.
I’ve been working at this bar for almost a year, the longest I’ve ever stayed in one place. It’s not bad. I like the crowd. Roxy is a lot of fun. And Ivan’s not a bad boss.
I glance at the flyer, then back at her, and mutter, “I’ll think about it,” as I slide it under the bar and turn away.
I’m not in the mood for another round in the ring. The bullet wounds are a painful reminder that maybe I should keep a lower profile. But the nagging thought that I’m getting rusty, that complacency is creeping in, keeps me from fully brushing it off.
I shouldn’t have been shot. I’m better than that.
A slurred voice slices through the noise of the bar. “Hey, baby. How ‘bout a private dance?” A drunk grabs Roxy’s arm, yanking her towards him. I’m about to smash his face with the baseball bat I keep under the counter, but her laugh and smile tell me she’s handling it just fine.
He presses his face into her cleavage, mumbling incoherently. “Easy,” Ivan says, leaning in and catching my eye just as I reach for the bat again. His look is a firm no. “He’s harmless and pays well.”
“Whatever.” I toss the bar towel down.
The night drags on with the usual monotony—girls stripping, guys tossing cash, and drinks flowing like there’s no tomorrow. By 3:30 a.m., my side and arm are throbbing, and all I can think about is collapsing into my bed. I’m practically slumped against the counter, trying to ease the relentless ache as I finish up the last of the dirty dishes.
“I’m out. Front’s locked up. Just grab the back door when you’re done,” Ivan calls, his footsteps fading toward the exit. He pauses on his way out, shooting me a look. “Get some rest. You look like hell,” he mutters in Russian.
“Spasibo.” I roll my eyes as I listen to the soft click of the door shutting behind him. Silence falls, leaving me alone in the dimlylit kitchen. I dry my hands, toss the towel aside, and drag myself toward the back door, ready to disappear into the night.
The front door creaks open and slams shut.
“Ivan! I told you I could lock up!” I call, heading toward the bar to catch his usual scowl.
But the second I step out, my blood turns cold.
A tall, broad-shouldered man looms in the entrance. His presence swallows the room whole, dragging every shadow into him.
His jet-black messy hair, and those damn blue eyes send an irritating jolt of fear and rage through me. Tattoos snake down his neck and under the tight grey shirt clinging to every contour of his muscles.
Priest.
My mind races, plotting five different ways to escape. The front door is out of the question—he’s blocking that. But the back door leads to an alley where I can attempt to scale a fence and disappear into the maze of side streets.
“What the hell are you doing here?” I slide my hand to the knife tucked into my boot. It won’t take him down, but it’ll slow him enough for me to slip away. I’ll take any advantage I can.
“You made a mistake. I don’t let people steal from me. You’re not walking out of here. Not after what you pulled.”
“Try and stop me.”
His eyes flick down to the blade. “You really think you’re going to kill me with that?”
“Not kill.Mutilate.Way more satisfying.” I know the odds: he’s stronger, bigger, and more skilled. But I’m quick, smart, and fueled by the desperation to survive. I clench my jaw, forcing my breath to remain steady.
