Dina MacCally: rich parents, eager to please, no backbone. Too submissive, too rehearsed. Most women from prominent families are taught to give us what we want. That’s why I stay single. I fuck and leave before daylight. No strings.
“Flynn Brady,” she purrs. I tilt my head and meet her; she flushes, her eyes drop to my hands, then to my tattooed forearms.
“Dina.” I raise my glass. “Dance for me, sweetheart.” It’s an order; she obeys.
She grinds in front of me, hips circling to the beat. I spread my legs, one arm on my thigh, the other holding the glass. Her dress rides up; the room smells of sweat and perfume. Kaden exhales, bored already.
My phone buzzes with a message from Viviana.
“Thank you so much for lending us the club for the photoshoot. I can’t be there; I have another meeting, but Autumn will be there taking the pictures along with three models, the stylist and a makeup artist. It should take three to four hours. Can they be there after lunch, around two?”
Oh, fuck no.
I sit up straighter, reading the message over and over. “Motherfucker,” I mutter. Kaden leans in and grins like a dog smelling a bone; I want to wipe that grin off his face.
“So all that work last month to avoid Miss Autumn, and now she’ll be at your club?” He snorts, half-laugh, half-wheeze.
“Flynn?” Dina’s voice comes from the table, and I look up. I can’t do this now.
“You can go,” I say, rising.
“Are you leaving?” Her voice goes higher, embarrassed. Her eyes drop.
“Yeah. Enjoy your night.” I turn and head down the stairs.
“No happy ending?” Kaden calls after me.
“No,” I snap. There’s something about Autumn that unlocks the fucked-up part of me I’ve kept latched for a decade.
She’s been working with Viviana full-time; they build and maintain websites for the city’s rich. I’ve been avoiding Declan’s mansion like the plague because I know she’s there.
“Home?” Kaden asks, unlocking the SUV.
“No. I need blood.” He hates it when I say that; he knows what I mean.
I pull my helmet on. The bike roars; a woman near the alley flinches and screams. We head east, to the Keeffes’ fight pit. Nothing fancy, just pissed men and cheap beer. Tonight, I don’t want pretty or practised. I want to smash something that isn’t mine. I want the crack of bone and the immediate, stupid ache that proves I’m still alive.
Fuck me.
We arrive at the docks, and Christian Keeffe is already at the door; Kaden probably texted him that I was coming. He stands broader than I remember, hands folded, the light catching the gold at his temple.
“Brady.” Christian chuckles and reaches for my hand. Nolan was the old head of the Keeffe family, a piece of shit, but Christian keeps his head down, works, obeys.
“You got anything for me?” I ask as we move inside. The place smells like old blood and whisky, piss and sweat. Money slides between hands. Concrete, benches, two bars, music low and heavy.
“Depends.” Christian points to the ring. “That fucker’s taken two of my lads; he’s rough.”
I look. Big guy, power, no finesse. Thick neck, heavy shoulders. He moves like a bulldozer. I’m six-five and two-twenty, and this guy is even bigger, and that’s exactly what I need.
“I’ll take him,” I say, stepping to the side and peeling off my jacket. Kaden watches the room.
“You are seriously going to let him fight him?” Christian asks, nodding at the man. Kaden shrugs.
“It’s not him I’m worried about.” He lights a cigar. I unwind my shirt and feel the cool air on my sweaty skin.
When I step into the ring, the other bloke looks straight at Keeffe; he knows who I am and what it costs if something goes wrong. Here, inside the ropes, we’re all equal for a second.
“Don’t kill him,” Christian says, laughing too loud. “Declan will have my ass.”
