“Motherfucker,” I growl, but the rest of my insult dies in a grunt of pain as he rams a knee into my back.
I stagger, gritting my teeth against the pain, I put both hands against the wall and hurl the both of us backwards.
We tumble to the ground in a messy heap.
And then I turn.
I’m faster than this double-chinned son of a bitch. Before he can get his bearings, I have my knee on his throat and my elbow raining bloody murder down on his ugly face. One blow splits open a thick gash on his forehead, the next turns his mouth into a blood-spurting mess, and the third has him shaking and twitching. He’s outclassed, and this is the point where — if we were in any other circumstances — I might consider stopping because it’s obvious this dumb son of a bitch doesn’t have a chance. But this man and his boss threatened two of the women that I care about most in the world.
He’s got to die.
Then my head explodes.
Pain burns down my spine and sears through every single nerve in my body, and I slump off Mr. Fat-and-ugly and hit the concrete floor.
That god damned, club-swinging son of a bitch. Howser.
I’m lights-out for a second before my nerves fire to life.
Move, I scream inside, and force my pain-blasted body to obey.
Throwing myself to the side, I’m too fast for the swinging club, and there’s a loud crack as the wood smashes into the concrete floor with stunning force.
“God fucking damn it,” he curses, shaking his numb fist.
“Yep. God damn it,” I growl, and I leap from my knees and charge into him, ramming him with the full weight of my body and hurling the both of us back into the wall.
I don’t bother with punching him; I rip the club out of his hands like he’s a limp-wristed baby, and I blast Howser’s slack-jawed face wide open with a single swing. He hits the ground in a thud and I don’t even pause to check whether he’s alive, dead, or just unconscious, I turn from him and head straight for the bitch that seems to be the cause of all my problems today: Anna Ebri.
The look of shock on her face is the most delicious thing I’ve seen since Tiffany Santos took her clothes off.
I put the business end of the club right under her pointed chin and stare into her vacuous eyes.
“I am so sick of your shit. You should’ve taken my advice and just walked the fuck away, but you had to be a superior bitch, didn’t you?” I snap, and then I swing the club wide and send it thudding into her shins.
She howls and hops on one high-heeled shoe, grasping her injured leg in one perfectly manicured hand.
Fuck, do I ever hate this pompous bitch.
So, I crack her again.
Because, if there’s one thing I like about this arrogant bitch, it’s the look of pain on her face.
“When I’m done with you, you will be begging me to kill you. But I won’t. Not until I find your daddy, drag his old ass in front of you, and put a fucking bullet in his brain and get your fancy outfit soaked in his blood.”
I end my threat with another blow to her shin and she howls again, her leg already turning an ugly purple.
But then the bitch steadies herself. And when I reach out and rip hold of her by her hair to drag her bony ass outside so I can steal her sports car and take her somewhere private, she laughs.
Laughs.
And spits right on my left foot.
“Put down the club, Declan. Because, before I even came here, my boys paid a visit to your mother’s house. And they did not come away empty-handed.”
I keep my grip on her hair and pull until she’s looking me right in the eyes; there might not be a soul in her icy blues, but there isn’t a hint of a lie, either.
She’s got my mom. And Tiffany, too.
What’s the point of fighting if the people I care about are just going to suffer for it? Even if Tiffany ratted me out, she sure as shit doesn’t deserve anything that Anna or her crew will do to her; she’s an innocent woman that I dragged in way over her head. And now she’s going to drown for my mistakes.
The club clatters from my hand. I let Anna go.
Behind me, I hear that motherfucker Howser stirring.
Anna turns her imperious eyes from me to the crew that I’ve left beaten half to death in the jail cell.
“Get up. We can’t kill him here — he’s made too much of a mess as it is. We’ll take him to the construction site and I’ll shoot him myself.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
Tiffany
More than at any point in my life, I am lost. More lost than I was in the aftermath of my assault, more lost than when I dropped out of Stanford and returned to finish my studies at community college, more lost than when I settled for the worst possible career choice by working for Anna Ebri and her father at some no-name bank. Lives depend on me, and I have no plan. There’s no one I can talk to, no one I can count on. I am lost and all alone.
What am I going to do?
I’m a mile down the road before my heart slows down and I get a handle on this problem; I have no legal options.
Which means I need to consider my illegal options.
I need help. And, in times like this, people turn
