pick up my phone as she closes the door softly behind her, unperturbed by her opinion of me. She’s right. No point denying it to her or myself.
“Roc,” Raid greets.
“Tell me you found her?”
“Sarah?” he clarifies and I grunt in affirmation, pissed off at needing to spell it out.
“Dude. She’s a fucking ghost. Who knew the drunk wife of a career criminal would be so in the know?”
“Bitch is smarter than everyone gives her credit for,” I grit out. “She was fucking Marcus for decades, hid his kid... she was part of a plan to kill my mother and no one had a fucking clue.”
Raid sits quietly on the end of the line.
“What about the others?”
“Roc, I’m sorry… she doesn’t exist.”
I inhale deeply through my nostrils. “What the fuck do I pay you for?”
He attempts to speak but I cut him off.
“Two fucking jobs. You’ve come up empty-handed on both.”
“Sorry, man. Not through lack of trying. I promise you that.”
I roll my eyes. “Promises mean shit. I’ve had plenty of people promise me shit in my life, Raid, and you know what they’ve done with them? They’ve stomped on every fucking one. Promises are nothing but a collection of empty words, words that mean nothing to me. You’re fired.”
I hang up, throwing my cell onto the first surface I see.
Fist clenched, I yell into the empty loft, muscles pulsing with the need to be pushed to their limits.
I haven’t felt this useless life since my mom was killed. I’m flailing. Drowning in my own failings once again, and I’ll be damned if I let them continue.
My life is about structure. Determination. Master discipline and control and you can walk through the fucking depths of hell to grab your end goal with both fucking hands. Lose it and you’re like every other fucker walking this planet. Aimless.
I have the means. I have the power. Yet, the two people I need to find, the two people who shouldn’t have the first fucking idea of how to disappear, are like the fucking wind. They’ve outsmarted me. They’ve played me like a fool and I plan on ripping their jugular from their naked throats for the inconvenience.
Grabbing my cell, I flick through my contacts.
Rocco: Put me on the schedule
Carmichael: Throw three rounds and you’re in.
The weasel is working to win back his losses after betting against me last week.
Rocco: Whatever. Actually give me a fight this time. Not some wannabe.
He responds, but I ignore it, heading to my room to change. Rein didn’t say not to partake, she said chill out. This is how I chill out. Through pain and dominance. Through violence and release.
“Bruising is only just goin’ down, Shay, you sure you’re up to this? Hate for you to lose me any money tonight because you can’t pull it back.”
I flip Carmichael off as I shove past him, his bony body flying back against the wall.
The guy is the worst kind of scum. All greasy slicked back hair, acne-scarred face. He’d weigh a hundred-pound soaking wet, teeth missing, skin scabbed up from his incessant scratching.
The guy is a junkie through and through. It seeps from him like a neon sign. Bleeding in desperation and soaked in deceit.
If there’s one thing my dad taught me before he died—violence and hate aside—is that you can never trust a junkie. They lie. They cheat. They’d step on their own mother to secure their next hit.
Carmichael Woods is no exception. Tattered jeans, a shirt that’s likely older than he is and a leather jacket I have no doubt he stole, he’s made far too much money through me over the years. He knows I’m a sure bet. But you’d be forgiven for assuming he’s homeless. Truth is, he likely is. Every cent that falls into his pocket finds its way up his nose or into his veins.
“Four rounds,” he calls after me.
My feet pause, neck twisting to look at him. “You said three.”
His scrawny shoulders lift, an ugly grin showing off his gappy smile. “Things change.”
I walk away without so much as a glance.
Ass planted on the cold metal of one of the change rooms benches, I sigh in relief. There’s something therapeutic about the festering stench of blood and sweat. Like a kiss of anticipation. It seeps into your lungs like a vow.
Freedom.
So fucking close.
Chaos and pain. The stinging relief of a fist against your skin. Splitting it open to let the suffocating sense of failure seep out in rivers of blood.
The deafening crack of