Fearless For Love (Lovelly #3) (15 page)

I MAKE MY way toward the bathrooms in the back, where the music isn’t so loud. I check the stalls to make sure there’s no one inside, and then look for cameras. There’s one right by the door, on the ceiling in the corner. But from the look of it, I can tell it’s video only.

Satisfied with the inspection, I pull out my phone and dial.

“Harris.” Neil answers on the first ring.

“Talk to me, Neil. I could use some good news right about now, man.”

“The guy we’re looking for is Roberto Gomez,” Neil says. “And before you ask, yes, I’m sure. He’s been linked to Stamos since before Stamos made a name for himself. So if you can bring Gomez in, we should have enough on him to get him to talk. He probably knows stuff about Stamos that even Stamos doesn’t know.”

“You’re fucking amazing, Neil,” I say, running a hand over the back of my neck.

“You know me. I’m a rockstar.”

That he is. There’s no way I could have made it this far without him. Hell, without him, I wouldn’t have even had a clue where to start.

“Something else you should know about Roberto: he’s been doing business under the table with the Armenians behind Stamos’s back, under the alias Bobby Jones.”

This is great news. We’re finally closing in on Stamos. After the sort of plateau we’d fallen into, it feels good to make progress. Especially since Stamos still hasn’t introduced me to the “friends” he mentioned weeks ago. “Can you get me any more details on the transactions? Dates, times, travel plans? I need to know where and when to find Gomez.”

“Yeah, you bet. I’ll send those details as soon as I get them.”

I nod, though I know he can’t see it. “Thanks, man.”

“No problem,” Neil responds.

“Hey, before you go, do you know if I have the go-ahead for Krish and Lincoln yet?”

“No. But Wilson is trying his best to make it happen for you. I’d say it’s as good as done.”

“Thanks, Neil.”

“Good luck, Agent Lovelly.”

I end the call and shove the phone back into my pocket, just as two guys walk into the room. They look at me, and then at each other. I recognize one of them; he’s the brother of my last opponent. And he didn’t take his brother’s defeat too well. I see the rage in his eyes right before he throws a punch at me. I sidestep, my hands in the air, loose but ready. I don’t really want to pick a fight with him, but I will if I have to.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” I warn.

He sneers. “My brother’s still in the hospital because of you. You’re not walking out of here without a little payback.”

I give a quick glance over to his friend, who cracks his knuckles, his face stone cold serious.

“Last chance, boys,” I warn them again. “I’d hate to see you end up like your brother.”

“How do you figure? There’s two of us, and only one of you,” Little Bro says, taking a step toward me.

“Maybe, but with the space in this bathroom, you can’t both come at me at the same time.” Unless one of them gets past me, that is. Then I might be in more trouble. But I’m not going to let that happen.

Little Bro comes after me first, throwing a clumsy, untrained punch. I sidestep and grab his arm, using his own momentum to shove him forward into the hand drier, his head hitting the corner wall.

His friend comes next, and I quickly throw a back kick, catching him in the gut. He flies toward the door, but rights himself faster than the first guy. This time, he charges with a scream, throwing flailing jabs at me: right, left, right, left, upper cut.

I can tell he’s better trained, but not by much. No match for me. I try my best not to hurt him too bad. After all, he’s only trying to support his friend’s ego. In my peripheral vision, I notice the other guy get to his feet and I punch the first, Bro’s Friend, in the face. He stumbles back, crying out that his nose is broken. I don’t have time to worry about him though, as Little Bro comes at me again. I block his sloppy punch and front kick him, sending him stumbling into the hand drier again. He falls to the ground and curls in on himself, coughing and whining.

“Stay down,” I tell him. Then I walk to the door, past the guy holding his nose and step outside, only to realize I have blood on my hands.

“Damn it,” I say, flicking my hand, the burning sting of cracked knuckles making itself known. I grab a used bar towel out of the busing tray sitting on a nearby table, wipe off most of the blood, and then wrap the damp cloth around my knuckles. Some guy walks past me, heading toward the bathroom.

“I wouldn’t go in if I were you.” When he quirks his eyebrow at me, I add, “Maintenance.” Ignoring my advice, he shoves open the door and yelps.

“What the hell?”

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you, man,” I say, nursing the wet towel against my throbbing hand.

He hurriedly walks right back the way he came, just as Jess rounds the corner. She smiles warmly at the guy, who all but ignores her. Confused, she shakes her head, watching him for a moment before she turns back and comes to an abrupt stop.

She looks at me. Then at my hand.

Her lips part, her eyes widen, and she suddenly goes pale. It’s like watching the blood drain out of her. I hate that. It’s the night at the fight all over again. I reach for her and call her name. “Jess . . .”

She shakes her head and takes a step back. Her hands come up, like she wants to push me further away, but we’re too far apart for her to actually touch me.

“Jess. Wait—”

She turns around and makes a beeline back toward the bar. And I let her. Because this is what’s best for her. She was right. I am Killshot. And she made her position on that abundantly clear.

“What was that about?” Fisher asks, throwing a thumb over his shoulder as he comes down the hallway toward me.

I shrug. “It doesn’t matter.” I wait until he reaches me, and then lean in close so only he can hear me. “Neil gave me a name to check out.”

“Yeah?” His eyes spark with interest.

“Roberto Gomez.”

“No shit.”

The way his nose crinkles, his mouth crunching in disgust, instantly tells me that he knows this asshole. “You know how to find him?”

“That’s the problem. You can’t. Last I heard, he’d gone off to Jamaica or something. He’s Stamos’s enforcer, the guy who orders hits for Stamos, and he doesn’t really come here unless something big is happening. I missed my chance to bust his balls the last time he was here. I don’t know if he recognized me, but I sure as hell will never forget that face, with his Hitler-like mustache and three pink teardrops on his cheek. He’s the one that ordered a hit on my parents, man.”

“Shit.”

“Yeah. And to think he’s off living the good life somewhere on an island . . .”

I squeeze his shoulder. “We’ll nail the bastard,” I promise. “We’ll nail him and anyone else he’s associated with.”

I SPEED WALK back to the bar, getting as far away from Harrington as possible. I place my hand over my chest, feeling the way my heart races. I thought I was going to throw up right there in the hallway when I saw the blood caking his hand and knuckles.

I couldn’t tell if it was his blood, or if it belonged to whomever he just beat up, but either way, I needed to get out of there. It was too similar to the last time I saw him battered and bloody and staring at me without a trace of remorse through the bars of a cage.

And yet, even as I feel the fear and horror running wild in my blood, part of me screams that I’m wrong. That this time had been different. And I can’t deny that there’s something about him, something in the way he looks at me, something that flares every time our eyes connect, something that says maybe, just maybe, he’s not the bad guy I want to believe he is.

Something
that wants to believe in that flicker of pain and sadness I thought I saw in his eyes right before I turned and fled.

“What’s going on, baby girl? You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” Cat says, concern coating her features.

“I’m fine . . . I just . . .” I look over my shoulder and see two of our bouncers heading toward the restrooms, shoving their way through the crowded dance floor. Cat follows my gaze.

“What happened back there? Don’t tell me you
killed
Killshot. Because that’d be both funny and tragic.”

I shake my head.

“Ladies!” John yells. “Serve first, chit-chat later.”

Cat gives him the finger. “We’ll talk soon,” she whispers, before going to her station.

“The customers want their alcohol,” John says, running around and putting drinks together. He grabs a handful of finished cocktails and places them on a tray. “Next time, hit me over the head when I volunteer to host a bridal party, okay?”

And then he’s running back out toward the VIP section.

“Where are all the waitresses?” I ask Cat.

“We have like six VIP parties tonight. They’re out running around, trying to get all the orders served.”

I sigh and indicate the tray John left behind. “Where does this need to go?”

She looks at the receipt. “Table fifty-nine.”

“Okay. I’ll take it. You’re faster at filling drinks than me.” Grabbing the tray, I head out around the bar and walk through the crowd. I deliver the drinks to the specified table and then pick up others. When I get back to the bar, someone bumps into my side and I stumble into someone else. The glasses I held scatter all over the floor and the crowd parts like food-coloring dropped into milk.

“Ohmigod. I’m so sorry!” I hurry to get it cleaned.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” the guy asks, his tone a bit too bitchy for my taste, especially given the kind of night I’ve been having. When the largest of the broken glass pieces are picked up, I place the tray on my palm and stand, turning to face him.

It’s Tony.

I’ve seen him once or twice at practice. But most of the time, I see him hanging around our shows, getting high with Jarod backstage. Jarod gets a lot creepier when Tony’s around too, not that he’s ever truly not creepy.

“Who’s going to clean up my shoes?” He sneers, stepping into my space.

Cat comes to my side, a cloth in hand.

“Here,” she says, exchanging the towel for the tray. In turn, I hand it to Tony.

“Na ah.” He steps in even closer, crowding me. The air in here isn’t exactly easy to breath as is, with the heat of too many bodies compressed into a small space bordering on stifling, but to have someone’s alcohol-breath surround me like a tornado is too much. “You make the mess, you clean it up,” he says, grabbing my hand, his grip tight.

“Let go of me, Tony.” I twist my wrist, trying to break free without much luck. “Let go!”

He pulls me tight against him and wraps his arm around my waist, holding me to him. His smell engulfs me, suffocating. Cat’s calling for Ben, our bouncer at the front door.

“I don’t take lightly to whores like you messing with my thousand-dollar shoes.” He shoves his hand into my hair and pulls back painfully. His other hand wraps around my neck. “Now be a good little bitch. Get on your knees and clean it up.”

I yelp and stifle a cry at the same time. Fear pounds through me as my past collides with my present.

“Don’t pretend like you don’t like being handled rough,” he says into my ear. “Why ever else would you be eye-fucking Killshot?”

I open my mouth to protest, but gag on the bile rising in the back of my throat as he runs one finger down my jaw and toward my low-cut crop top.

He nips at my neck, and something in the way he does it nearly breaks me down. Images of my past abusers bubble to the surface, and it’s all I can do to keep from shutting down completely, from curling into a tiny ball right there in the broken glass and spilled liquor.

“I bet he has fun with this body of yours, doesn’t he?” His breath is hot on my skin. “I’d love to get my hands on you. Show you how a real man treats a woman with your . . . curves.”

My body shakes with anger. He’s nothing like Harrington. Harrington may be a lot of things, but I know in my core that he would never treat a woman this way.

“He’s ten times the man you’ll ever be,” I snarl.

He jerks me back and I yelp in pain, my hand flailing to the side. My head hurts so bad tears threaten to roll down my cheeks. I bite down on my tongue, refusing to cry. Pressing my lips together, I squeeze my eyes shut, expecting the worst to happen.

Then, suddenly, his grip loosens and his stench disappears.

“I’ve got you,” Harrington says softly, his voice gentle, comforting.

His arms wrap around me and I turn into him, burying my nose in his t-shirt. There’s something familiar and even safe about the feel of his arms around me, the smell of his skin, his cologne.

“You’re safe, Jess.” Harrington runs his hand down the length of my hair and pulls me closer. “I have you.”

“What the hell is going on?” Rick’s voice is filled with anger and concern. “First the two men fucking bleeding in my bathroom and now this?”

I tighten my grip on Harrington. Rick’s words erode the edges of the secure little bubble I’d retreated into. It was almost enough to make me forget about what I saw in the hallway. Almost.

“Some asshole just assaulted her,” Harrington answers, as he points at something over my back. “And I’m taking her home.”

“No,” I yell, shoving Harrington from me. I’m not stupid; I see how I practically clung to him when I needed soothing. But I also know what I saw in the hallway, what I saw at the cage fight . . . and . . . hell, I don’t know. I just . . . “I just need a
minute
.”

“Jess—”

I put my finger up. “I-I just need a minute.” I turn around and walk away.

“Jess,” Cat’s voice follows behind me, and she catches up just as I make it to the break room.

I stop and turn around as she reaches for me, pulling me into a hug. “It’s okay. You’ll be fine. You’re fine.”

She comforts me. But it doesn’t feel the same as when Harrington did it.

“Everything will be okay.” Cat runs her hand over my hair, continuing to soothe my trembling heart. “You’ll be okay. Rick’s trying to get it all worked out.”

“Trying?” I say, pulling up and away from her. I don’t understand.

She nods and looks almost . . . sheepish? “Tony’s with Stamos, so no matter how much Rick wants to protect us, he can’t really do jack-squat except apologize on our behalf so they don’t put him out of business.”

I cup my forehead with both of my hands.
Shit
.

I crumple and fall into the nearest chair. Everything’s falling apart.

Cat sits next to me. I pull my legs up and put my elbows on top of my knees, my hands hiding my face.

“Maybe you should take that offer from Killshot and go home. You don’t look so good, girl,” she says.

The back of my head still throbs. “Yeah. Maybe I should. But I’m not going to go with him. I’ll take the bus.”

“Nonsense.” She gets to her feet. “I’ll get Fisher to take you home.”

I raise a questioning eyebrow.

“Shut it. There’s nothing going on between us.”

“Except hot make-up sex?”

She ignores my statement. “It’ll make me feel better if someone I know takes you home. And John is never getting out of his bridal party job.” She stretches her hand out toward me.

I swallow, placing my hand in hers as she pulls me up. “Yeah. Okay. Thanks.”