Rev (20 page)

Synopsis

F**k Commitment.

Dean Hunter

I don’t get involved.

I was a Marine. And then I lost everything.

Now I drown myself in booze and f**k every woman who throws herself at me.

All I knew was fighting. Until her.

She’s the most beautiful woman I’ve ever laid eyes on. I can’t get her out of my mind.

She’s also the one girl absolutely off limits to me. Choosing her means losing everything I have left.

Is a chance at happiness worth putting it all on the line?

Saylor Larson

My life has been a series of mishaps.

Until I met Dean. He saved me from a world I never thought I could escape.

But now that world threatens to destroy us both.

All I have to do is leave him. And I probably should.

He’s a rough, rude, inked fighter with a tortured past.

But I’ve never seen a man like that.

Built like a god, with bronzed washboard abs and muscles that could crush any man.

Should I trust my heart when it’s leading me into certain danger?

*** This is a full-length standalone novel with a guaranteed HEA***

Chapter 1

The air was thick and heavy. It was summer in North Carolina. Of course, I was also in the musty, stale basement of an abandoned warehouse.

Except it wasn’t empty. Crowds of dingy people, a real motley bunch of the filthiest and foulest sort, crammed together in that sweaty place, clutching handfuls of money and patting the handguns stuffed haphazardly down their jeans. These were the dregs of society. This was where I belonged.

Smack.
His roundhouse kick connected. Except I moved in, before it got any real power, and blocked with the top of my shin. Surprised, he pulled back and threw a few lame jabs. I blocked them without even looking. He was getting tired.

He’s a big guy, but I’m bigger. He thinks he can keep the distance and I won’t be fast enough. He’s wrong.

The man I was fighting had a lot of training. Maybe one day, a long time ago, he was really something. His roundhouse was smooth, fast, a whole lot of power. His bones were conditioned, built up from years of intentional abuse. Just like mine.

I’d fought guys like that before. They started training between 8 and 12 years old. They spent 6 hours a day kicking heavy bags, pads, and all kinds of fancy, modern equipment. They put in their 10,000 hours conditioning their shins, creating micro-fractures that filled in with calcium and made their bones denser and stronger.

That’s why you’d get a guy who looked like he had a bit of muscle, but seemed kind of strung out, and when he’d stand up on the scale, you couldn’t believe it. It was the dense bones. And you had to watch out for the dense bones. I’d seen guys—guys who thought they knew how to fight—block kicks from smaller guys with their forearms. The kicks would go right through, their arms would smash to pieces, and the big guy would go down.

The man in front of me, throwing weak punches and limp kicks at this point, really wanted to win. He’d put in everything he had in the early rounds. He’d come out blazing. I imagined he needed the money, like everyone else in this racket. He probably had some gambling debts to pay off. Maybe his girlfriend was pregnant. He really needed to win. You could see it in his eyes.

Too bad.

Problem was, I didn’t fight for the money, the winning record, the bragging rights, or the glory. None of that shit mattered to me. It didn’t even matter if I won or lost. Except I always won.

I did it for the rush. For that single moment of clarity. It was the one time I had purpose, passion, and above all, excellence. I was in my element.

Second problem was that I was just plain stronger. I’d seen bigger guys, hulking gorillas who could lift boulders off the ground. But I’d never met anyone who was stronger than me in one, precise moment. It was my gift. Maybe the only one I had.

And there it is.

I caught a flash of an instant. Time froze. I zeroed in on the man in front of me. He’d kicked high and I’d sidestepped. He backed away, but not enough. He miscalculated.

Fight’s over.

I lunged forward and opened my hips. Every muscle tensed behind my closed fist and he could see the end. He kicked at my midsection, but I hardly felt it at this point. I was blind to anything and everything except that one point right to the side of his head. And there was nothing he could do to stop me.

My arm snapped long, like a whip, from my calves to my hips to my shoulders and finally through my triceps and to the bunched fist of my hand. I made full contact. I relished the feeling of solid bone and the pain that coursed through my hand—a pain that was the most real, vivid, and thrilling thing in my life.

He went down. He didn’t get up. Another knockout. I didn’t remember how many that was, but I’m sure someone did. I’m sure someone made a decent haul tonight.

It was quite while they counted. It was loud when they finished. Shouts went out from every corner of the grim and dismal basement. Some asshole cried out, angry that I’d somehow cheated. Some other asshole yelled back that it was time to pay up.

The crowd surged, pulling in every direction. Some went to the money table to claim their winnings. Some tried to slip out before they had to pay their losses. They didn’t get far. Roman Carmichael wouldn’t let them. His goons were all over the place. Though in fairness, when I wasn’t moonlighting in the underground fight scene, I was one of them.

“Hey, Dean!”

I turned, tossing my gloves on the floor before jumping off the cage platform.

“Dean! Another one my man!”

“I don’t know what makes ‘em keep coming back for more!”

John, Chris, and Evan. The closest thing to friends I had in this miserable organization. They were guys from the old days, from those 8 years I’d spent in the Marine Corp, guys from my battalion, and the guys who got me this job. Of course, you had to be bottom of the barrel to end up in this kind of work. I don’t know if I’d exactly call them the honorable or loyal type. But who was I to judge…

“Dean! Man, enough of the quiet act!”

I looked up at John’s beaming face. He was clutching a fist of loose hundreds.

“Yeah, I heard you the first time guys,” I began. “I heard all of you.”

“You made me $1200 bucks tonight Dean!” John was pretty damn happy.

“Yeah, I’d imagine,” was all I said. I wasn’t in the mood for bullshit chitchat. What I needed was a drink.

“Why so glum, Dean?” Evan smirked. “You look like you lost.”

“Yeah, right.” Chris chimed in. “You see the other guy? Dean didn’t get so much as a scratch.”

“Got plenty of those already,” I noted, tracing the long, thick scar that ran down my chest and to the right side of my abdomen. Seemed like after every fight, it started hurting again out of nowhere. Like it kept telling me to stop doing this crap and I kept not listening.

“Here’s to that,” Evan said, nodding. “Don’t we all, eh?”

“Yeah, except who the hell’s gonna get through this?” Chris shouted, punching the side of my arm. “Shit! It’s like hitting a brick wall. You could block everything with your damn arms, Dean… What, do you work out pipes every day?”

I smiled a little. These guys were clowns. It was funny sometimes. “Yeah, right. I have other stuff to do.”

Like drinking.

“Yeah, no one ever sees you doing anything but work and working out my man,” John shouted above the cacophonous din of people exiting the basement. The noisy exodus was an equal and unsettling mix of those proclaiming the joy of winning and those growling the outrage of loss. “Speaking of which,” he continued,  “are you coming out with us or not? Your drinks are on me. Least I could do.”

“Yeah, that’s for sure,” I noted. “But you guys go ahead. I got other plans.”

As I walked over to the locker room with John, Chris, and Evan, some guy in an expensive looking suit pushed a box into my hands. He looked like one of Ace’s minions. Probably the new guy, since I hadn’t seen him before.

Ace ran Roman’s gambling operation and I headed up the “security” team that made sure Roman got all his money and things went smoothly. Anyone working on the administrative side with Ace dressed just like him, probably because he forced them to.  This guy was decked out in some Hugo Boss shit and shiny cufflinks, the fit of his thin suit so close to his body that you could see where he had his gun holstered under his left armpit. The whole uniform was pretty much a red flag for the Feds. Best-case scenario, Ace’s guys would get mistaken for Russian Mafia goons.

Stupid. Just like Ace.

“Roman wanted me to give you this when you won,” the man said. Though he was really more of a kid—couldn’t have been more than 22 years old—and probably related to someone high up in the organization, maybe even Roman. Nepotism was alive and well in the criminal world; hell, I’d say it was the bread and butter. It’s how things got done, relationships were bolstered, alliances forged. It reminded me of how lucky I was to get the job I did. Even if I did have 8 years of elite training versus the 4 years of dicking off in college that this guy had.

“How did he know I’d win?” I asked, realizing this guy was probably sitting there through the whole match, clutching this—I looked down at the box—23-year-old Pappy Van Winkle Bourbon.

Not too shabby.

“I was instructed to give it to you after you won, that’s all.”

I nodded. “Well, it’s a good thing I didn’t lose.”

Especially now… It’s pretty obvious Roman’s putting big money on me.

“Looks like you’re all set with the booze there,” John said, eyeing the bottle jealously.

“Yeah, I’ll see you guys later.”

“You sure?” Chris attempted. “We’re heading to
Headlights
.”

Headlights
was an aptly named strip club off the highway, less than five minutes from the warehouse.

“Yeah, and you know Lexie will be there tonight,” John added.  “She was asking about you last week. Said she’d be up for another round.”

“Wait. Who’s Lexie again?” I asked. I’d been out two weeks ago, got hammered…again… I didn’t really remember which girl I brought home with me that night.

Evan stepped in front of John and Chris, cupping his hands far out in front of his chest.

Oh yeah.

“Lexie. Right.”

The way I hammered her, I’m surprised she only needed two weeks of recovery.

“She’ll have to wait, guys,” I said, throwing on my white tank top. “Right now I’m just looking forward to a shower and this bottle of expensive bourbon.”