Road To Ruin (New Orleans Nights Book 1) Page 9

  People make way for Alex and Gen as they pass unhindered toward the octagon. David twitches, taking a tiny step forward, and I grab him by the back of his shirt. “Don’t be fucking crazy.”

  “I know, I know. This is just…it’s fucked. We’re never going to get to her now.”

  “We will. When the time’s right.”

  Alex and Genevieve both climb up into the cage, and Gen’s smile is blinding. She looks so fucking glamorous with her silk dress and elaborate hairstyle with the tiny flowers. She’s every bit the queen to Alex’s king. I want to charge up there and punch my entire fist through the motherfucker’s face, but I’m guessing Alex has already mapped out in great detail what his men should do if I show up unexpectedly at any point; all hell would break loose and Genevieve would be dead within seconds.

  “This is the last time I’m going to tell you. Quit touching me, or I will fucking end you, asshole.” Junior’s prison shrink is really losing her temper. A fourth guy is standing on the peripheries of the altercation now, and he’s licking his lips like he’s real fucking hungry. I don’t like this. I don’t like it one little bit. I take a step forward when a fifth guy shows up and starts jeering at her. One of the guys reaches out and grabs Nikita’s left breast, and she wheels on him, face red, eyes wide. It looks for a second that she’s going to burst into tears, but then her fist rockets out and connects with the guy’s temple, and he crashes to the ground, his eyes rolling back in his head.

  “What the fuck, bitch? You just hit him! You can’t just hit Mark.”

  “I didn’t hit Mark,” she replies to the guys trying to scrape his friend off the ground. “I knocked Mark out. And if we’re going to have a conversation about what you can and can’t do, let’s talk about sexually assaulting a woman, shall we? He couldn’t just grab my breast. If he does, he gets his ass handed to him.”

  “You caught him off guard,” the guy snarls.

  “Obviously. That’s why he’s still out cold.”

  “I’m not a fan of hitting women, but you’ve not left me much of a choice,” the third guy from the original party snarls. “You’ve disrespected my boy. Now you have to be taught a lesson.”

  “I’d love to see you try,” Nikita says, laughing. “It’ll be fun to disrespect all three of you. Maybe then you’ll understand that when a girl says no, she seriously, actually means no.”

  The guy runs at her. He charges, pissed off, riled and angry. He’s planning on hitting her square in the chest, with the obvious intent of sending her sprawling, but as I observed earlier, these guys aren’t fighters. They’re ’roid junkies who think that muscle mass is synonymous with technique and expertise. Unfortunately for him, it looks like the hit Nikita landed on his friend a second ago really wasn’t a lucky shot. She sidesteps casually out of his path and snaps her right arm out, striking him in the throat, and his forward momentum disappears in an instant. He collapses to the floor, gasping for breath, clawing at his throat. Looks like she may well have crushed his windpipe, or at least done it some serious damage.

  Not gonna lie. I’m hard as fuck at this point. A woman that can handle herself is one thing, but a woman who can handle herself while barely losing her composure? Yeah, that’s seriously fucking hot. The bystanders that haven’t gotten involved until now finally decide enough is enough and both of them step forward. The last man standing from the original threesome gets to his feet, and then the men begin to close in on Nikita, dark expressions on their faces.

  I take another step forward.

  “You said you’d give me a heads-up,” David says.

  “Okay, then.” I look back at him over my shoulder. “Fine. Heads-up.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  NIKITA

  Silly, silly boys.

  They don’t know anything about me. They don’t know who they’re dealing with, or what to expect. They don’t know I’m the reason Alex started these fights in the first place. That I’ve been training in mixed martial arts since I was a kid. The men come at me, and I’m ready for them. The first of them, the one with the bullish, scarred, meaty face raises his arms and tries to throw them around me in a bear hug. It’s the sloppiest, most ill conceived move he could have made. I step back, pivot at the waist, and then I jackknife my body back around, the full force of my weight behind the elbow I send slamming into his head. That makes three headshots in a row; these guys are amateurs. I’m not successful in sending this particular idiot to the ground, though. His skull must be made out of reinforced steel or something. He staggers back a step, and then another, shakes his head, then growls at me like a deranged dog.

  “You’re a feisty one, aren’t you? I’m gonna enjoy fucking you bloody. Let’s see how feisty you are when I’m done with you.”

  “Fucking me bloody? Nice. You’d have to be capable of actually finding your dick in order to do that, though, friend, and judging by the gut on you, I’m guessing you probably haven’t seen it in a while.”

  He bares his teeth, hunkering down, readying himself to come at me again. Only this time he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a knife. “Smart mouth on you, too. No guy’ll wanna fuck you at all once I’ve given you a Chelsea Smile, though, will they? Then you’ll be begging for my dick.”

  I can’t help it. I laugh. I tip my head back and I laugh so hard, I can’t breathe. “You’re a funny guy, Porky. Now hand over that shiv before you hurt yourself with it.”

  “Oh, don’t worry, sweetheart. I’ll be giving it to you soon enough.”

  I see the other two guys in the corner of my eye. They’re waiting for the fat fucker with the blade to make his move before they make theirs. Cowards. This has gone on long enough, though, so I decide to take matters into my own hands. Moving quickly, I duck to the left. The guy standing there is surprised. I can tell by the way he almost jumps out of his skin when I snake my arm around his neck and force his body down so that he’s doubled over. From there, I use him as leverage as I angle my body back and jump, kicking out with both feet, connecting with the other guy’s chest as he tries to rush at me. He lands flat on his back, releasing a winded “uggghhh” sound as he hits the concrete. Porky uses this opportunity to dart forward with his knife, but I see the flashing silver coming a mile off. I jerk back, turning sideways, which drags the guy I’m still holding by the neck around, and Porky ends up sinking the point of the knife into the other guy’s upper arm. My captive lets out a thin, wet, horrified scream, and yanks back, managing to rip himself free from my chokehold. I’m about to land a knee in his chest and wind him some more when suddenly the guy is stumbling, no, falling backward, and he’s on his ass.

  Another tall, dark, tattooed mountain of a man stands where he was, shoulders heaving, dark eyes glowering with anger as he quickly glances at me, then turns his attention to Porky. It takes me less than a second to recognize him; it’s Tommy Kendrick, Junior’s cousin. He’s wearing an oversized sweater, sleeves pushed back to the elbows, hood firmly drawn up over his head, features thrown into shadow. Head-on like this, though, I can see who he is plain as day.

  He stalks toward Porky, lips pulling back into a fierce snarl. “You’re about to wish you’d stayed home tonight,” he says in a deep, unmistakably furious voice.

  “Get to the back of the line,” Porky snaps. “Her pussy probably won’t be worth much by the time we’re through with her, but you’ll be welcome to whatever’s left of—” His vile words are cut short when Tommy leaps forward and grabs Porky by the back of the head. The pig doesn’t have time to react. Doesn’t even have time to cry out in surprise. Tommy yanks the guy’s head down at the same time as he swings his right knee upward in a brutal, forceful motion. His kneecap connects with Porky’s face, and blood explodes everywhere. I hear the sickening pop of Porky’s nose breaking. It sounds worse than that, actually. It sounds like he’s shattered his jaw or his eye socket, too. It’s a devastating blow. One that will wipe the smile right off Porky’s disgusting face.

  Tommy lets hi
m go, and the piece of shit sags back, the knife clattering from his hand as his limp body sprawls out onto the bare concrete. One of the other guys grabs Tommy by his sweater, trying to spin him around, but he only succeeds in pulling the hood from his head, exposing his features. The guy brings his hand back, ready to throw a punch, but Tommy slowly turns his head to look at the guy, dark eyes sparking with fury, and his assailant staggers backward, lowering his fist.

  “Holy shit. Sorry, man, I didn’t realize…I didn’t realize it was you.”

  It’s as though the crowd suddenly parts. A fallout zone appears around Tommy five feet in diameter, everyone pushing and shoving, desperate to put some space between themselves and the giant man standing over the lifeless body at his feet.

  One strike. That’s all it took for him to cause a scene and clear the area. One freaking strike. Tommy directs a revolted look at the guy who ripped his hood away, who is practically shitting himself right now. “I’m so sorry, man. So sorry. I didn’t know it was you, I swear. I would never have…I would never have touched her if I’d—”

  Tommy holds up a hand, looking away. “Stop talking.”

  The guy stops talking.

  Tommy stoops down and collects the knife from the ground, then stands over Porky, looking down at his unconscious body disapprovingly. He crouches down, over him, spinning the knife over and over in his hand. Out of nowhere, he slaps Porky across the cheek, and the bloodied, broken man splutters himself awake, crying out in pain. “Motherfucker! What the fuck?!”

  Tommy taps him on the forehead with the flat of the blade. “Have you ever given anyone a Chelsea Smile before?” he asks. He sounds curious, but there’s something about the way he speaks that sounds threatening.

  Porky growls, gingerly trying to touch his hand to his broken nose. “What do you think, fucker?”

  Tommy slaps his hand away, spins the knife over in his hand and prods the end of Porky’s visibly shattered nose with the butt of the handle. Porky screams, scrambling, trying to get away, but Tommy raises his fist and brings it smashing down into the other man’s face, stopping him dead in his tracks. Porky’s eyes roll back in his head, but he doesn’t lose consciousness this time.

  “I’d say you probably haven’t,” Tommy says flatly. “It’s a pretty fucked-up thing to do to another person. Takes balls. Balls I don’t think you possess.”

  Porky just groans.

  “I’m going to show you, though. I’m going to show you how something like that would go down, just to give you an idea of the resolve required. Then you can tell me if you still want to disfigure this woman. Cool?”

  “Tommy.” A tall guy wearing a Chicago Cubs ball cap steps in, placing a hand on Tommy’s shoulder. “Fuck, dude. That is a really bad idea,” he says. “You’ve made your point. Let’s just get the fuck out of here.”

  Tommy just looks up at the guy in the cap. His expression is blank, his eyes clear, his hand steady, still holding onto the knife. He blinks a couple of times, his chest rising and falling calmly, and it’s as though something is passing between the two men. Some silent conversation that none of the rest of us are privy to. After a second or two, the guy in the cap sighs and shrugs. “All right, man. But don’t say I didn’t warn you. This isn’t going to go unnoticed.”

  It’s bedlam on the fight floor, the crowd mostly observing Alexander and his new bride inside the octagon, congratulating the winner of the fight, but slowly more and more people are turning to watch what’s happening here instead. Tommy glances around, his eyes skating over the sea of people. He doesn’t seem to really see them though.

  “Let them notice,” he growls. He angles the knife in his hand, then hooks his finger inside Porky’s mouth, fish-hooking him by the right cheek. Porky finally seems to realize what’s going on and begins to struggle, screaming. This is madness, crazy, off the charts, undeniably insane. I hurry forward, placing my hand on Tommy’s arm.

  “Hey, what are you doing? You can’t be serious.”

  Tommy blinks up at me much the same way he blinked at his friend. “I know guys like this,” he says. “It takes more than a couple of broken bones to leave a lasting impression. They need a visible reminder.”

  “Don’t do it. Not for me. I didn’t ask you to get involved.”

  He laughs, a slow, casual smile spreading across his face. “I’m not doing it for you. I’m doing it so I can sleep at night.” His jaw is square and strong, his cheekbones sharp and cruel. It goes without saying that he’s a good-looking guy. More than that; he’s a force of nature, and all of Mother Nature’s creations are masterpieces. When he smiles at me, though, looking up at me like this, splattered with blood, a distant and disturbing look of complete and utter vacancy in his hazel eyes, he’s something else. Raw. Uncontainable. Unknowable. Almost inhuman, like a soulless Greek god, masquerading as a mortal.

  “Do not hurt him any further than you already have,” I say. “I came here looking for Junior. Just tell me where he is and we’ll all leave. Together.”

  “Junior?” His brows pull together quizzically.

  “Junior’s not here,” the guy in the baseball cap says.

  If this situation weren’t so fucked up right now, hearing this would normally flood me with relief. As it stands, I just feel numb. All this, and for nothing? Urgh! “Great. Then let’s just go.”

  Tommy shakes his head. He looks down at Porky, at his own finger still hooked inside the bastard’s mouth, and he cracks his neck. “I’m not going to stamp on your balls,” he tells the man lying on the ground. “And I’m not going to give you the full treatment. I’m only gonna fuck up one side of your face, and when I’m done you’re gonna get down on your hands and knees and you’re gonna thank this woman for her mercy. Do you understand me, motherfucker?”

  “Fuck…you…”

  Spit and blood flies everywhere. Tommy cringes, but he doesn’t shy away from his task. My stomach roils as he takes the blade of the knife and he inserts it into Porky’s mouth. He’s not really going to do it, though. He’s not. He wouldn’t. He wouldn’t be sick enough to—

  I cover my mouth with both hands as Tommy swiftly jerks the blade upward, toward himself, cleaving the sharpened steel right through Porky’s cheek. I don’t think Porky believed he was really going to do it, either. For a moment he just lies there, eyes the size of golf balls, a river of blood flowing quickly down his face and over his throat, his mouth opening and closing wildly. His cheek flaps loosely, the three-inch long tear in his skin a neat, straight, bloody and terrible line.

  Tommy leans down, so that his face is only a couple of inches away from Porky’s. “I could have made it worse,” he whispers. “I could have sawed at you from the corner of your mouth. I could have done it slowly. Now get on your hands and knees, motherfucker. Get on your hands and knees right now and thank her like I told you to.”

  Porky screams. It’s as though the shock of what’s just happened has worn off all of a sudden, and the pain and the horror has hit him all at once. He sucks in a ragged, winded breath and screams again, high and reedy, like a frightened little girl.

  Silence falls over the entire fight floor.

  Tommy wipes the blade of the knife on Porky’s already blood-stained shirt, and then gets to his feet. “You have three seconds. Three seconds before I finish the job. And I’ll do it properly this time.” His threat is spoken quietly, but Porky must hear him. Slowly, he heaves himself upright and then onto his hands and knees. With painfully slow progress, he crawls his way over to me, until he’s at my feet, and then he clutches and claws at the cuffs of my jeans with bloody, shaking hands.

  “Thank….thank you,” he stutters. “Thank you…thank you for…your mercy.”

  I back away. My throat feels like it’s swelling shut. “Jesus…”

  “Quite the performance,” someone says behind me. The hairs on the back of my neck stand up—an automatic response that’s as natural to me as breathing. The name Alexander Bastien will provoke the
most dramatic reaction from me. The sound of his voice? That’s enough to send me spiraling into madness, especially if he’s somehow managed to sneak up behind me. I turn around and he’s standing there, no longer in the octagon. He’s not looking at me, though. He’s staring straight at Tommy, and I swear there’s war in his eyes. Tommy’s expression is just as violent. It looks like the two of them are about to kill each other.

  “Alex,” Tommy says. “I’d say it’s a pleasure, but…”

  Alex inclines his head, a vicious smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “Likewise.” He gives the guy in the ball cap a cursory glance, then follows it up with a curt nod. “Looks like you did well, David. I didn’t think you’d actually be able to get him back here.”

  “You kidnapped our sister. Of course he was gonna come back,” the guy, David, spits.

  Sister? Oh, God. Does he mean the woman? The woman Alex married is Tommy’s sister? I’d say I was surprised, but honestly there’s nothing a Bastien could ever do to shock or surprise me these days. I learned a long time ago that their family’s level of hatred, spite and vengeance knows no bounds.

  It doesn’t look like my ex boyfriend married for love, then. Looks like he did it to get someone’s attention. The woman in question appears from the crowd, her cheeks flushed a lovely, delicate pink color, her raven-black hair tumbling loose from countless shining silver pins.

  “Tommy,” she says breathlessly. “You shouldn’t have come back here.”

  The two men, her brothers, exchange looks. David clears his throat, scratching awkwardly at the back of his neck. “We didn’t have much choice, Gen. You’re our kid sister. How are we meant to leave you in…this situation?”