Burn: Outlaw Romance (Hotter Than Hell Book 3) (3 page)

“Sofia, ya did it. You’re on a roll—”

I cut him off. “I lost the last fight, shit for brains. Winning this one does not make it a roll. Get my money, lose my number, and pray I never see you again, fuck wad.”

He shakes his head, kicks some sand, and walks away to find the money man. He doesn’t believe me. It’s okay, though. I have a throwaway phone in my car with one phone number in it. That number does not belong to Joey. I’ll be long gone before his ass wakes up in the morning.

I’m on a mission and the chances are good I will never return to Pensacola. Not because the place is so bad. If I had a normal job, it might even be a great place to live. The problem, I can’t work at anything remotely normal. I have anger issues with a huge chip on my shoulder. Fighting is the only way to relieve the pressure that swells inside of me and turns me into a crazy bitch. It’s one of the reasons I’m leaving.

I have an appointment with destiny.

I’m heading to Arizona and the small town of Peach City. My mother called it
el diablo
. She swore she would never return. It’s one of the few promises she kept before she died. I have a score to settle because of the man who destroyed my mother’s life. I’ve put it off long enough. I’m going there to kill him. My mom lived in fear every minute of every day even though she escaped to the other side of the country. For as long as I remember, I’ve dreamed of killing Frank Tison. The only fear I’ve ever carried is the thought that someone got to him first.

My mother crossed the Arizona-Mexico border as a child. Several people in her group died making the journey, including one of her aunts. She said they spent days in the back of a van with the sun beating down on the metal and turning the interior into a hot tin can—no ventilation and very little air with temperatures over a hundred degrees. They had warm water, which is the only thing that saved the eight illegals who made it out alive.

My grandparents survived the crossing, lived a few more years, then died long before I was born. My mother had no one. She was here in the United States illegally and worked multiple, low-paying jobs to stay off the street. She met Frank Tison when he pulled up on his motorcycle where she was emptying trash from one of the homes she cleaned. He asked her if she wanted a ride. I can only imagine how my mother looked at that age. I’ve been called beautiful—large brown eyes with the corners pulled down slightly, long dark hair, and olive skin give me an exotic look. My mother was proud of her Tzeltal Maya origin. They are strong and resilient people, she often told me. The Mexican government forced her family, along with the community, from their homes in the rainforest in 1971. My mother was six years old and remembers relatives, especially the young children, starving to death after the evacuation. Coming to the United States was a blessing for those who survived the crossing.

She didn’t take the ride on Frank’s bike that day, but he was persistent, and within a few weeks, he won her over. In just a few months, he had her addicted to drugs and prostituted her out to his friends and associates. My mother cried the first time she told me the story. I just wanted to beat the shit out of someone. Yes, Frank was my first choice but anyone would do. My mother was high as a kite and most likely never remembered telling me about my father that first time. I was seven years old.

Through the years, always when she was high, she’d tell me more. Frank nearly killed her twice when he discovered she was pregnant. Both times she lost the baby. When she was used up and old beyond her years, Frank’s friends lost interest. To remain in his environment, she crawled on her hands and knees to serve Frank so he would keep her supplied with drugs. She did this until she discovered she was pregnant again, with me. The only child she was sure was Frank’s. She hid the pregnancy and managed to escape before I was born. An advocacy center took her in and helped her get off drugs.

When I was a year old, a woman who helped my mother stay clean was caring for me when Frank caught my mother leaving a store. He beat her so badly she almost died and was hospitalized for weeks. He did it in plain sight of the public, in the parking lot where he discovered her. No one stopped him.

By that time, with the help of the advocacy center, my mother had her citizenship. The judge sentenced Frank to five years in prison. Sadly, the so-called hard sentence was because of his priors. Frank swore he would search down my mother and kill her and me. He didn’t care that the judge heard him threaten us. My mom believed him and left everything behind to keep me safe. Her battle with drugs wasn’t over, though. She’d stay clean for six months to a year and then fall off the wagon again. Child services took me away more times than I can count. I would be shuffled off to family after family who wanted me for the added money. When I grew older, foster parents couldn’t handle my boat load of problems. It always ended in being dumped back with my mom and all her fucking promises.

I wasn’t an easy child to deal with and I never graduated high school. I was kicked out of almost every school I attended until I was sixteen and talked my mom into signing the paperwork so I wouldn’t need to go back.

Socially, my fists did the talking. Look at me wrong and I’d kick your ass. Or at least sometimes. Depending on who I went up against, my ass was also kicked. I didn’t care if you were male or female, big or small, I’d try to take you down for as little as a sideways look.

I blame my issues first on Frank and then on my mom. Anger replaced the babies that Frank killed. Anger is my closest relative now. A year ago, I found my mother dead with a syringe injected in her arm. I had no money to bury her, so the state handled it. After her death, I went on a fighting rampage and proved that taking a punch is my specialty. The rampage lasted until the fight before this one. I should have died and it’s taken me almost two months to get back on my feet and ready to fight again. I’m only here because I needed money to make my trip across the country.

Revenge is the only thing that keeps me going.

The worst part and the reason I can’t forgive my mother is all the drugged-out ramblings I listened to through the years. She still loved the son of a bitch and forgave him for killing my sister and brother. That’s who they are in my head—an unborn boy and a girl. I’d have a family if not for Frank, and he’ll pay for what he did. My quest will either end my life or allow me to live on something besides violence. It’s fed my soul for far too long.

When I finally hold Frank’s severed dick in my hands, maybe I, Sofia
Guadalupe Acosta, can finally be happy.

Dax

FOX LAUGHS. IT’S A
low, throaty sound that rises from deep in his chest. He’s so pompous and I want nothing more than to wipe the smile off his face. Hell, I want to take the smile and cram it down his throat, push it past his belly, and down farther until it shoots from his ass. My body twitches with the need to attack.

His smile flips to a scowl. “You think you can take me, kid?”

I pull the knife from the table and slide it back in its sheath. “I’m counting on it,” I say between teeth clenched so hard my jaw aches.

Fox takes his eyes off me like my challenge is nothing. “What d’ya think, Clutch?”

Clutch doesn’t smile, ever. “Shoot ’em and clean the floor with his body. You boys behind Dagger got a death wish too?” Clutch asks.

Skull takes a step to my left side. “A challenge has been made. Which one of you wants to put in your tampon and accept it?”

My lips twitch. Skull always has a quick wit. He’s also a mean fucker when he needs to be. I’m glad he’s on my side.

Fox nods at Skull. “Fuck you. Clutch can deal with you, I’ll handle the kid.”

Fox is the only member who never calls me by my club nickname or my real name. He’s called me “kid” since I met him in prison. I think it’s because he knew it bothered me back then. I was a twenty-year-old kid and had trouble hiding my feelings. It was a dangerous habit and the first forty-eight hours behind prison bars cured me of it.

“Fists,” Fox says with a look of glee. “I’m gonna beat the shit out of ya, kid, and make sure I teach everyone in this club not to fuck with me. You woulda been smart to stab me in the back when I wasn’t lookin’. The mistake will cost you your hell-bound soul.” Fox spits on the floor between us.

My broken wrist will be a problem. With knives, I had a chance. So be it. “I don’t have a soul, Fox. You should know that by now.” I shrug out of my cut and then pull my T-shirt over my head. I also slip out the two knives in my boots and lay them on my cut, which I’ve placed on the table that I sank the knife blade into. Next is the gun. The brothers push tables aside for the fight. While they do, I quiet my brain and focus my attention completely on Fox as he shrugs out of his cut and relieves himself of his weapons. I have height on Fox but not much else. I’ve seen him demolish men twice his size. He’s a mean motherfucker and has no off button.

The men form a circle and whispers from behind me chant, “Desert Crows forever, forever Desert Crows.” I charge forward leading with my shoulder. Fox tries to sidestep, but I planned on that and turn with him and ram him hard. My weight takes him back a foot but that’s about it. I didn’t even manage to knock the breath out of him. His fist hits the side of my head and I stagger back. That’s when another sledgehammer fist takes me in the jaw and I see stars. Four men came with me today and because of me, they will die. At least I’ll die knowing Kiley is safe. But the truth is… for the first time since Savannah and my son were murdered, I don’t want to die.

I twist and avoid another shot to my head and manage to land a solid blow to Fox’s chest. Using my injured left wrist, I tighten my fist and let it fly. The crunch of Fox’s nose isn’t sweet enough to deactivate the pain ringing up my arm. I imagine dying hurts more. Fox puts me in a bear hug to stop another punch and squeezes me. It hurts. Blood heats my face as I’m deprived of oxygen. Fox turns me away from him and slips his arm up so it tightens around my throat. He lands repeated strikes to my ribcage with his left fist while squeezing my neck in an arm bar.

He’s laughing when he tosses me down to the floor. “Fucking killing you is too easy. You need to suffer a little bit more, boy.”

I’ve regressed from kid to boy, but I don’t give a fuck. I’m just able to get my hands and feet beneath me when his boot lands in my side. Fuck it hurts. I cough and try to breathe. With my last reserves, I throw myself at his knees, wrap my arms around him, and push off the floor with my legs. Who needs to breathe?

I take Fox down and a table crashes beneath us. Another blow lands against my skull. My vision is black around the edges, but my wrist no longer hurts. I push myself out of the way of a knee landing in my throat and grab his other leg. Fox tries to roll but can’t. He grabs a chair and brings it up and over himself striking me with it, busting the chair in pieces. I feel nothing. I release his leg and push the broken pieces off me. All but one. The leg of the chair is jagged.

The table that broke held my weapons. Fox goes for my gun, which is a foot from his right arm. I stab the wood into his leg and he grunts. I raise my arm again, gain leverage, and I sink the sharp wood into his side. I scramble up so I’m above Fox, who is now screaming. He rolls to his back to protect himself. It does no good. I bring my weapon down and plow the stake into his chest.

A gun explodes close to me. I expect pain. It’s not me who goes down, though. Skull holds the smoking gun and it’s Clutch who drops.

“Dagger might enjoy rolling across the floor, I don’t.” Skull says as he points his weapon around the room.

That’s when I notice that several more club members have come in from the back. Hands go into the air. Vamp, Coke, and Johns have their guns out too. I’m covered in Fox’s blood with Metal’s blood beneath it. I lean over Fox’s body and grab my gun while unsteadily rising to my feet.

“Fingers interlocked, hands on top of your head,” I tell everyone in the room. I’m breathing heavily and fighting the pain that is now throbbing through my wrist and arm.

Red hasn’t moved from her corner, and she’s smiling ear to ear. So noted. Rufus, the prospect, went down for armed robbery as a young teenager and was tried as an adult. He served five years in state after three in juvie. He only got out a few months ago. Like the rest of us, he had nowhere to go, so he signed on with the Crows. He’s wearing a slight grin and nods my way. Again, noted.

“Who has a problem with the new leadership?” I huff out still trying to catch my breath. No one moves. “This is your chance. Walk out, take your bike, and never cross paths with Desert Crows again.”