Authors: Alyssa Winters
Bryce
Sam and I are going over numbers for the club this week, when Nathan stumbles in, holding his face. He’s a bloodied, battered mess.
“Somebody get Coach some ice, please!” I direct.
Sam scoots behind the bar, brings back ice, a rag, the first aid kit, and a drink.
“Thank you,” Nathan grumbles as he staggers over to the bar.
“What the hell happened to you?” I ask.
He shakes his head at me and doesn’t respond.
As he gets closer I can tell he’s even more banged up than I originally thought so I take him to the bathroom, where the lighting is better. He lets his hand drop from his face.
It’s worse than most of the guys who leave the ring here after losing a match. I don’t know how long whoever did this kept him, but the bruises are already coming out, his nose is mangled and pouring blood, both eyes will eventually be black, and there are several cuts on his face, either where the skin split from punches or someone was using a weapon other than their fist.
He spits blood into the basin, rinses out his mouth with the gin Sam hands him, and then starts to clean up his face. I watch silently while he stuffs tissue up each nostril, wincing as the packing touches his nose. It has to be broken.
He dabs at little cuts, taking small bandages to close the gashes. Then he ices his face, sighing at the pain of the pressure but also the cool relief.
Only now do I find the appropriate words. “We need to get you to a hospital.”
Nathan shakes his head looking at me through the reflection in the mirror. “Too many questions.” He averts his eyes back to the gashes on his face.
“You’re not going to get away without explaining this to me.” I widen my stance and cross my arms over my chest.
Nathan backs away from the mirror and takes a seat on the bench.
“Okay, okay. So there are some people who wanted side action in the fights, but wanted to keep it off the books. I set everything up. But they kept betting on each game and I had borrowed some of the money to settle other things on the side. So when they came to collect, I was short.”
“How could you borrow from the pot?” I ask squinting my eyes at him.
“It was stupid, but the online site was doing so well that I had made some other bets.” He places his elbows on his knees, and his head in his hand.
“Too much info,” I insist. Nathan’s crimes don’t have to be mine, as well.
He looks up at me, defeated. “Right. Well, I had stretched myself a little thin, shall we say. People were demanding money or threatening to report the site and have it shut down, so I dealt with that immediate problem but haven’t been able to settle up with the other guys I owe money to. So they sent this message.”
“Okay. So where is all of the money you made from other businesses? Can’t you pay them from that?” I already know there’s going to be some bullshit response that I don’t want to hear.
“My income is being watched. I put some money offshore, but transferring it to people I’m already known to do business with will just set off an alarm for the Feds. It hasn’t exactly gotten taxed yet. And everything I had here was put into a new business—moving goods into the country.”
It seems like forever that I stare at Nathan. He breathes through his mouth, and his face is truly starting to swell. I can’t say I’m surprised by the situation.
Not too long ago, his father kicked him out when Nathan lost over a million investing in a porn site. He came to me and I solved his problems, gave him a job. I can’t take credit for the girls—Nathan can get them wherever he goes. But the rest is on me.
I realize that I haven’t helped him. Not in the long run. We slapped a Band-Aid on a bullet wound and called it fixed, but Nathan is still a target. Every business venture he takes on makes him more vulnerable. But he can’t seem to stop. And he always gets bailed out somehow.
“Dammit!” I yell, punching the wall. “Do you remember what you promised, back when I gave you a job?”
Sam takes that as a sign to exit. That man’s instinct is usually dead on.
“I know, Bryce. And if I had any other choice, I wouldn’t be here, laying this at your feet. But I’m in over my head. This is just a message—I won’t survive the actual punishment if they don’t get their money.” He runs his hand through his hair and I can tell he hit a sore spot.
“How could you be so stupid? How much money do you need? You were raking in good money just from the fights—when will you have enough to be satisfied and stop taking on these schemes?”
He looks like a panicked rat.
If I don’t bail him out, he will have to find the money somehow or probably lose his life.
“I’m sorry,” his voice breaks. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”
“I’ll take care of it.” I resent being brought in this situation, and my voice is low with anger. “But we clean it up, all of it at once, and then you’re done. This is the last time.”
He looks at me and a heavy breath escapes his chest.
“How much?” I ask.
He hangs his head, and mumbles, “Two million.”
“Fuck!” I shout.
I don’t know how to lose that much money with an online site. But Nathan has a knack for screw-ups, that’s what his father warned me of when he heard I had taken in his wayward son.
“And then it’s done, right?” I finally ask.
“Yes,” he meets my eyes, and his face is devoid of any pride or deceit. He is made naked by his circumstances, and I must shield him.
When we leave the bathroom, Sam is waiting with a glass of water and pain pills. Nathan swallows both without question.
“My car?” I ask, and Sam nods. “Nathan, the car is outside, it’ll take you wherever.”
We walk outside together, him clinging to my arm, and I have to pry him off of me like a scared child. My blood is boiling as I walk back into Inferno, and I don’t know whether my old friend fits into this new life I’m building. My success enables me to help others, but Nathan is a destructive force, and if left to his own devices, he could destroy what I’ve built and deprive many of their livelihood. Mila comes to my mind, and I won’t let her suffer because of Nathan. That fact is absolute.
Mila
Alexa picks me up, and it’s my first time in a Mini Cooper. “Your car is so cute,” I smile.
The drive is much better than it would be in a taxi. Although we don’t talk we blast the radio with the windows down, turning up the volume for an Iggy Azalea song.
Finally, we pull up to the back of a grand mansion, and I catch a glimpse of enormous columns before we round the back of the house.
We get out and I follow Alexa up a well-manicured pathway into a side entrance.
Alexa strides in without knocking, and makes a beeline for the kitchen with me still trailing behind. She knows her way around, so this must not be her first party in this house.
As we put on our aprons, a woman stalks in, surveying everything. Her expression is harsh, but something about her face is familiar. I’m snapped out of my reverie, though, because she has landed on a detail not to her taste: me.
“You simply cannot serve guests looking like that. Your hair is disgraceful! Fix it or leave,” she scolds.
With that, she strides back out not even giving me a chance to respond.
We drove here with the windows down, and my hair blew all over the place while Alexa’s hair barely escaped from its braid. I take a cue from her and braid my hair. The criticism from the woman is still bothering me and I try to shake it. My mind doesn’t want to seem to leave it alone though.
“Does that happen often?” I ask Alexa, shamefaced.
“I wouldn’t worry about it. We need to get out there. You should head to the great room first.” Alexa points to one of the doors.
Dutifully, I pick up a tray and scurry out, not wanting to earn the wrath of the hair tyrant. In my hurry I forget to ask for directions, so I follow the path towards the voices of chatting partygoers.
I walk through the crowd with a tray of hors d’oeuvres numerous times, smile and compliment several guests. They are all dressed impeccably, and with the small bit of flattery become rather gracious, asking my name and making small talk. When the tray is empty I excuse myself, but I have to walk directly past the tyrant to reach the kitchen.
After I pass through the doorway, the name “Bryce” reaches my ears, and I stop short. Leaning around, I hear them talking about Bryce and someone named Kayla.
The tyrant keeps bemoaning that Bryce is chasing trash while he should be reconciling with Kayla. Her friend murmurs, hinting that Kayla will be at the party very soon. Her voice lowers and I miss the rest of what she says.
“Well at least one of our children has some sense,” the tyrant muses.
Before I can hear more, one of the guests sees me leaning against the doorway, and I hurry back to the kitchen.
Alexa bursts in, grabbing a toast point with caviar before ranting about how nice the party is.
“You should see the outside,” she insists. “The yard looks amazing.”
“Alex—why didn’t you tell me this was Mrs. Cole’s party—Bryce’s mom?”
“Oh, Mila, take it easy. This way, you get to meet the in-laws without knowing it was them. You can’t have a much more objective way to see the people Bryce is related to. You should be thanking me—lighten up!” A coy smile crosses her face that makes me doubt her intentions.
She grabs a full tray and breezes back out to the party, but I don’t want to leave the kitchen. I guess I’m the poor trash Mrs. Cole is seething over. Why couldn’t we meet when I am in nice clothes, instead of an apron like some indentured servant? Alexa couldn’t possibly think this was a good idea. I guess Shayne didn’t keep his mouth shut after all.
I stare out the window into the yard and my heart jumps. I see Bryce, smiling intensely, and then a thin blonde comes into vision, running into his arms. He hugs her warmly and they talk for what seems like an eternity. She whispers in his ear, then swats his arm playfully. He swings his arm around her shoulder and they disappear out of my sight.
I know flirting when I see it.
All I want to do is leave, but when I spin around to find an escape, Mrs. Cole is blocking me. Her face is full of disdain, and she begins her speech with poise and anger.
“I know who you are. No mother. A father clinging to life. You struggle for money and my son becomes infatuated enough to help you out. But you are nothing.”
The words make my heart drop to my stomach. And I’m frozen by the intimidating force of this woman.
“The Coles helped build New York. We carry on the traditions of polite society and you serve the appetizers. That is all. Do not be confused—you do not belong here. My son will not be your ticket to wealth.” She’s glaring at me and leaning close so I can hear every single word of her malice towards me.
It’s like the air is buzzing around me and I can’t hear anymore. Left with what feels like no other option, I bolt from the kitchen.
The crowd has grown, and I cannot reach the front door as more guests continually pour in, so I race up the stairs, to get away from Mrs. Cole.
Mascara must be running down my face, because as I wipe away the tears they stain my fingers.
There are so many doors, so I open each one, praying for a bathroom.
A study is behind door number one. Even with my panic I can see the floor to ceiling wooden shelves, smell what must be cigar smoke and leather. I shake my head—even the air smells rich.
The next room is a guest bedroom, with four poster bed and a gilded mirror that must be at least eight feet tall, leaning against the wall opposite the bed. Hopefully this means I’m close to a bathroom. My panic is heightened when I hear muffled sounds. It could be moaning but I’m not sure, and not I have to get the right door so I can escape being seen until I calm myself down.
My hand pauses over the next door, floating about the golden doorknob. Just let this be it—I need a place to hide for a little while, away from the disdain of Mrs. Cole.
Finally, I work up the nerve to open the tall door, and right in front of me is a scene that stops me cold.
A muscular man with brown hair is completely naked, his back to me. The muscles in his back clench as he pounds into a woman who is face down on an ornate bed. Both are moaning with pleasure.
Her long blonde hair is fanned out on the bed, but all I can focus on is the sick feeling in my stomach. The angel on my shoulder reminds me I should never have mixed pleasure with business, and if I wasn’t already crying, I’d burst into tears.
All I can do is stare at that hair, the muscular back I had been caressing less than a day ago.
I only manage to choke out a single word….“Bryce?”