Slate (Breaking the Declan Brothers #2) (2 page)

“Not happenin’!”

“Agatha,” I say in a rising tone, and then take a quick step back as the door swings open.

“Don’t call me that,” she snaps, hand gripping the doorknob with her pink-streaked blond hair flowing over her bony shoulders. Beneath a low cut tank top, her chest heaves as that little green frog tatt on her left breast jumps along with the ride. She’s loaded with tatts and rings. Heard she had one on her pussy lip. Me, I wouldn’t know. That pussy has seen more dick than a boy’s high school gym locker room. I’ve never touched it.

“Ah, there’s my girl.” I smile. I know she has a hard-on for me. Well, that’s if a chick could get one, and I have no problem using it to my advantage. I’ll do almost anything to get what I need.

“Don’t give me that shit.” Her hip shifts with her usual sass. “You wouldn’t be knockin’ on my door if you hadn’t kicked the shit out of the biggest drug dealer in Galveston County.”

“Fuck Boner, he had it comin’. He sold me some bad shit.”

“Yeah, well, keep it up and nobody’s gonna sell you any shit, good or bad. That’s why Digs won’t do it. All those assholes are connected and you know it. Besides, you busted Boner’s nose. You think that ain’t comin’ back on ya?”

“Aww, you worried about me, Gathie?” I’ve known her since high school, though we never hung out until a few years ago, when I started circling in the same undesirable crowd. High school…I don’t like to think about it because it reminds me of the monkey. It’s bad enough the monkey shows up whenever I hallucinate; it’s why I stay away from the all-American drug. Snow White—I don’t like the bitch. She hasn’t been up my nose in quite some time now.

“Worry ‘bout you, the great Slate Declan, the best damn MMA fighter in Galveston County. Yeah, right,” she snorts. “I ain’t got nothin’. Go home.” She starts to close the door and I slip my foot forward to stop it.

“Oh, I know you better than that,” I grit between clenched teeth, pushing my knee to the side to open the door a bit more and alleviate some pressure from my foot. “You got somethin’ stashed somewhere in there. I know you do. So, be a darlin’, let me in and share.”

“I can’t.” She loosens her grip, allowing the door to open a little more. “Digs will be pissed if he found out.”

Hell, yeah. Digs isn’t home. Now, I know that I have a fightin’ chance. “Dig’s don’t need to know. It’ll be our little secret, promise, Gathie.”

She pushes a pink strand back from her face. Her bloodshot eyes roll down my body and then crawl back up. “Whatcha gonna give me if I share?”

Shit. I know what she wants. Wouldn’t be the first time she’s tried to bargain sex for some hydros. But I wouldn’t fuck her—not even with three gloves on. No fuckin’ way, there’s no amount of rubber that’d keep a guy’s dick safe from whatever she’s got going on between those scrawny legs. And, sure, half my body’s mangled to shit already, but my dick is still intact. No matter how bad I need to get high, I’m not taking any chances when it comes to my dick. “Now,” I slump against the doorframe, “I told ya before, I don’t mess around with another guy’s girl.”

“That’s too bad ‘cause I might have somethin’ for ya, Slate.”

“Come on, don’t be like that.” I drop my eyes to her thin cracked lips with an inward shudder. “I ain’t sayin’ I don’t want ya,” I lie, needing whatever drug she has in her place. “Really, Gath, at this point, I don’t care what you got. Some roxys, uppers…shit. Right now, I’d settle for a little Mary Jane.”

She glares at me for a long moment. “Okay, Slate. I got a little pot. I’ll light up a bowl.” She opens the door. “And maybe you can persuade me into givin’ ya something else, huh?”

“Yeah.” I step in and smile. “Maybe,” I say, getting a whiff of stale cigarettes. I glance around and see a beer can on every flat surface. I tug on my hood, pulling it forward. It’s part of me. Even on the hottest days, you won’t find me without one because it covers my ugly. I walk over to the sofa. Moving a can from the armrest, I set it on the shitty, nicked-up coffee table. I sit down, and that familiar sound reaches my ears. Like a fan running, a constant background noise, one that I hear every time I come here—a baby crying. Although, I’ve never seen it, I know Gathie has a kid.

And it’s always crying.

Gathie plops down on the sofa next to me. Oblivious to the sound, she grabs the bowl from the table and starts to pack it. I watch, sweating. My hands shake for just one hit, and it’s going to have to do till I can find some hydros ‘cause there’s no way I’m persuading Gathie by fucking her for any. I know Digs limits her supply and she don’t like giving up any of her shit. I hope that I can talk her into selling me something, anything. She knows that I’m good for the cash. Although, Jax, my older brother, would like to, I know that he can’t take away my share of the bar. It drives him crazy. He knows the income I get from JZS is what supports my addiction.

My cell dings. I pull it from my jeans, swipe the screen, and click on the message from Zeke, my little bro.

Hey, Tommy Bigs canceled tonight. Can you fight? You good?

Am I good? He means am I high. Jax checks me before he’ll let me go in the ring. If he thinks that I’m all lit up, I can’t fight. Long as I don’t hit the bowl Gathie just sparked, I’ll be good. Fuck. It smells so good. I don’t mind going into the ring feenin’. In fact, I prefer it. My body’s ready to tear some shit up. I fight better when I haven’t had any drugs in my system for a few hours. The withdrawals kick in and get me all pumped. Plus, I know the minute I’m out of the ring and my body’s beat to shit, I can pop a few hydros. I welcome the pain. It’s what got me hooked in the first place.

After nearly a year in the hospital, followed by months of rehab, hydros were all that would kill the pain. So now, pain equals hydros; therefore, I need both.

Gathie hands me the bowl. I stare at it for a second, palms sweating, nose running, and heart palpitating.

“What?” She pulls it back. “Don’t want any?”

“Gotta fight tonight,” I say, dragging my eyes from the sweet Mary Jane burning just inches away.

“Oh-ho, you’re gonna be hurtin’.” She laughs, lifting the bowl back to her mouth for another toke.

“Yeah, just found out.” I wave my cell then shove it back into my pocket. “So, come on, Gathie. Help me out here; sell me something for later.”

She deliberately blows the smoke right in my face. “All I got is a little blow. I’ll sell you a few bumps, but that’s it.”

“No hydros?”

She taps the bowl on the ashtray, shaking her head. “Digs don’t give ‘em to me no more. Says they bring me down. He just wants me alert so I can take care of the brat.”

That’s about when my ears open up enough to let in that crying fan coming from one of the closed doors in the apartment. I’m not sure what Gathie’s definition of taking care of a baby is, but fuck, I need to get high. And again, that crying sound falls upon deaf ears.

Lurlene parks the golf cart, and when we get out, the parking lot is full.

“Wow,” she says, looking around. “It’s always jam-packed here.”

“Yeah, they’re doing well.” I nod as we make our way to the door. “After hearing about Gram’s death, and then about the fire at her store, I wasn’t surprised to hear that the Declan brothers opened a bar. They’re all in their late twenties, except Jax. I think he turns thirty this year. Their father was a boxer. Jax taught the younger brothers what he learned from their father before he died, before they moved here to live with their grams. That’s probably why they opened this bar instead of another corner store.”

“Ah, so Slate’s always been a fighter?”

“No, he was never a
fighter,
but he trained daily with Jax and Zeke. I think he did it because his brothers needed it. In some way, it helped them stay connected to their father.”

“I get that,” Lurlene says, as she opens the door. As predicted, the barn-like establishment is rockin’. There’s a decent-size bar in the front, and the MMA ring is located in the back of the rustic building.

Like every other time when I enter this place, I do a thorough scan, searching for Slate. He’s nowhere in sight. I don’t get it. He’s part owner, but he’s never around. It’s strange; I’ve been back to the Bayou for about a month now and nobody has said much to me about Slate. They only boast that he’s the best fighter at JZS, which is certainly not the Slate I remember.

In all the years that we were together, I only saw him fight once. It didn’t last for more than a few seconds. That’s all it took for him to put down the guy who had assaulted Emmie on prom night. I swear that I blinked a few times, and it was over. I remember feeling weird about the charge I got from seeing him like that—a fierce savage in total control of his every movement. And the confidence he displayed...God, it was hot. Not that he wasn’t confident; he just never showed it off. Now, if only he’d been like that in bed, or showed me a bit of that when we argued, things might have turned out differently for us.

He was easygoing, such a calm and gentle person. He didn’t like to fight; if we started to argue, he’d just walk away. A part of me wished that he stayed and stood up to me. Of course, each time that we did argue, I easily forgave him. You couldn’t help but love a guy like Slate Declan. Up until the time I caught him cheating on me, which was totally out of character, he’d been nothing but kind, thoughtful, and caring.

“There she is,” Lurlene says, pointing to Emmie at the bar.

“Good. Let’s go get our girl. The fight should be starting soon,” I say, hooking an arm into Lurlene’s.

Maybe Slate will fight tonight. I want to see him, even if it is behind the cage. I need to confirm that what I felt the other night while looking at him from a distance was nothing more than remnants of our relationship. Leftovers. Then again, there is some unfinished business between us. After finding him in bed with Krissy Sykes, the bitch, I abruptly left the Bayou, and I haven’t been back since.

Finally, we make it into the fight room, minus Emmie. Jax managed to keep her with him a little longer at the bar. But I don’t complain. She deserves happiness.

I smile over at Lurlene. At least I have her by my side. And that doomed feeling in the pit of my gut—well, it’s warning me that I might just need her.

Over the loud speakers, the announcer introduces the first fighter. With well over six feet of muscles, the man rightfully named the Hulk walks to the ring and, following a show of some biceps, takes his corner. Then the place turns pitch black. The spotlights flicker on and flash around the room to the beat of the music until they stop at the back door. It opens. A dark figure stands in the doorway. I can’t tell if it’s Slate; the fighter has the hood of his hoodie pulled up. He’s about the same height as Slate, but yet, his body appears too big.

My heart slips down to my toes when I hear the announcer’s voice blast out through the loud sound system, “Ladies and gentlemen, let’s hear it for JZS’s very own, Slate Declan!” The cheering begins and continues to escalate as the shadowy figure gallantly moves toward the ring. I grab Lurlene’s hand, squeezing it tight. With his head lowered, it’s difficult to see his face. I want to see his face. I need to see those beautiful, distinctive Slate Declan eyes. He enters the cage, and with all the whistling and hollering that’s going on around me, I can barely think. I glance at Lurlene with a weak smile then take a quick look around. The crowd loves him. Hands fisted in the air, they’re chanting his name.

I turn back to the stage. Slate moves over to the corner of the ring. With his back to me, he reaches down and swiftly removes his hoodie. The cheering becomes even louder. And holy shit! His body is loaded with muscles; every visible body part perfectly defined and sculptured by them. He shifts to the right, and I sway to the left, trying to catch a glimpse of his side profile as he walks to the center of the ring to meet the other fighter. As the ref recites the rules, the Hulk bounces on his feet, but Slate remains completely still.

They bump gloves and then both fighters take a few steps back from each other. The Hulk’s shoulder flinches and Slate gyrates forward, like a jackhammer; his arm jabs forcefully at the man. The Hulk attempts a kick, but Slate gets a hold of his leg and takes him down. They wrestle on the floor, limbs entwining into a ball of viable muscles. Heart racing, I tip on my toes trying to get a better view. Slate’s on top of the guy. The Hulk’s got his legs wrapped around Slate’s hips, but it doesn’t deter Slate from relentlessly jabbing his fist into the guy’s side. The Hulk manages to flip Slate onto his back, and he starts to jam his fist into the side of Slate’s head. I cover my mouth to hold back a scream.
Oh. God. Baby, get that hulky piece of shit off you!

Slate’s legs spring up. He hooks his calves around the Hulk’s neck. His back bends, chest lunges, and finally, Slate breaks free. As his body rises from the ground, back into a standing position directly in front of me, the first thing I notice is the ink on his chest and arms. Then, my heart stops. It shuts right down. I can’t breathe when I see the angry red scars trailing down the left side of his body—down his chin, his neck, arm, side, and leg. Hand still over my open mouth, my other hand clutches my chest. I can’t move. Oh. My. God! What happened to my beautiful Slate?