Page 69 of Charger

“You know what’s funny? You breaking Tommy Stevenson’s nose.”

Even years later, I still hate that fucker. If I saw him out somewhere, I’d probably break his nose all over again.

“He put his hands on you. He’s lucky that’s all I fucking did.” I laugh, but I’m fuming inside at the memory.

“Yeah, I shouldn’t have gone to the party with him. I shouldn’t have left the dance.”

“Hey.” I prop myself up, tilting her face to meet my eyes. “It’s not your fault. Do you hear me? None of it was your fault, Jules. We can’t change the past, and your brother wouldn’t want you to keep beating yourself up about it.” A silent tear falls from her eye.

“I know.” Her saddened smile breaks me for the second time today. “I don’t blame myself anymore. I really don’t. I just miss him so much still.”

“Me too. Me fucking too.” It’s true… what I wouldn’t give to throw a football with him again, even though I hated the damn game. It was never me; that life wasn’t meant for me. “I’m sorry you had to spend those years raising Chloe by yourself.”

“I had help. My parents are amazing and really looked after us. Especially when I went to school. Got my bachelors in business.”

“I’m fucking proud of you, you know that?” I lean in, giving her a kiss on her head.

“Zach, I still love you. I never stopped.” We lie there in silence for what seems like forever before she finally falls asleep.

“I love you too,” I whisper softly, knowing she doesn’t hear me. My chest still damp from her leftover tears, I stroke her hair like she’s a damn kitten. My kitten.

TWENTY-EIGHT

Charger

The bell rings, with the song “Rise Above It” by I Prevail playing in the background. I stare back at my opponent; the smug look on his face makes me want to beat the piss out of him even more than I already do. He’s got maybe twenty pounds on me. But it won’t matter. I’ll win, because I always win.

After getting my shit together, I needed something that would let me release my frustration or temptation, and this was it. I worked my ass off every day. I put on muscle. The gym was my therapy, my escape, and this was the added prize. The high from winning alone was more than what any drug could do.

I crack my neck back and forth, raising my taped fists in front of my face. I don’t wear gloves, fuck that. If I pound in someone’s face, I want to feel my knuckles hit flesh. Maybe I’m that fucked up, or maybe I just don’t care.

He goes in for a low kick, but I saw that coming and I dodge it, hopping backwards in one step. Next, he goes for a high kick—saw that coming too. I grab him by the ankle, spinning him in the air and causing him to fall.

“Come on, fucker, that all you got?” I wink.

He gets up—now he’s pissed. Yeah, that’s right, asshole, get pissed. I want you to fuck up. The crowd in the background is loud, and they get more rowdy with each blow, which has my adrenaline pumping.

He gets impatient, coming at me with two fists. I lean my body to each side of the punch, dodging both. I smirk at him, going in for the jab. My fist collides with his cheek. He backs up and shakes it off. I can tell it makes him a little foggy.

Good.

Come on, buddy, I got all day. His fist connects with the side of my face and I laugh. My eyes water from the blow. That’s right—I gave him one to make him tired. And he’s looking a little gassed. I rotate my right arm and get back into position. All right, the fucker’s mad. He barrels toward me, throwing punch after punch. I block every one, waiting for my moment to charge. He tires and stumbles back. Here it is.

I lunge forward in one fast motion. Grabbing him around the waist, I pick him up and slam him down onto the mat. I tower over him and the dude taps out before the ref even starts counting. Well, that was easy.

I wipe the already dried blood off my lip and hop down from the ring. The crowd parts with some hand claps of congratulations to my back. I wipe a towel down my face, attempting to take some of the sweat away. My eyes burn from the salt of my sweat. I sit down on the dingy locker room bench and check my messages. There’s one from Chain.

Chain: My office. Now.

Fuck. The meeting with the Skulls is tonight. Tank, Hush, and Bullet must have found out something.

I throw on my sweats and a t-shirt and strut down the hallway. I make it to Chain’s office in less than five minutes. I walk in and he gestures for me to shut the door. I sit and he hands me his phone, displaying an image sent from Bullet. The picture shows the Mustangs they must have stolen and next to them are two vans with no windows. My eyes dart from the phone to Chain. He knows what I’m thinking.

“That picture was taken from behind one of the empty abandoned buildings. I told the guys to hold back. Not to show their faces at the meeting. Which, I know Scorpion is just going to fucking love that. Missing one of his dinner dates again.” He leans forward, his elbows on the desk. “But we all know what the fuck those vans are for.” If there was any doubt that the Skulls were serious, this just confirmed it. They’re going down this path, women trafficking. Fucking dirtbags are actually going to do this. Rage builds inside me. “Hey, snap out of that place. I need you here, focused.” Chain points a finger down at his desk.

“Please tell me those vans were empty.”

“Yeah, for now. These fuckers just started a war, a war they didn’t know they were gonna lose.” Chain’s eyes hold darkness. These guys were fucked.

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