Page 6 of Brick

CHAPTER THREE

Brick

A one-two punch to the gut almost took Brick to his knees. The man facing him in the ring had to be close to three hundred pounds and within an inch of his own six foot, four inches in height. The guy hit like a battering ram, but he moved slowly, and his eyes telegraphed his plan of attack. Brick only let him score the hits to his midsection to stretch the clock on the fight.

Sucre wanted it to last twelve minutes to make maximum bank, and he called the shots.

Three minutes left.

His opponent’s short black dreads swayed as he circled the ring. The guy had a lot to learn, because one day someone would grab his hair and use it against him. Not tonight, though. Brick had other plans to put him down.

Two minutes.

He threw out a punch to the guy’s solar plexus, but at half his regular force. It paid to keep his boss happy in more ways than one. Not only would it keep him at the top of the heap, but Sucre would throw a few hundred bucks his way for the trouble, a bonus on top of the cash he made fighting in one of these bare-knuckled matches.

One minute to go.

The cheers and jeers of nearly two hundred people crammed into the small gym echoed like thunder in his ears. The weak fluorescent lights flickered, but no one gave any sign they noticed. The crowd paid well for the pleasure of watching him bleed, and they were getting what they paid for.

He could live with a couple of bruises and broken ribs if it got him closer to his goal. Plus, these kinds of fights added to the legend of his strength. The better fighter he was in the ring, the less he had to fight on the street.

Sucre tugged on his right ear, giving the signal to end the match.

He balled his left fist and plowed it into his opponent’s bare midsection. As the guy’s head and shoulders jerked forward with the impact, he punched him in the back of the skull, dropping him to the mat like a bag of concrete. The crowd roared its approval, and Sucre gave him a short nod.

Brick stayed stone-faced. No one wanted to see him smile.

Monsters don’t have emotions.

The so-called referee grabbed him by the wrist and lifted his hand into the air in victory. The signal meant eight hundred dollars in the bank. Or in the legs of his coffee table.

He climbed out of the ring, breathing through his mouth to avoid the scents of body odor and cheap beer coming from the crowd. For the hundredth time, he wished he had a decent hot shower waiting for him to wash away the blood and the stink of this place, but hot water was a luxury other people had.

“Need a ride home, Big Man?” One of the girls who worked the corner down the way pursed her blood red lips into the semblance of a kiss. He didn’t know her name, but he couldn’t mistake her invitation.

He shook his head and kept walking straight toward the door. He used to take the whores up on their offers when the loneliness got to him, until he realized he left their beds even emptier inside than before he touched them.

Those women didn’t want him. Some wanted the dubious prestige of being an enforcer’s girl. Others thought they could use him to pay off a debt to Sucre. And in a few cases—those he didn’t want to think about—someone coerced the girls into his bed to further their own agenda.

He had no problem with whores, but the transaction had to be fair, his money for their sex. It was only to give his body release. It would never be more.

His apartment was less than a block from the gym, so he had no need to get dressed. Pulling the key out of his sock, he unlocked the door and ran an eagle eye over his space. Nothing looked disturbed. He allowed his shoulders to droop as he trudged to the bathroom.

The soap and water stung cuts and scrapes he didn’t even know he had, but he didn’t mind the burn. He stood under the spray until the water went from warm to downright cold. Teeth chattering, he climbed out and fell into the bed, wrapped only in a towel.

Six hours later, the chimes on his phone had him jumping up with his gun in his hand. One day, he might find an alarm that didn’t wake him ready to put holes in someone, but not today.

His muscles protested as he dragged on his clothes for work, but he couldn’t deny a tingle of anticipation as he buckled his belt. The party at the bar would be tonight, and Will’s sister would be there.

The angel in the white dress. He’d get to see her again.

He’d keep his distance—he had to. She was light and everything soft and good. He was a stain on the darkest part of humanity.

Still. It didn’t hurt to look.

***

Moe’s was a lot closer to the worksite than the downtown scene where Brick usually spent his nights, which meant it was cleaner. The lights shined brighter, and instead of giving him a whiff of beer or decades-old nicotine, it smelled of nothing at all. Wait. He caught the distant scent of a chicken-tenders basket a waitress placed at the center of a table near the front door. It made his mouth water.

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