Page 56 of Saving Blood

Survival.

I threw the word out to Blood, and even he didn’t have a response. A light in his eyes told me he knew exactly what I meant. Perhaps I wasn’t the only one with secrets. He was quick to ask me questions about my life, but maybe I should quiz him on why he became an outlaw biker. I have a feeling his story rivals mine.

We were thrown together due to circumstances, each sensing the desperation in the other. Two lost souls drifting, each trying to find some sort of peace allowing us to sleep at night without nightmares haunting our dreams. Or demons plaguing our days. A place where we could find freedom.

BLOOD

Survival.

I drag my fingers through my hair as the word swims through my head. Maxine spit it out so plainly, like it explained everything, and in a way, it did. I’d dealt with survival every day as a kid until I finally fought back. Now I have a whole club of brothers behind me, but Maxine is right—she has no one.

Diesel knocks on the door, then enters the office. “You all ready to make a shit ton of money tomorrow night?” He sits in the chair opposite my desk, pulls a blunt out of his cut and lights up.

Most of the fighters have gone home for the night. Just a few stragglers, including Maxine getting in some last-minute strategies.

“Absolutely.” I motion for the blunt, then hit it hard ‘cause, fuck, I need it with all the static in my head.

“Smoke said you’re gonna use the strippers from The Tropics as fight girls.” He waggles his fingers, and I pass the weed. “Shit, man, you went all out.”

“Gotta give the people what they want.”

Since we closed The Tropics for the night, the strippers were more than happy to trade one venue for another. Especially since they are getting paid the same, and all they have to do is take turns prancing around the ring in a string bikini between bouts.

“Got guys coming in from Vegas and L.A.”

Diesel offers me the smoke again, but I wave him away. “Probably some of those tight-ass Hollywood execs who like to get down and dirty. They throw cash around like they’re mad at their money.”

“And the beauty part is we don’t have to worry about the cops. Sure does beat the bullshit we had to go through in the States.”

Paying our weekly installment to the local cops ensured the night would go off without any interference. Although we’d been here a year, it still amazed me. Back in the States, we’d have to pull off an event like this in an abandoned warehouse way under the radar, and still pay the cops a bundle to look the other way. Not so in Tijuana. The cops look the other way for a very small fee. Shit, some of them even come and bet on the fights. Fuckin’ crazy.

I open the bottom drawer of my desk, pull out a bottle of Jack and two glasses, then I pour each of us a shot. We raise our glasses, and one of the trainers bursts in, his eyes wide, his breathing labored. “Come quick!”

Diesel and I exchange a look then bolt out of the office, following the trainer into the men’s locker room, then further into the showers.

A crowd forms at the entrance, but I push past them, then freeze.

“Fuuck!” I bellow, wrapping my arms around my waist.

I gasp in air, but I still can’t breathe. No matter how hard I try, I can’t get enough air into my lungs. My legs weaken, and I sink to my knees, but the pain continues. A deep, intense burning sorrow relentlessly spreads throughout my body—crippling me.

“No, no, no,” I mumble.

Diesel’s hand clamps my shoulder, but I shrug him off.

I lift my head, hoping I’d seen wrong, but, no, Javi still hangs from the rafters in front of me.

“Cut him down, damnit,” I yell. There is a scurry of activity around me as I struggle to my feet.

Diesel and some of the other trainers lay Javi on one of the benches. I lean over him, brush his hair off his face, then ease his eyes shut. “I’m sorry, kid.”

Diesel points to a piece of paper pinned to Javi’s shirt. “What’s that?”

I pull it away from the material and read it:

“This is what happens when bikers interfere with people who don’t belong to them.”

23

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