Page 23 of Heart Sick Hate

“You never fucking learn, man.” I cross the office and sink into my seat at the desk, kicking my feet up on it.

“One blow job from Tiff, and you’d understand.” Paul rakes his fingers through his curly dark hair. “Girl’s a fucking hoover without a gag reflex.”

“Well sorry to ruin your fun.” Not really, but fucker doesn’t care anyway. He’ll finish what he started when I leave for the night. Either with Tiffany or someone else. “I’m guessing you told the girls about their raises. They’re extra cheery today.”

It’s annoying. I hate happy people. Give me your pissed-off bullshit because at least it's more believable than nauseating optimism.

“Tiff was just thanking me for it.”

“You’re lucky I’m the one who technically pays them. Illegal fighting is one thing, but this isn’t a fucking prostitution ring.”

“Don’t I know it.” He’s disappointed.

If people think I lack morals, they’ve never met Paul. Or maybe it’s that we’re on different levels.

“Seriously, boss, you need to fight less and fuck more. Makes for a happier existence.” Paul stretches his arms out along the back of the couch.

“What’s happiness if it isn’t breaking someone’s face?”

Paul shakes his head. He might run the logistics of these fights, but he’s never been in the ring. He understands the back of Tiffany’s throat better than he understands what it means to be a fighter.

What it means to survive walking away from the blood after you’ve spilled it.

I’ve been there, more than once in my life. Each time a victory is more important than getting lost between some ring girl’s legs.

“Where are we at with the Oakland setup?” I ask, dropping my feet and getting to business.

I’d rather be at home, halfway down a bottle of whiskey, than sitting in an office that smells like Tiffany’s perfume and Paul’s dick.

“Almost all set. Trevor took a trip with the guys last week and nailed down a location.”

“And the locals?”

“Onboard.”

Los Angeles isn’t the only city with dirty cops and bent politicians looking for an outlet for their aggression. And I’m happy to drain their wallets by offering up a solution.

It wasn’t my plan initially to expand. These fights started five years back as a way for a small group of guys to blow off steam. One person told another, then they told another. Now we’re a full-blown organization—even if technically we don’t exist.

Sometimes you stumble on a need in the market before you realize it.

“Good. Let me know when the papers are ready, and I’ll take a trip up there to sign off on the building.”

“You got it.”

I rarely leave Los Angeles anymore. As a kid, Dad forced us to tag along on all his work trips. Every month I was missing school for one of them. Not that it affected my grades when Dad donated more money than God to the school board to ensure it didn’t matter whether we were there or not.

After we lost Mom, he couldn’t sit still. So he drowned himself in work, forcing us to follow him while he found anything he could to replace her as a distraction.

I traveled enough in my teenage years to be tired of it. But if I’m going to expand the fights, it needs to be out of the city. Too much noise in one place will eventually draw attention.

A soft knock comes at the door before Mandi peeks her head in.

“Sorry.” Her eyes dart from me to Paul. “I didn’t know you were busy.”

“Taking off.” As much as I enjoy fighting, everything after makes my skin crawl.

“So early?”

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