Defiant
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Epilogue
Thank you
Dangerous
Delicate
Also by Sara Cate
About the Author
Copyright © 2020 by Sara Cate
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Cover design: TRC Designs
Cover photo: Lindee Robinson
Editor: Magnolia Author Services
Created with Vellum
Chapter One
Rafe
I'll give him this much, he's got a right hook that could knock my ass straight into next week. Which is exactly why I can't let him get that punch in. He's strong, but he's not very fast. Luckily for me, I'm a little bit of both.
Just as he comes in for a left, then a right, I move fast enough to miss his throws and use my momentum to sack a punch right into his jaw. I feel a shift under my fist right as it lands against his face. It's probably nothing, just a little crack in the hinge, but I bet it hurt like a mother fucker.
The pain makes him hesitate long enough for me to land another one on the other side. The crowd around us goes nuts. It’s loud enough to distract me from the howling in my knuckles.
“Fuckin’ pig,” he growls before he comes in for another slow swing, which I block, and it brings him close enough to let me drive my fist into his rib cage. He stumbles, and this time I know I probably fractured something. And it feels fucking good.
I don’t always want to hurt the guys I fight, but this one is a real piece of shit, so I take my pleasure where I can. He owns the strip club, the seedier one near the outskirts of town, and I’ve heard more than once that he’s abusing his girls and making them work a little too hard for their money. Of course, none of them will come forward, and I can’t get enough proof to shut him down. Until I do, cracking his ribs and breaking his nose is a goddamn delight.
He’s only up long enough for me to bring a hard left across his cheekbone. Then he crumbles to the pavement like wet mud. The guys around me celebrate, and I know it’s because they all just made some money on me. The few who bet against me stomp away cursing my name, but I have to turn a blind eye to that shit.
That’s the deal.
It’s part of the compromise I made with Vic, the owner of the gym. I can fight as much as I want. For him, I keep the cops away. Every time word gets out about a little illegal gambling behind the perfectly legal boxing gym, I shut the rumors down. For me, he lets me hang around these little concrete brawls, sniff around for leads if I need to, and we both stay happy. I don’t make any arrests around here. I get to be a slightly crooked cop for a couple nights a week, and it pays off in bigger ways than shutting down some harmless betting.
Tonight, I’m here for more than just knocking out this slimy piece of shit finally coming to back his feet. And I see just the person I need to talk to. After I wipe the sweat and blood dripping off my eyebrow, I head over.
As soon as I step up to her, Maggie rolls her eyes at me. "I’m not talkin’ to no cop tonight, so just buzz the fuck off," she snaps at me, and a hearty laugh bubbles out of my chest.
"I can't even say hello?"
She presses her lips together, clearly not buying it for one second.
"Your nose is bleeding," she notes, but I know Maggie isn't grossed out by a little blood. As Vic's little sister, she's used to nights and crowds like these. She's easily as smart as him, twice as tough, and ten times prettier. And always good for a little intel.
Maggie is the wallflower. She's always around, but no one pays her any attention. So she hears a lot.
"I'm not here to dig, Maggie. I just picked up a young kid yesterday for intent to distribute, and I want to know what the fuck I'm missing."
She averts her eyes and doesn't answer me. I take this to mean she knows exactly what I'm talking about. The kid's only sixteen, clean according to his blood sample, and was carrying twenty individually bagged grams of crystal. He kept his mouth shut, and I'd like to get other people talking before I pressure him to.
"Point me in the right direction, and I won't say another word."
"I heard about it, Rafe, but I honestly don't know anything. The guys are as confused as you are."
By the guys, she means her brother and his friends. The worst they do is a little underground fighting and gambling, but I know for a fact Vic hates drugs. He loves the fights, and he likes them to stay clean. I couldn’t keep up our bargain if it were any other way.
Ever since I busted my club brother, Logan's supplier last spring, the narcotic activity around the beach has been quiet. A few little busts here and there, mostly punks who buy it in Newport and bring it to our little beach town. But this kid didn't come from Newport. His aunt and uncle own a souvenir shop on the main drag, and I have a very bad feeling that it's not just a bad habit he's picked up.
"He's just a kid, Maggie. A good kid."
Finally, she meets my eyes. "Unlike you and me, right?"
I swallow, wincing from the slowly building ache in my jaw. "Very unlike you and me."
"If I hear anything, I'll let you know. Vic hates it too, you know. Drugs fuck up his fights."
"Thanks, Maggie," I whisper, leaning in to plant a kiss on her cheek. She swats me away. I'm sure I smell awful.
As I walk back to the center of the crowd, I see a couple girls in the circle this time. There aren't many girls that fight, but man, the ones that do are fucking fierce. The blonde currently dominating is the only one who ever wins, and the guys fucking love these fights. I can't watch, mostly because she obliterates the poor girl who I assume is new at the gym, thinking she’s tough and badass enough to take her skills to the parking lot. She’s not. They never are.
Vic catches my eye, and I send him a subtle nod.
I've gotten about as much info as I'm going to get tonight, but fuck I don't want to go home. It's only midnight, I hardly have a black eye, and I’m still bursting with frustration.
When he sees me restless, he nods me over. I know where this is going. We do this dance every weekend. I fight a fair opponent and win.
He gives me someone a little bigger than me...and the outcome is usually less predictable. The gains for him are good. For me, I risk needing dental work or a trip to the ER, but at least I don't feel so restless or frustrated anymore.
"You sticking around tonight?" he asks, and I see the tall red-headed fuck I fought last week. I almost had him, but he nearly put his fist through my skull before I could land my last punch—at least that's what it felt like.
What are my choices? Go home alone? Logan and Murph are both cozy with their girls now, and I wasn't about to third wheel that shit. And getting knocked out was better than lying awake in bed all night.
"Yeah, fuck it."
Shelby
Mr. Yan squeezes my hand while I take his blood pressure, and a smile creeps across my face. “You better relax or I’ll be here all day.”
“A dream come true for an old man like me.”
“Oh, you don’t want me hanging around here all day. Aren’t you and Mrs. Yan watching the new ‘This is Us’ tonight?” I ask as I jot his numbers down on the chart. They’re not worse than last week so I breathe a sigh of relief. I hate when the vital signs tell me the end is near and there’s absolutely nothing I can do.
“Exactly,” he laughs. “Don’t leave.”
“Oh come on,” I answer. “That’s a great show.”
“She cries the whole time,” he says with a roll of his eyes.
“Yeah...maybe Big Bang Theory instead. Something funny.” Just then, the man’s wife comes in. She’s not all smiles like he is. It never ceases to amaze me the way the family reacts to the end compared to the patient. The family members hate me. I am the angel of death. By the time I show up, hope is lost, and my presence is just the cruel reminder they don’t need.
“How is he?” she asks, interrupting our happy conversation.
“Numbers are looking good. Stable. At this point, no news is good news.”
She doesn’t seem pleased with this answer, and I see her lips tense into a thin line. It’s not that they want their loved one to die, but the waiting is torture. Living in this awful hospice limbo has to be exhausting.
“I’ll come back next week unless something comes up. You have my number.” I turn to my patient. He doesn’t like the bed the hospital delivered, so he’s parked in his Lazyboy. I place a gentle hand on his arm. “Get to the crockpot scene in ‘This is Us’, then watch Big Bang.”
“Nurse’s orders,” he says to his wife. She’s wringing her hands, looking at me like she can’t wait until I leave. And I get it. I’m in her house, but I want to see Mr. Yan smile one more time before I go, and when I look at him, he does.
No one tells you this part. The bond with your hospice patients is different. Stronger. And I never forget these smiles, not a single one. There’s something about being the last person someone bonds with, the last new person in someone’s life. It’s a heavy honor to carry. And even though I’ve only been visiting the Yans for a month, I’m already dreading the end. I’ll miss the way he squeezes my hand.
On my drive home, I keep the radio off. The silence is calming, and although the job doesn’t send me spiraling like it used to, I still need this part—the unwind.
Rolling down the windows, I let this warm ocean breeze blow off the dust of sadness. Since moving to Wickett over the summer, I haven’t spent a single day without driving with the windows down. It’s a waste to do otherwise. The weather here is so much more temperate than in Newport. On hot days, the breeze is cool. On cool days, the sunshine is warm.
Just before I pull into the small grocery store parking lot, my phone rings, my brother’s face showing up on the screen.
“Hello, Ezra,” I answer, holding my phone up to my face.
“How’s the new place?” he asks without greeting.
“You sound bitter.” I laugh as I walk across the parking lot to where the carts are stored. “I love being out here, and we couldn’t keep living together. It was killing your game.”
“I have no game.” He laughs.
“Exactly.”
When Ezra and I moved out here, we started out in one apartment, but I knew that wouldn’t last. I love my brother, but he suffocates me, constantly butting into my business. His guard is forever up, and he trusts no one, which means...dating for me is nonexistent.
So I recently got a place in the apartment complex near the coast. It’s quaint, but when you can hear the ocean from your bedroom window, you don’t need square footage.
“Just be careful. I know you work crazy hours and get home late. I just worry about you, that’s all,” he says. I can tell he’s in the car by the sound on the line. He’s been busy with work, doing pretty well for himself since he started running a souvenir shop on the boardwalk.
I don’t blame my brother for his protective nature. Ever since Ezra got out of prison eight years ago, he’s been different. It’s like he’s seen the worst of the worst, and it’s all he can see now. It kills me to think of what it did to him, so I try to ease his worries when I can.
“If I learn some self-defense moves will you feel better?”
“Knowing how to throw a punch won’t stop someone like a 9-mil.”
We’re not having this conversation. Not again. “My apartment is safe, well-lit, and I’ve seen a cop car parked out front a lot, so I think there’s an officer living in the building. I’m not worried, and you shouldn’t be either.”
“Because cops are so trustworthy.”
I pause. That was a stupid thing to bring up, and I should know better. Ezra hates cops...well one in particular, but it’s a can of worms I hate to even open.
Before he can start on his tirade, I blurt out, “Ez, I’m at the store getting stuff for dinner. I gotta run.”
“Okay,” he sighs. “Get home before dark.”
I say my goodbyes and hang up before he can drone on anymore. Without another thought in my mind, I pick up the ingredients for the only dinner I’ll be having tonight: cheese, crackers, and wine. Then I hurry home because I have a date with my couch.
Chapter Two
Rafe
I can’t drive home. That’s for fucking sure. I can’t see out of my right eye, and the bottle of vodka we opened after my big win didn’t help. But at least I won. I got my ass kicked pretty hard, but a win’s a win.
The gym is out by the railroad tracks, about twenty minutes from my apartment. The location sucks for actual business, but Vic has enough regular clientele—not to mention the under the table profits he makes, he doesn’t struggle to stay open.
Dammit, the lights on the road are blinding.
The ride is silent as I sit in the passenger side of my own car with Vic behind the wheel. Shannon is following us in her car to take him back.
“You’re too good to me,” I groan as he pulls into the parking lot of my condo complex.
“Are you kidding?” He laughs. “You made me so much fucking money tonight.”
“I didn’t hear that,” I grumble as I practically fall out of my car.
“Is he okay?” Shannon calls through the window of her car.
“I’m fine,” I answer. “I just can’t see through this pretty shiner.” I toss her a charming smile that she rolls her eyes at and shakes her head. I try to conceal the way the ground tilts under my feet as they pull away.
That left hook hit my skull harder than I thought. How many untreated concussions can you get before it becomes a problem? I have a feeling it’s not many.