Blackbird (A Stepbrother Romance #1)(16)

As I start up the rickety cast iron stairs to my so-called apartment, I hear shouting, some in English, some in Korean, and a thump, and a scream.

It’s coming from my downstairs neighbors.

A louder scream.

Oh God damn it.

I’ve never been in one of these places before. The only signage is a red paper lantern hanging by the door, a pretty universal signal. It’s a red light. Yeah.

Inside the first door there’s another, locked. I hear more commotion and ring the doorbell.

No answer.

Turn around, Victor. It’s not your problem. Leave it be.

There’s a deadbolt. It gives under one blow from my shoulder, rips the strike plate out of the wall with a shower of splinters. I hear the sound of a fist on flesh and rush towards it.

Inside is chaos. I’ve never been in here before, never had any interest. It’s a maze, a bunch of rooms off a twisting hallway. A half-naked masseuse wearing nothing but a bright blue thong and one high heeled shoe runs past me, away from the noise.

Then a short Korean woman with a shocked expression comes tumbling through a door, wide-eyed. She lands on her ass and grunts in Korean, then starts shouting. I walk down the hall towards her, and out comes a pretty good sized, middle aged man, dragging a tiny slip of a girl by the arm. She’s completely buck-ass nude, and in other circumstances I’d been getting quite a show, but her nakedness is just shameful. There’s a bruise on her cheek.

Bad move, big man.

“Finish!” the girl screams, in broken English. “Hour done! Hour done!”

She pulls at his fingers and pounds his arm with her fist, and I realize he’s dragging her back into the room.

Oh Jesus.

“Hey,” I bark out, so loud it rattles the ceiling. “Party’s over, handsome. Get your f*cking hand off the girl.”

The woman looks at me. The girl looks at me.

The big guy looks at me.

“You think you’re a big man, don’t you? You want to go? Let’s go.”

It all happens at once. He shoves the girl. She’s still got her f*cking heels on. Time slows, that way it does, like in a car accident. You learn to keep your head on a swivel where I’ve been. When I see the girl’s ankle fold under her as she goes down, it’s like something cracks in my chest and scalding, molten fury burns in my lungs.

The big man’s fist hits my chin. He’s fast. He’s good.

I fight dirty. I roll with the blow, turn, pivot, and lash out with my foot. I take him in the side of his leg, the knee. It knocks him off balance, and I bring my shin up between his legs, a savage kick that crushes his balls and sends him back, howling. He’s forgotten about me.

I’m not done.

My fist hammers into his nose. I feel it fold under my hand, feel the snap and the spray of blood. I get him by the hair, grabbing a handful right above his forehead, turn, and pull. He claws at my hand, but I’m not pulling his hair. I let go and he goes face first into the wall. This an old building. Plaster walls as hard as stone. A lot harder than his face. He bounces back, flails, and starts to grapple with me, but there’s blood in his eyes. I feel something pop in my hand as I hit him right in the cheekbone, but something in his head pops from the blow, too. He slams against the other wall and goes down, grabbing at my legs. His arms wrap around my legs and I go down with him, hit the floor hard. The world flashes when the back of my head hits the hardwood floor. Then a first hits my jaw, and the world starts spinning.

Hands yank me up by the collar of my shirt. It rips, but not enough. Then a white flash as my head hits the floor. A fist raises over my head, ready to come down.

When your head is braced against something rigid, that’s a bad way to get hit. I jerk out of the way at the last second, and he howls as his fist hits the hardwood. Then I knee him in the stomach, grab his throat, and kick him in the balls again. His howl comes out choked, and he claws at my wrists, but I’m stronger. I feel his grip weakening.

A shadow falls over me and there is a tremendous clang.

Big man rolls off of me onto the floor, a bloody gash on his head. The woman hit him with a f*cking frying pan.

“Police come,” she says, offering me a hand. “You go. Out the back.”

I’m not arguing. I limp along with her past a half dozen girls in states of dress varying from “string covering clit” to pajamas and one wearing a goddamn chef toque (am I dreaming this?) and out the back. Christ, if somebody sees me I’m f*cked. I run back around to the side and lurch up the stairs, through my door and fall to my knees on the floor.

My f*cking head. Figures I’m out of booze.

Half an hour later I get up. It’s daylight outside but it’s overcast now, enough for the red and blues to flash in my window. Quickly I discard my clothes. My t-shirt is bloody, and I’m not sure if it’s mine or not. I get all my clothes off, shove them in a trash bag and frantically dart around the room, naked. If the cops come banging on my door asking questions and see something incriminating they’ll bust in and I’ll be on a bus back to prison by dark. Once I’m reasonably certain there’s nothing poking out that would catch their attention, I get under scalding hot water in the shower.

“Fuck,” I grunt.

A fight just makes me feel more alive. Feeling more alive makes me want Eve that much more. I rest my head on the grimy tiles and run the water until it goes cold.