Mr. Beautiful (Up in the Air #4)(11)
"Could you please get me a pen and paper?"
I had it fetched, watching in puzzlement as she scribbled a few sentences on the paper, then folded it carefully and handed it to me.
"Could you please have that buried with him?"
"Yes of course." I recalled a rather important detail. "He's actually being cremated, unless you object."
"No, that's fine. Have it burned with him please."
I agreed, still watching her blank face. "May I read it?"
"Go ahead." No hesitation in her answer.
I opened the neatly folded letter, brows rising as I read the brief scrawl.
To the monster,
Fuck you. You can't hurt us anymore. Oblivion is too good for you. Enjoy the fire. You've earned it.
Your daughter
I looked up, caught her eye.
She gave me a rueful smile. "It's therapeutic."
I smiled wryly, refolding the paper. "Indeed it is. Do you have any desire to . . . go to his funeral?"
She shot me a look. "No. Never. It's bad luck to spit on someone's grave, and I'm not sure I could stop myself."
CHAPTER EIGHT
WORST NIGHTMARE
PRESENT
STEPHAN
I awoke to bright lights and hospital sounds. And pain. Agony shooting through me with every breath.
It all came back to me in a flood.
The blood. The bodies. The unmitigated horror of it.
Bianca.
Bianca going limp, crumpling to the ground, blood in her hair, blood on her face.
My worst nightmare come to life.
Bianca.
I'd seen her shot, seen her fall.
No. No. No. No. I couldn't lose her. It was inconceivable.
"Bianca," I wheezed, my chest burning like it was on fire with that one word.
CHAPTER NINE
I'M OKAY, YOU'RE OKAY, WE'RE OKAY
PAST
STEPHAN
We didn't shake hands or touch gloves. Not that we got to wear gloves.
It wasn't that kind of a fight. Some underground clubs had rules. Some of them even operated under a code. This wasn't one of those. That kind of ring wouldn't take an under-aged street kid into the mix, no matter how good he was at hurting people.
We nodded at each other across the small space allotted us for this desperate bout of violence. I made the mistake of meeting his eyes.
They were dead. He already thought he'd lost everything. He was about to lose more.
I wanted to tell him just to fall with the first blow, that I never lost, so he shouldn't make me hurt him more than I had to, to get paid.
I wanted to tell them all that. I didn't want to do more damage than I had to, but sometimes I couldn't help it.
I never wanted to reach the place where I couldn't help it.
I took a deep breath, letting my eyes move through the crowd to find the only face in the world that reassured me.
Bianca's serene eyes met mine, and I felt instantly better.
The place was packed, but there was an invisible barrier around her that no one dared to encroach on, thanks to me and my temper.
Everyone here knew what I'd do if someone so much as bumped into her. It was a rough crowd, and I'd made a point of educating them with a few bloody examples.
"Love you," she mouthed, looking utterly composed amidst this chaos. It was just what I needed. Her calm was the anchor that kept me grounded, always. I did the fighting, but she was the one that kept me safe and alive. I'd have lost the will to live a long time ago, if I hadn't found her.
"Love you," I mouthed back.
Of course, everyone assumed we were young lovers. We always let them assume. It was just easier than explaining that, though she'd never be my girlfriend, she was as essential to me as air, and I'd die before I'd let anyone hurt her.
I focused back on the task at hand, my will renewed. I hated fighting, hated it more than just about anything, but it was a necessary evil, at the moment.
And hate it or not, I was very good at it. Undefeated, in fact. Defending myself against someone four times my body weight from an early age was my training. And it was good training.
The bell rang, and I went to work. He started dancing my way, light on his feet for such a big guy, and trained to box, I guessed.
It wouldn't be enough.
I was trained to survive, to fight dirty, no matter the means.
I dodged his first quick blows, observing his moves before I made my own. He was quick, but I knew I was quicker. And more desperate. I didn't just have myself to win for.
I stopped his fancy footwork with one brutal blow to the gut, followed through instantly with a vicious fist to his temple.
He went down, but unfortunately, I hadn't knocked him out.
He came at me again, and I blocked each of his blows easily. The blow to the head had made him slower, and I could see each hit coming.
I clenched my jaw, cursed myself, and attacked, landing three quick-fire, savage punches, two to his midsection that I knew would leave him coughing up blood for days, the third an uppercut into his chin.
He went down, and when he got back up, his eyes were dazed, feet stumbling. I'd messed him up good, and I wasn't done.