I work my ass off for the rest of the day, fitting out three cars before close of business to try and get back in the boss’s good books. I haven’t even stopped to eat by the time five o’clock rolls around.
I may not be able to afford a child minder, but I am lucky enough to have a great neighbor who brings Millie home from school with her own kids, and takes care of her until I get home from work. Wanda’s a godsend. Without her, I’d be fucked. I shouldn’t really take advantage of her kindness. I should head straight home and pick up Mil, but when I walk out of work the very first thing I see is the gym. Blood & Roses. Weird fucking name for a gym, if you ask me. The shutters are up, the lights still on in the back, and I can hear the familiar sound of guys fucking up each others’ shit.
I was so surprised when that guy didn’t hand me my ass the other night. I thought for sure I was dead; he looked like a UFC fighter, for fuck’s sake. And he sure as hell didn’t look like a nice one. Two nights a week for the past month, I’ve been picking the lock over there. Only when Wanda could look after Millie late into the evening, which was never for long. But now, maybe I could spend half an hour after work training there every night. Wanda probably wouldn’t mind that.
Working out’s never been top on my list of priorities, but when my best friend Ben started earning big money in the fighting scene, it got me to thinking. If I can get good, if I can get strong, if I can get an in, I could be earning good money, too.
I shoot Wanda a text to make sure she’s okay with the kid for a little while longer, and she replies almost immediately, telling me to bring her some milk on the way home and we’ll call it even. And then I’m walking across the road, walking straight into the gym, and walking straight into the guy who could have kicked my ass the other night.
“Whoa, man. Sorry,” I say, backing up a step. It’s like he was waiting there for me in the shadows, ready to fucking pounce.
He doesn’t say anything about the fact that I almost crashed into him. He does pierce me with a very appraising glare, though. “Must be weird walking through the door when it’s already open, huh?” he says. His voice sounds like it’s coming up from somewhere around his goddamn boots. Vin Diesel’s got nothing on this guy.
“Yeah, a little.” I attempt a smile, but it feels all wrong with him staring at me like that. I feel like I should be groveling or something. Shame my pride won’t ever let me do that. “So…you said I could train here, remember? With you?”
“Oh, I remember.” He doesn’t say anything else. Just stands there with his arms folded across his chest, his freakishly large muscles bulging out of the long-sleeved black shirt he’s wearing. He keeps staring at me; it’s starting to make me sweat.
“If you’re busy, I can come—”
“Oh, I’m not busy,” he says, with a grim, downturned smile on his face. “Come with me.” Turning, he stalks off through the gym, apparently oblivious to the looks he’s given as he passes people sparring or just working out. Every last guy in the place follows him with their eyes like he’s some kind of fucking god. They watch him until he reaches a metal stairway, jogs up them and disappears through a lit doorway at the top. I stand at the bottom, wondering whether I’m supposed to follow him. That question is answered when he appears in the doorway again, and leans against the doorjamb. “Come the fuck on, Mason Reeves. You expecting me to carry you over the fucking threshold or what?”
I rush up the stairs, kicking myself for not just following him straight up. Now I look like a dick. Perfect.
I find myself in a small, incredibly neat office. The huge guy with the muscles pulls out a chair from behind his desk and places it right in front of me. “Sit down.”
“What? Why?”
He glowers at me, and the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. I get the urge to turn around and run back down the stairs, but I don’t. I can’t. I can’t ever turn my back on a problem. That’s exactly what this guy could be to me, it seems. “Just. Fucking. Sit. Down,” he growls.
I grimace, but I do as I’m told. The guy walks around me and faces me, arms crossed again. “You into drugs?” he asks.
“No.”
“You steal shit?”
“No.”
He crouches down in front of me so we’re at the same eye level. “You run cars?” By the way he asks, he knows exactly what goes on across the road at Mac’s place.
I look him right in the eye and firmly say, “No.”
He stares at me some more, probably trying to work out if I’m lying. After a second he straightens up and starts pacing the room. “You involved with the Italians? The Russians?”
I know about the Italians. A couple of brothers from out east, expanding their business, raising some hell here and there. The Russians, I know nothing about. I shake my head, letting him know I don’t work for either group.