“But you haven’t heard the best part. Win or lose, you get five grand a fight.”
Both Lance’s eyebrows went up. Five grand, win or lose?
“I have your attention now?”
He hated the cockiness in Ralph’s voice, because the fucker was right—he had Lance’s attention. With the insane interest rate the cousins had tacked onto his loan, he still owed close to sixty-five thousand dollars. With only a couple of fights a month, he could be out of debt in no time. This would also free up his time. If the money for the loan was coming from fighting, then he could concentrate on taking his business into full-time repossessions like he wanted, and get out of being a self-contractor for the dispatch service. Right now he had to take any wrecker job, no matter the time of day it was offered, in order to keep up with his bills.
“How many fights are we talking?” Lance asked.
“As many as are needed for you to repay the debt.”
Still, he hesitated. Unregulated fighting was dangerous and illegal. Not that law enforcement really cared. Not around here anyway. The McNealys had this town, and a few others, in their pockets. They could be total dicks, but they were rich, generous total dicks. And it was amazing how much the local government would look the other way with the right amount of money thrown around.
Other than the unregulated fighting bit, he couldn’t think of one drawback to this new arrangement. He didn’t have to participate in anything goes. He didn’t have to compromise a damn thing. He’d just go into that ring and fight with respect for the sport like he always had.
“Tell the McNealys they have a deal.”
…
Ella stepped out of the diner, chuckling at a joke Amber had told. She liked this girl. She was funny, laid back, and feisty. She could see Amber and her having a really close friendship—if things were different.
“What are you doing tonight?” Amber asked.
As much as she liked her, Ella also needed to keep her distance. “I’ve got some things at home to get around to.”
“Oh. Yeah. You mentioned you had things going on. I have the hardest time not having anything to do. When I was in New York, I was always out with my friends somewhere. I miss them.”
“I know the feeling.” She missed hers, too. Her up and leaving Maine had shocked everyone—including herself. All it had taken was one phone call from her lawyer with the news that Randy was being released early, and the beautiful clapboard three-bedroom cottage she’d closed on only a few months ago became too small. Her town, her state, had become too small. There hadn’t been enough space between her and the man who’d almost killed her, who’d threatened to finish the job when he got out.
“It’ll get easier, won’t it?” Amber asked.
She hoped. “Yeah. It will.”
Screeching tires then crunching metal sounded to her right. Whipping her head in that direction, she saw a car had T-boned another car at an intersection. Without thought, she sprinted to the accident. She focused on the car that had the driver’s side door crushed in.
Ella leaned into the shattered passenger-side window. The guy sitting there was holding a bloodied hand to a wound on his head. Her guess was his head had been what had shattered the window. She quickly assessed the rest of the car. A man sat in the back but seemed fine as he repeated, “What the fuck?” over and over again. The man behind the wheel, where the impact had happened, was unconscious with blood running down his face.
Her gaze lingered on the driver. Why did he look familiar? She pushed the thought aside and focused on the passenger. “What’s your name?”
“B-Ben.”
Seeing he was coherent, she hurried around to the opposite side of the car, then climbed up onto the crushed hood of the other vehicle so she could lean through the driver’s demolished door. Placing two fingers on the inside of his wrist, she checked his pulse. Strong. Thank God. She took a quick inspection of his body. Blood saturated his left side. She tore open his buttoned shirt to find a gaping wound low on his abdomen. Ella yanked off her cotton jacket, wadded it up, then pressed it against the wound to stem the bleeding.
“Has somebody called 911?” she yelled.
“They’re coming,” someone behind her said.
They needed to come fast.
“Ralph. Jesus. Ralph.” The passenger stared at his friend, horror rounding his eyes. “Is he…fuck!”
She blocked out the guy, keeping her attention on her patient. “Sir, can you hear me?”
A low groan was her answer.
“Sir, can you tell me your name?” she asked.
The man groaned again.
“Sir, your name.”
Just as she reached to check his pupils, his eyes opened. They stared ahead for a second before they focused on her. He slowly blinked, as if trying to clear his vision, then a pained smile came to his face.