Repo (The Henchmen MC Book 4) (15 page)

"Hey Maisy," Kurt, the giant African American ballet dancer with the kindest eyes I'd ever seen, greeted me, his tone soothing.

"What's going on?" I asked, but I knew. Of course I knew. Hell, Detective-Mc-Hottie had said that within minutes that the Kozlov brothers would know of my treachery. Shit.

Shitshitshit.

"Everything is alright," Andy, Kurt's boyfriend, a blond, blue-eyed model said, holding up his hands. "Kurt and I heard a commotion," he explained as I moved to stand beside them, looking into my apartment. "Kurt came out while I called the super and found a man in your apartment. He scared him off," he said, rubbing Kurt's belly as he looked up with him with a mix of awe and arousal. "He chased him clear down the street," he went on with a smile.

But I wasn't paying too much attention.

Because all I could see was everything in my apartment in shambles. Pictures were ripped from the walls, couch cushions sliced open, foam everywhere. The contents of my kitchen cupboards were all over the counters. My loose floorboard was even torn up.

"Hey, hey, Maisy," Kurt said, sounding worried. "It's okay. We're going to get this all settled. I got a good look at the guy to give to the police."

"Let me guess," I said, my tone hollow. "Six-three, broad shoulders, broad everything. Dark hair, dark eyes. A distinctly Russian accent..."

"You know who..."

"I have to go. I... thanks, but I have to go," I stammered, turning and running.

As I jogged down the stairs, I grabbed my phone out of my pocket and spoke into it. "K.C.E Boxing Emporium address," I said clearly, hearing the bleep as the search worked its magic. The address came up and I tucked the phone away, grabbing the lone cab I found outside and barked out the address with a hammering heart.

The taxi was all over the road on the slushy aftermath the plows left behind, but that had nothing to do with my flip-flopping belly.

When the cab pulled over in a shoddy area in front of a renovated, expansive building of deep gray stucco with K.C.E Boxing Emporium in perfect, bold letters above the door, I started to question Detective-Mc-Hottie's judgment. But with no other option, I paid the driver and climbed out, scaling over a huge pile of snow to get to the sidewalk. I fell forward, slamming hard into the glass door and letting out a grunt. By the time I was back on my feet, brushing snow off my legs, the door swung open, drawing my attention.

And then there was a man there in the doorway.

He was tall and broad, but in a compact way that only boxers were. He had dark skin and keen eyes and, even during a snowstorm that had obviously kept his business closed, he was in an immaculate suit. An expensive-looking gold watch was around his wrist that led to heavily scarred hands. My eyes drifted back up.

"Are you K?" I asked, my teeth chattering from the cold and the adrenaline and fear.

"Yes."

"I'm in trouble."

"Yeah you are," he agreed immediately, as if he somehow sensed my desperation. Hell, maybe it was seeping out of my pores. "Come on in," he said, stepping inside and holding the door open so I could move through.

The inside of K.C.E Boxing Emporium was sleek and modern, but in a very masculine way with exposed stucco walls and cement floors. There was an office area to the left when you walked into the door and to the right there was a seating area in the front by the picture window with a long black leather couch in front of a low black coffee table. There was a small beverage station with a single-cup coffee machine. Forward and toward the back was, well, a boxing emporium. There was a black ring complete with ropes. On the left side of the ring was a line of punching and speed bags. On the right side were jump ropes hanging on the wall and a huge collection of weapons, only a third of which I recognized.

"Coffee, tea, hot chocolate?" he offered, moving over toward the beverage station. "Pick one. You need to warm up."

The last thing I needed was caffeine; I was wired enough. "Hot chocolate."

"Alright. Now what kind of trouble are you in? I don't see any bruises so I doubt your boyfriend is beating you."

"I don't have a boyfriend."

"Okay," he said, slipping a hot chocolate pod into the machine and hitting the button. "Look, if you want help, you need to fill me in. If not, there's the door," he said, gesturing toward it. "I don't have the time for evasions or half-truths. If you want my help, you need to be honest with me.

And that, well, that sounded fair enough. I nodded, putting down my purse and reaching in for the envelope. I handed it to him. "I have been keeping the books for the Kozlov brothers. I had no idea what they were into until today. I took that," I said as he flipped through the papers, his face expressionless, "to the cops."

"And?"

"And the detective I talked to pretty much told me I was fucked and said they would come for me. He gave me the name of this place, and you, and sent me on my way. I went home and... one of them had already been there so I just... ran."

"Here."

"Yeah."

He nodded, tucking the papers away, but not giving them back to me as he exhaled. "You know what I find more and more often in this job?" he asked oddly, leaving me very little room but to ask.

"What?"

"Men fuck up and women are left with the damage."

I paused, watching him with drawn-together brows. "Is that a round-about way of saying you'll help me?"

"Love, I was going to help you the second I heard you slam into my front door."

"Just like that?" I asked, my big-city distrust rearing its ugly head.

"Yeah, just like that."

"Why?"

"Because it's what I do."

"But... why? I can't pay you..."

"I'm not asking you to."

"So this is just out of the goodness of your heart?"

"Maybe we can call it penance."

I felt myself straighten as he moved to retrieve my cup of hot chocolate. "Penance? You've fucked up and left damage for a woman to clean up?"

"Not in the way you're thinking," he said, handing me the cup which I cradled between my hands, the heat making my frozen fingers tingle in an unpleasant way. "I've never intentionally hurt a woman or put her in harm's way. But I'm no saint. I've done some bad shit and I owe it to the world to put some good back into it. I grew up with a mom who used to get her face bashed in every few months by the son of a bitch she fell in love with when I was too young to do anything about it. When I was old enough, I did. Doing this, helping women, it felt like a natural way to make amends for the wrongs I've done in my life."

Not sure what to say, I took a sip of my hot chocolate.

"The detective said something about you... disappearing women..."

To that, he gave me a small smile. "Something like that, yeah."

"How something like that?"

"Chances are, if a woman is coming to me it is because she is literally out of all other options. I take that desperation and mold it into something I can work with."

"And that is?"

"Determination. I need you to feel the will to survive down to your bones. It's easy to give up. It's simple to just fall into the hopelessness of the situation. But I can't do shit with that. I need you to want whatever help I can give you the way you want to keep breathing. Because, quite frankly in your situation, my help is the only way you will keep doing that."

"I don't want to die."

"Then you're going to have to prove that to me."

I didn't know just how much he meant that at the time.

That night, I was given a cot in a panic room at the emporium.

Yes, a panic room.

When standing, if I threw my arms out, I could touch both sides of said room. It was stark white and had a plastic container in the side with a supply of water, power bars, granola, and peanut butter. Thankfully, I wasn't forced to eat that, being given a decent enough portion of leftover Chinese food and another big cup of hot chocolate before I was handed a big, fluffy blanket and pushed into the room that was impenetrable from the outside. And, while it was weird and a little creepy and eerily silent, it was safe. There was even a camera feed from the outside of the door that gave a one-eighty degree view of the outside so I could be sure it was safe before I opened. And I was given strict orders to never open for anyone but him and even instructed to never open if he showed up with anyone else at the door. Because if that was the case, it was against his will.

I would learn that K was incredibly precise about the small details like that.

The next morning at five A.M sharp, there was a rapping at the door. I had been up for half an hour, staring at the white ceiling. The sound made me bolt upright, my heart slamming in my chest, before I looked over at the TV and saw K standing there, in gray slacks and a black, tucked-in dress shirt, his sleeves rolled up to reveal another nice watch in silver. His hands were holding out two steaming cups of coffee. I rolled out of the bed, tidying the blanket, then spinning the giant wheel. With each spin, I could hear the metal bars click until the door opened with a quiet hiss.

I was given coffee, force fed some plain oatmeal because I needed it for fuel, then informed my first phase of training involved assessing my fitness level. I tried to inform him that was completely unnecessary, that I was about as fit as a Basset Hound, meaning not at all, but he wouldn't hear it. He made me change into some of the monogrammed clothes the gym offered then put me through a punishing workout. Until I threw up. Then I got a short reprieve and he set me back to it. Until I cried. Then I was pulled over to the ring and made to sit down in a corner and he crouched down in front of me.

"It'll get better, but I won't lie to you. It's going to fucking suck for a long time. But, fact of the matter is Maisy, these men are taller, wider, stronger, and well trained. You can't get taller or wider; you will never be as strong. But if you can suck it up, I can train you better than them. You'll puke, you'll cry, you'll bruise and bleed. It's the only way to get better. So I'll give you five minutes to pull yourself together after puking, crying, bruising, or bleeding. But that is all you will get. I can't afford to let you be soft. I need to harden you up if you're going to be able to go on living. Take your five minutes. I'm going to go call Faith."

Faith, as it turned out, was a friend of K's. She was tall with long dark hair, almond-shaped dark eyes, a perfectly-shaped womanly body and a 'I'll never be a fucking damsel in distress so don't you fucking dare try to save me' aura about her. She was also, apparently, a kickass Krav Maga instructor.

She was phase one of my self-defense training.

K told me that I needed to practice with someone close to my size before I moved on.

Moving on meant I got to finally see K out of dress clothes, wearing black basketball shorts and a tight black wifebeater that put his perfectly toned arms, chest, and back on display. And if I had been getting a sense of pride or self-confidence after my training with Faith, even getting her on the ground a time or two, I lost every single drop of it in the ring with K.

Then when I started to get comfortable with K, not that I ever really bested him, he brought in Gabe. Gabe was a pretty boy blond with a compact, long-legged, but deceptively strong body. When K brought him in to fight me one morning, I'd actually snorted a little like he'd lost his mind. He certainly didn't seem like he would be harder to fight than K. I would learn to stop underestimating people really quickly after that. Then, finally, I met Xander who was a private eye slash security guy slash anything that paid. He was a giant with black hair and dark eyes. I practically peed myself at the idea of fighting him.

What I learned from all the different opponents was that none were particularly better than the other, but had different fighting styles. Faith had very skilled, very practiced and precise moves from all her martial arts lessons. K had the quick feet and lightening-speed fists of the boxer he obviously was. Gabe had a tight, but smooth style that made me think of law enforcement. Xander had a quick, languid, scrappy style of a street fighter.

So in by forcing me to spar with all of them, I was prepared for just about anything.

And K had been right.

I puked. I cried. I bruised. I bled.

But I got tough.

My soft edges were sanded into sharp points.

By my fifth month, K declared I was almost ready.

Then he told me about the plan.

I was going to go prospect at The Henchmen MC compound. I was going to become a probate. I was going to do whatever it took to get patched in because my only hope for safety long-term, and not have to run every few months, was to integrate myself into a group who would stand shoulder-to-shoulder with me against my enemies. There were many groups to choose from, of course. But K trusted the morals of The Henchmen MC. They also had the added benefit of animosity toward the Russians who, in Jersey, were forever trying to steal the arms trade from them.

So then I studied the top three members: Reign, Cash, and Wolf.

I learned about biker lifestyle. I learned the rules and the taboos.