CASSIUS

L. Campbell: Heard shit went downhill after Jackson stole the W. Mad I missed it!

W. Jackson: Consider this my official resignation from Quinn patrol. NEVER again.

With a soft laugh, I click the button on the side of my phone to make the screen go black, sliding it back into my pocket. I'll touch base with them tomorrow.

I've known of Wyatt since he decided to step into the world of boxing at the age of sixteen and the first thing I noticed aside from his potential is that he lives to swoop in and save the day. He couldn't avoid it if he tried. So, he's honestly kidding himself with that text.

I can only imagine the unorthodox fight Quinn put up against him, but I can't focus on that right now. All that matters is she wasn't here when things went south. There's a long night of cleanup ahead of us that requires my full attention.

Billy is lackadaisically mopping up a puddle of blood in front of the conference room while Rita sweeps up random shards of broken glass, her hands still shaking from the disarray. It's been a while since things got that out of control.

I hate that she's stationed back here, so close to the action, but she wouldn't be able to keep up the way Gio does at the main bar up front. I know she'll pull a gun if need be, but she shouldn't have to be put in that position in the first place. If I told her that though, I'd probably get kicked in the balls. So, I refrain from commenting on her tremors.

Max retreats into the conference room with the drawers, counting money with the bookies who are still completely oblivious to the bloodbath that happened. Well, they know it happened. They could hear every single bit of it. They just don't give a shit. The untouchables.

They know we won't let anyone get inside while they're convening, legs kicked up on the tables with the knowledge that they're making out like bandits at the end of every fight night. Their extreme faith in our ability to protect them disturbs me. Like they expect us to lay our lives down before letting anyone cross a line. And sadly, we will. We do.

Silas is leaning against the wall outside the back room, blotting a pad of cotton against his busted lip with a laid-back demeanor. Like nothing even happened. Pretty sure I heard his ribs crack earlier when we got swarmed by a group of eight. His body probably already healed that shit.

Gio is whistling as he spins a bottle of liquor between his fingers with one hand, wiping down the bar with the other. His gashed eyebrow still trickles blood down the side of his face. He's just as bad as Silas when it comes to being desensitized to violent shit.

He usually just props his elbows up on the bar and smiles while he watches it all unfold until he finds it necessary to step in. Pretty sure the guy has mafia ties or something. I've heard rumors that his family owns half the police force. But I'm not even going to dig into that one. Don't care. Don't want to know. Nope.

We all have our shit, which is how we all ended up under Max's employment. If you're not ten shades of fucked up, you don't work here. And it's not my damn business to figure out what their shit is or how deep their corruption goes.

All I need to know is that we do what needs to be done and back each other up without question while we're inside the walls of Shadow. Anything past that is above my paygrade.

Actually, come to think of it, I wonder how my dad ended up in this place. Him and Max had been close since before I was born, but how did they fall into business together? Mum hasn't revealed much of their lives before Warren and I came along, but there has to be a story behind how he ended up by Max's side.

I shake the thoughts away, knowing damn well that's a slippery slope I have no desire to slide down. I need to keep my attention on the task at hand, which is currently rummaging through the first aid kit in the private bathroom next to the office.

As soon as the first punch landed, I went numb. When the adrenaline kicks in, everything else tends to fade out into nothingness. The usual crowd of five that always complains when they lose money rushed us first, trying their best to get to the bookies. They're lucky they didn't make it. Those guys tend to be the shoot first, ask questions later type.

Then the group of eight – Ollie's followers – decided it would be the perfect opportunity to jump in on the fun. I heard someone yell something about a knife, but I didn't see it and Gio certainly didn't feel it as it sliced through the spot above his eye.

I couldn't tell you what happened from there. Some of the remaining crowd tried to diffuse the situation, helping out security, while the other half broke out into random fights. Sometimes they'd swing at us, and sometimes at each other. The sound of obnoxious yelling and breaking glass was just a fuzzy soundtrack.

But after we managed to take down most of the hoard – either by beating them into submission or threatening them with a lifetime ban – Max ordered me to go clean myself up. The hype died down, adrenaline taking a backseat to pain, and my body felt like a trainwreck.

Silas may have riled up the mob, but I ended up being the one taking the brunt of the attacks. That's what they hired me for, after all. Maintaining order is the top priority but, on the off chance we fail like we did tonight, they prefer to have me on the front lines. Max always said I was made for the chaos.

Thank fuck Quinn wasn't here, or my head would have been blurred, torn between two different goals: Keeping her safe from the riot or doing the job they hired me for. Only one of those options would have been possible to act on...and I wouldn't have chosen the job.

I dab at a few of the more miniscule lacerations sprinkled across my face and crack an icepack, strapping it to my back with an ace bandage to ease the ache from the kidney shot I received from one of the guys.

It didn't take me down like that kind of hit would if it were coming from a trained fighter, and I'm not pissing blood, so I think it'll be fine. I'll just have to keep an eye on it for a while and have Micky check it out next time I'm at the gym to make sure it's not something that requires actual medical attention.

Pulling a set of tweezers out from the first-aid kit, I lean in close to the mirror. I examine the angle at which a decent-sized crystal of glass is stuck in my forehead, just below my hairline. Clutching it firmly between the prongs, I extract it, letting it drop into the sink.

Using my teeth to pop the cap on a small bottle of peroxide, I awkwardly lean over the sink and douse the cut until I'm satisfied it won't get infected. The blood is already starting to pool up again, but not enough to warrant a trip to the emergency room.

We avoid that place at all costs. Hospitals come with questions. Questions come with lies as answers. We're a legitimate business, don't get me wrong, but we have a shit ton of illegitimate side jobs going on within these walls. It's just safer to avoid the risk of a possible investigation.

Next, I peel open the wrapper to a tiny, unused sewing needle. This is the worst part. My fingers are too fucking big to thread the needle. I always end up dropping it about six times, missing the hole around ten, and throw it out of frustration at least once.

After some intense hyperfocus, I manage to thread the damn thing. Pushing and pulling it through the sub-dermal layer of my skin is almost therapeutic in a way. It doesn't hurt, but the thrill of it keeps me on my toes enough to not let me succumb to the injuries.

I toss out all the scraps of medical supplies and tuck the kit back under the sink before going straight for Rita. Even though my size doesn't mesh well with needle threading, and I don't stand a chance at a future career as a seamster, I can still manage to do it on my own. Tying a knot afterwards? Yeah, no.

"Rita, I need your steady hands for a sec." I decide to throw the dig out there after all, watching her trembling fingers fiddle with the broom handle.

She glares at me, the fear she was previously experiencing replaced with a look of I'll fucking murder you. Good. I'd rather her be pissed off when she does this instead of scared and shaky.

I point to the suture interlaced with my skin and she smirks, propping a hand on her hip while she raises an eyebrow.

"Please." I grumble. "You're the only one with fingers small enough to tie it off."

She huffs before sauntering over to the bar, me following behind. We take a seat in the stools, and she leans forward, biting her bottom lip as she narrows her eyes on the makeshift stitch. Her fingers quickly get to work.

***********

Once I cross the street and end up in front of Tanya's Toys, I see Wyatt sitting on the ground, slumped against the building. His face is buried in his arched knees, snoring. I kick his leg and he stirs from his sleep.

"Finally." He groans, rubbing his forehead with the back of his hand.

"Whatcha doin?" I ask with a grin.

"I was gonna come back to help out, but I thought Quinn might try to escape as soon as I left."

I'm laughing on the inside. I knew his text was bullshit. When his eyes finally land on my face, he starts draining of color. I know guilt when I see it. He wishes he would have come back to ease some of the workload.

"Good call, not coming back." I try to reassure him. "Think they would have slaughtered you as soon as they saw your face."

"That bad, huh?" He asks quietly, rolling out his shoulders before cracking his neck.

"A lot of money was lost tonight. But it's never anything we can't handle."

"Worth it." He smirks, drawing the same reaction out of me. I couldn't agree more.

"I appreciate what you did, Wyatt. I needed the help." I admit sheepishly, rubbing at the underside of my nose to make sure all the dried blood is gone.

He sticks his hand up and I grasp it, pulling him to his feet. He springs up and I yank him into a hug, patting him on the back.

"No problem, Cass. Any time. You've saved my ass more times than I can count."

"Any time? Guess I can disregard your resignation?"

I need all the fucking help I can get with this girl. He just smiles and starts jogging down the sidewalk, heading back to the club to grab his abandoned gear.

I stand outside of Quinn's apartment door, coming up with all the ways I can downplay the reason why I look like complete shit right now. Taking a deep breath, I stick my spare key in the lock and turn it, pushing the door open.

Darkness surrounds me. All the lights are off and I can't see a damn thing. Squinting my eyes, I try to adjust to the darkness. Is she even here? I know she couldn't have gotten past Wyatt.

Thanks to my training, my senses always spark to life in situations like this. So, I don't miss the muted sounds of footsteps approaching from my left side. With him being on guard all night, I know it's not some crazy intruder lurking around. I open my stance, preparing to embrace Quinn, when something slaps against my cheek.

"What the f –"

Another slap. And another. I back away from the assault, but it just keeps coming.

"Quinn! Jesus, fuck! Stop!" I yell, putting my hands out to keep her at bay.

"Cash?" She whimpers into the void of her kitchen.

The lights flick on, and it takes her a minute to process that it's really me.

"Did you just – were you hitting me with a fucking shoe? How do you even have any of those left?!" I eye the flipflop in her hand. She looks down at it too.

"Well, I lost the other one, so I turned this one into a slipslap."

"Wha – a slipslap?"

She nods, whooshing it through the air like a sword. "Slap." She mumbles vacantly.

"Soo...your choice of weapon is a shoe?" I question, raising a brow while trying to ignore the pain her attack reignited in my face.

Instead of answering, she drops the deathflop and flings herself into my body. It catches me off guard and I stumble back a few steps before stabilizing. Her arms squeeze around my waist, putting pressure on the bruises beneath my shirt.

I immediately hug her back, breathing in her scent, and nothing seems to hurt anymore.

Quinn is just as effective as adrenaline, just as addicting.