Page 9 of Painkiller (Sin Records #3)

T he tip of my cigarette glows as I stand by the fountain, watching people enter the building, trying to escape the cold.

An audible crack can be heard as I roll my head around my shoulders and try to push last night’s fight out of my mind.

It’s been almost impossible all day because every time I close my eyes, I feel the flesh and bone breaking against my fist. Nothing went as I expected. It never does.

I fight to deal with my anger, my guilt, the pain…

Everything that’s too much. Everything I can’t shut out.

It replaces the shit in my head for physical sensations.

My chest hurts a little less. The war in my mind—with myself—calms as I put my focus into not getting my ass kicked. Or maybe just not dying.

Blood and broken flesh are expected, but last night was not.

I still don’t know what happened. I felt his fist against my face and relished the pain.

When blood trickled down, it was like oxygen surging into my lungs.

I could feel something besides the fucking guilt and anger that had been building all day.

Then I hit the mat, and as much as I thrived in pain, I wanted the punishment, too. Not to mention, I might be a little unstable, but I’m not suicidal. Mason wasn’t just out for a win. He wanted a massacre.

Little did I realize, I wanted one as well.

The moment my fist connected with his jaw, everything turned red.

I heard nothing, saw nothing, felt nothing.

Including the man under the blow of my fists.

The face I hammered into didn’t belong to my opponent, and the hatred I had for the one I saw—the one I would never have done that—wouldn’t let me stop, even as his eyes rolled back and he went limp.

Mason had a concussion, a broken nose, and a fractured jaw, but he’ll recover.

I’m not sure what I would’ve done if he didn’t.

Scrubbing a hand through my hair, I take another drag of my cigarette.

My chest rises with a deep inhale as I prepare myself, taking as much of the toxins into my lungs as possible before I have to snuff out the butt and go inside.

I’m not in the mood for this. God only knows how long I will be forced to endure the dull music and monotonous performance.

I can already picture Graham, pacing in front of the doors, nervous for his girl, who is also our stepsister, on her debut with the city ballet, ready to pounce on me the moment I walk through the doors. The show won’t begin for another twenty minutes, but I was told to be here twenty minutes ago.

The thought of sitting for an hour, waiting for the show to start, sounds as appealing as chewing rusty nails.

I love my… stepsister? Since her bitch of a mom is dead, I’m not sure that’s the appropriate title anymore.

Future sister-in-law? Because there’s no doubt it’s coming.

I won’t be surprised if he asks her tonight.

Who fucking knows what the legal title is anymore? If I think about it for too long, my head will hurt because it’s so weird and convoluted since Graham and Casey most definitely do not see each other as siblings.

Truthfully, it doesn’t matter. For me, Casey will always be my little sister. I’d lie, steal, and kill for that girl. Do almost anything to put a smile on her face.

But sitting for that long amongst society’s stuffy sophisticates isn’t my idea of fun. Though I will admit I take a small amount of pleasure when they stop to stare at the guy in the ripped jeans and leather jacket with long dark hair brushing his shoulders. Not to mention the piercings.

Okay, so I’m not dressed like that. Suits aren’t my thing when I can help it, but a pair of slacks and a dress shirt, sleeves rolled to my forearms, is okay. And the eyebrow ring is at home in the glass tray I keep on my sink. The gash and butterfly strips didn’t pair well with the barbell.

The nose, lip, and tongue rings are all still in place.

I probably shouldn’t be allowed inside, but my brother would own someone’s balls if they denied me. Literally. He’d make the offer before the night was done and have a nice pair of testicles sitting in formaldehyde on his desk by morning. I’m the impulsive hothead. He’s the controlled psychopath.

My boots click against the concrete as I walk toward the entrance, pulling my leather coat up to protect against a cutting gust of wind blowing between the buildings.

A smirk tugs at the corner of my lips when I approach the doors and see my brother pacing the lobby just as I imagined, jerking at the collar of his shirt.

His dark eyes zone in on me the moment the doors close behind me, and his scowl deepens.

He meets me halfway, his expensive shoes sounding like thunder, even over the echoing voices of patrons scurrying into the theater.

No matter how fucked up my head is, I always take pleasure in seeing my uptight brother about have an aneurysm.

“Where the hell have you been?” His eyes lift, looking behind me.

“I told you I wasn’t coming just to sit for a fucking hour,” I retort with a smirk I know will annoy the hell out of him.

But then I see the questions forming when his eyes narrow, zeroing in on my face. He grips my face, twisting it to the right. I yank away from his hold. “What happened?”

I didn’t think about seeing him before I climbed into the ring last night. Probably should have.

“Ran into a door.” I shrug and try to go around him.

Of course, he doesn’t just let it go. Graham can’t let shit go. Ever. “Why don’t I fucking believe you?” Jesus, why does he stay up my fucking ass?

He looks behind me again, the space between his eyes forming two lines. “Are you expecting someone else to show up?”

“Where’s Renee?”

“Renee?” My head tilts, confusion narrowing my gaze.

“Your girlfriend, or at least, the girl you’ve been fucking.”

I drag my hand over my face to cover the eye roll.

I haven’t seen Renee in almost six months, but Graham wouldn’t know that.

He may try to meddle in my business, but I keep him at arm’s length the best I can.

Deep, deep down, I know he means well. Graham wants to take care of things—the people he cares about.

It gives him a sense of control. Tonight, he’s in peak form with his growling demands. But I don’t want or need any of it.

I’m not a problem to be solved. A project in need of fixing. I’m a mess that he can’t understand. I know he wants to, but he can’t.

“Yeah, she won’t be coming.”

He nods approvingly. “She’s not good for you.”

Pressure builds behind my ribs, bitter and rising, annoyed that he’s butting into my life, even if he’s not wrong.

But his opinion isn’t required or requested.

And that’s the reason I stayed with her way beyond our expiration date.

I hate it when everyone tries to tell me what to do. “Back off, Graham.”

“I had to bail you out of jail, Jagger.”

“It was one time and a fucking misunderstanding because of nosy ass people that should’ve minded their own business,” I say, too calm. The kind that promises more damage than yelling ever could. “The charges were dropped. Let it go.”

His hands drag down his face as he huffs and shakes his head. “You two were fucking toxic.”

I can’t argue with that. We were from the beginning, when we met a couple of years ago, and our off-and-on relationship began.

We enabled each other’s habits and triggered violent emotions, but the toxicity was part of the appeal.

Two kids—okay, so we were adults, but most days it didn’t feel like it—with mommy and daddy issues, siblings we could never live up to, and a drug problem.

We didn’t judge or ask each other’s deep, dark secrets.

“It is what it is. Let’s get inside.”

Once again, before I can move, he grabs my face again. I pull away, wincing because it fucking hurts. Maybe I need the pain once in a while, but not the night after I got my face pummeled. “If you do that again, I will swing.”

He ignores me as he glares, his face morphing into silent fury. “Are you high?” He looks ready to explode.

My head falls back as I drag my hands through my hair.

Part of me wants to ask, since when does he care?

The other part of me knows that my brother always cared, but he struggled to divide his attention between me and the girl he eventually fell in love with, even if it took a decade.

“Not anymore. You killed my fucking buzz,” I lie to get a rise out of him.

I’m not high, but a few Oxies have me comfortably numb.

“Jagger, one of your damn bosses is in that theater.”

Only one? I’m more surprised they didn’t show up like the weird little pack they are. It’s unusual to see them alone in the wild, but I don’t say that. “It would be hypocritical of them to hold me to a higher standard when they’ve done the same or worse.”

The vein in his forehead starts throbbing. My brother is only twenty-eight, though his birthday is in a few days, but he often acts like he’s much older. Heavy is the head that wears the crown, I suppose. Too bad the weight doesn’t always follow the crown.

My brother thinks he knows, but he has no idea.

“Jagger, you’ve got to—”

“Drop it, Graham, or I will walk out of here.” I let the warning settle. I tolerate his meddling because I know he feels guilty, but he should know by now that I will only allow so much. “Casey doesn’t expect me to come to these things, anyway. She knows I hate them.”

He rolls his head around his shoulder. I can hear the joints cracking from where I stand. He sucks his teeth and nods, his jaw clenched tight enough to break as he jerks his head toward the entrance.

We walk through the doors and make our way to our seats. Of course, they’re middle, front-row seats. I nod to the familiar faces in the full row and take my seat.