Riot

“He’ll do fine. If I was in his place, I’d want my girlfriend to think I can do it.”

“But that won’t help, Corey. How can that help?”

“Trust me,” he says. “And trust him.”

***

“Mrs. Ellen Morris?” My heart is racing like a train with broken brakes. “This is Paxtyn Page speaking.”

“Hello?” She sounds uncertain. “Do I know you, Ms. Page?”

“We have a common friend. Riot Gallagher.”

A moment of silence.

“How did you get this number?”

“From Riot’s phone. Please, Mrs. Morris, don’t hang up. Riot’s life is at stake.”

She produces an incredulous sound, half cough, half laughter. “His life?”

“He’s facing Clay the Bone Crusher tonight at the Hellfire fighters club, against his will. Please, please tell me there’s something you can do to help him.”

“The Crusher,” she repeats, as if she knows him. “A vengeful move.”

“Yes. How do you know that?”

“It doesn’t matter.” She harrumphs. “Riot can take him.”

“He killed Riot’s friend.”

“Yes, yes.” Impatient. “But not Riot. Riot’s a hard one to kill.”

Oh God, this old lady and Corey have more faith in Riot than I do. Or else I’m more scared for him because I love him more and I care if he ends up dead.

“So there’s nothing you can do to help?”

“Help. What kind of help—? Ah! Of course.” She chuckles in the phone. “Give me your address, sweetie, and I’ll come pick you up.”

“Pick me up? To go where?”

“To see Riot fight, of course. I can get us good seats. Oh yes,” she hums faintly a tune I don’t recognize, “I’ve waited for this a long time.”

***

It’s frigging cold. The scent of snow is back in the air, the clouds low and white. I jump from foot to foot, feeling it even through my thick coat, boots, woolen mitts and scarf.

A limo cruises by, shiny and black, and I watch it go.

It stops. A gloved hand reaches out of one rolled-down tinted window and beckons.

I stare.

It beckons again, imperatively.

The glove is pink, I realize as I approach, dragging my feet. It can’t be…

The door opens. “Ms. Page, please come in. Sorry for the small delay.”