Dirty Deeds (Get Dirty 3)

“Now. I was polite inside,” Dominick says as he unbuttons his jacket, “but let’s be clear now. You’re not going to forget this fucking lesson. You will not come here. You will not come to this neighborhood. Shane, make sure those lessons stick.”

I step forward, my boot flicking out to catch Miles just above the kneecap. His leg hyperextends, and he gasps in pain, dropping his hands so that I can punch him in the temple.

“How dare you fucking touch her? You’re not good enough to even lick the floor she walks on, asshole,” I growl as I follow up with a big uppercut that catches Miles right in the teeth. I feel my knuckle split, but I don’t give a shit as he rockets nearly straight, his hands blindly flying out.

“Excuse me, Shane,” Dominick says as he steps forward. He’s rolled up his sleeves, his sinewy forearms rippling as he grabs Miles by the ears and drives him backward. Dominick’s not as formally schooled as I am. He learned his techniques from the streets, and he fights dirty.

“Shane’s nice,” Dominick says as he knees Miles in the balls. “Sometimes, too nice. So let me continue. If I hear that you’ve been within a half-mile of this club, or within a half-mile of Meghan, this is going to seem like a walk in the fucking park. If I decide to let you live, you won’t leave the hospital for a long fucking time. Do you understand me?”

By this point, Miles is sobbing. “Y–y–yes,” he blubbers, tears mixing with his blood. “Please.”

I’m disgusted by this piece of shit. Begging for what? Mercy? Like he would’ve given any to Meghan if he’d gotten her alone in his car? He’s weak, preying on a woman when she’s defenseless. Although, after that jab to Miles’s nose, maybe she wouldn’t have been quite the meek mouse he expected. The thought gives me a hint of satisfaction.

Miles continues to cry, his pleas to stop peppered with threats of lawsuits, still not understanding that we don’t handle things like that at Petals. Dominick looks offended at Miles’s breakdown and winds up, kicking him in the stomach hard enough that I’m pretty sure Dom missed his calling as a field goal kicker. “Shane, before Miles leaves us, make sure he’ll be jacking off left-handed for the next two to three months.”

“Certainly, sir,” I reply, stepping forward again. Miles tries to fend me off weakly, but I grab his right hand without a problem, goose necking it before punching him in the ribs just for fun. “This way, asshole.”

It’s harder to lead Miles out to his car, mainly because he’s taken so much of a beating his legs can’t really support him. It takes both me and Logan to get him across the lot.

Finally, we reach his car, and I twist Miles’s wrist a little more, making him whimper. “Keys.”

Using his right hand, Miles finds his keys, holding them out to me. “Unlock your door.”

He pushes a button, and I open the door, looking into his teary, fear-streaked eyes. “I’m not a bad guy,” he whines. “I just wanted to say sorry.”

“I’m sure. But you know what?” I ask, lowering my voice. “Now you understand fear. Now you understand what she felt when you grabbed her wrist tonight. How she felt when you came at her in this parking lot. Now you understand that for all your macho bullshit, you’re just five seconds away from being someone’s little bitch. Put your hand in the door.”

The realization of what’s about to happen clears away some of the haze in his eyes, and he starts shaking his head, a whine coming from deep in his chest. “No! Please, no—”

I force his arm out, slamming the door on his fist. There’s a crack, and he cries out, dropping to his knees. “My hand!”

“You have until I count to twenty to be out of the parking lot . . . or else, your neck is next,” I say, picking him up and heaving him into the driver’s seat of his car. “One. Two. Three.”

I’m bluffing about the neck part, but it does the job. He leaves as quickly as he can, running over the curb as he pulls out just as I reach twenty.

Turning, I head around to the back door of the club to report to Dominick. As I walk, I know that on some level, I should be bothered by what I did tonight.

A two-on-one beating that left a man broken, bleeding, and with only fate to decide if he lives through the night should give me pause.

But the fucker deserved it for what he did to Meghan the first time. And the fact that he showed back up to intimidate her again?

A part of me hopes he does die, all snug in his fucking bed tonight, choking on his own blood. And if he doesn’t die, he spends the next week pissing dark brown and looking like he picked a fight with a steamroller, because if he shows his face near the club again, I will kill the son of a bitch. Consequences be damned.