Did you ever want to know how Malachi and Elle first met?

In the darkness, all the women looked the same.

Wavy hair, big eyes made up with too much eyeliner and shadow, slinky dresses intended to reveal more than conceal. Pouty lips that begged for something, whether it was alcohol, or pills, or a cock.

Another night, another party. He’d been to so many of them that they blurred. But not here, not this area. His own playground was farther north, away from the glitz of LA and the seedy underbelly that crept in around the edges of Carson. This was a different dynamic altogether. The danger was hidden under booming music and fake smiles. And the weapons of choice were the kind that you armed yourself, intended for your own destruction.

He moved to the closest corner and slouched against the wall as he scanned the crowd. His expression made it clear he wasn’t looking for conversation—or more. But only an idiot would turn his back on these people.

Without looking at his phone, he hit the speed dial he’d set up just yesterday when she’d first called him. It wasn’t as if they were close. In fact, it had been a long time since he’d spoken with Lila Shawcross—now Ronson, since she’d recently shed herself of her marital entanglements to his father. Then she’d broken that lovely streak by calling him out of the blue, and not for a social call. That was one of the things he’d always disliked most about her. She was always searching for angles, always on the hunt to play the game.

He didn’t fucking play. Money meant little to him, and fame and attention even less.

But there were always other ways to barter. Other kinds of currency to trade.

Lila was a button-pusher from way back, and she’d known what screws to turn with him before she even picked up the phone.

“I’m here,” he said without preamble. “Now what?”

“You know what. I laid it all out for you yesterday. Richelle used to date Vinnie Santorini, the guy who owns that building. My sources say he remains her main supplier.”

“What’s your point?”

“I want you to scare him into dumping her. He’s in deep, and she needs to make a clean break.”

“And I give a fuck why? If she needs to make a clean break, that’s on her. I have my own shit to handle.”

“Yes, you do, and I promised to help you make that problem go away. Cassalia’s parents want to sue you for negligence and civil responsibility in her death, Malachi. If you keep hiding your head in the sand, they’re going to go to the media and you’re going to be hit with a huge—”

“Because I’m guilty,” he said flatly. “Of course I’m guilty.”

“You were her fiancé.”

“We broke up. She wouldn’t quit that shit, so I ended things.” He lowered his voice when the guy in front of him shot a glance over his shoulder, his joint hanging out of the corner of his mouth.

There was no need to advertise his business here, even if half these people were too stoned to remember it tomorrow.

“Still, she was a small-town girl before she met you,” Lila went on. “Your lifestyle helped introduce her to the drugs that ended her life. You were the one who broke her heart and sent her into a spiral.”

“What about my goddamn spiral? Does that matter? Christ.” He stabbed his fingers into his eyes, the questions and comments he’d received over the last few weeks after every freaking race pelting his skull.

It must be difficult, losing the woman you love in such a public way.

Had Cassalia always been suicidal? Was she dealing with depression, or was it your breakup that sent her over the edge?

And his favorite:

How can you continue to race after such a heartbreaking event?

How could he was a good question. And it was why he’d stopped doing the legit races that ended with questions and flashbulbs popping and turned to the underground ones where no one gave a crap why he did anything and just cared if he made them money. They were dirty, and dangerous, and just this side of legal.

He couldn’t have cared less, if it meant he got to do what he loved outside the glare of the goddamn public eye.

Now more conditions were being put upon that love. More threats levied his way couched under concern.

“There’s all kinds of ways to balance scales, Mal,” Lila said softly, and for a second, he thought he heard genuine compassion in her tone. Then she cleared her throat and her voice hardened. “Since you’re there now, that must mean you agree to my terms.”

He said nothing. Just gripped his phone and wished he’d never picked it up yesterday. He might not be any further ahead, but he wouldn’t be in this frigging untenable position of playing nurse-slash-bodyguard-slash-protector for a woman he didn’t even know.

Didn’t want to know, if she was a fucking user like Cassalia had been.

“If you convince Vinnie that it’s in his best interest not to sell to Richelle anymore, certain stipulations of our agreement will come into play. If you bump it up a notch and join Warning Sign as well, your garage will be funded, your issues with the Franklins will go away, and the story will be buried, deep enough that you’ll probably never hear the words Cassalia Franklin spoken aloud in your presence ever again.”

Mal cupped the back of his neck and squeezed. The pressure reminded him that this was a means to an end. The garage would be back in the black. His men wouldn’t have to worry about their jobs—not that he ever would’ve let it get that bad, even if he had to break his own moral code. Again.

Amazing how flexible that damn thing could be when you were desperate enough.

And he was.

He was fucking desperate to make all of this go away. To stop looking back at the waste before he drowned in it.

“This Richelle, why does she matter so much to you?” he asked, his voice close to a growl.

His ex-stepmother didn’t step out the door without a payday waiting on the other side, usually in the form of an artist she could mold for the benefit of her bank account. So there must be a damn good reason she was sullying herself with concerns about some druggie chick.

Just another one in a sea of them. Faceless, nameless, unrecognizable.

“Does it matter?”

“Yes, it fucking damn well matters. You’re asking me to walk into a goddamn nest of drug dealers and who knows what else, and you won’t even tell me why. Who is this girl to you, Lila? Some new commodity that went off the rails? Some investment that went bad?”

Her pause was so lengthy that Mal cursed, about to end the call.

“She’s the twin sister of the man I love. The only family he has left in this world. She’s everything to him. Okay?”

Mal narrowed his eyes, squinting into the smoky, shifting near darkness, lit only by the flickering Christmas lights strung along the eaves. The room throbbed with the bass from the music, something he’d never heard but would never forget.

He wanted to argue. So what? What the fuck does the man you love matter to me? Lila wasn’t married to his dad anymore, and he wouldn’t have felt more kindly toward her had she been. To his way of thinking, anyone who married his fuckwit of a father deserved whatever shit flowed their way.

But somehow her impassioned response stilled his tongue. He didn’t know why. He didn’t believe in love any more than he believed in anything else.

But Christ, he was jealous as fuck that she still did. That she could.

“Third floor,” he said flatly, repeating the info she’d given him during their last phone call. “That’s his apartment.”

Lila let out a long breath. She’d been holding it, he realized, waiting for him to say no. Expecting him to.

Because Malachi Shawcross never did a damn thing for anyone unless there was something in it for himself. Just like good ol’ Dad.

“Yes,” Lila said. “Vinnie lives upstairs with his brother Don.”

Mal was already on the move, pushing his way through the dancing, laughing crowd and scanning the endless faces in the darkness. Lila had said yesterday that Vinnie and Richelle sometimes came down to the parties on the first floor when they weren’t “holed up.”

Lila had refused to elaborate on exactly what that meant.

“Family affair,” he said into the phone as he stalked through the writhing mass of people. His head was already a little buzzy from the scent of weed floating through the air. Just what he needed—a contact high.

Luckily, it took a hell of a lot more than their low-grade shit to get him lit.

“Yes. Though the woman they work with isn’t family. She doesn’t have any, from what I could find. Former foster child. She had previous dealings with someone else who is important to me.”

Mal didn’t know why Lila was playing share-and-tell hour, but that wasn’t unusual with her. She’d fill his head with useless crap so that he’d miss the salient points buried beneath her bullshit.

He wasn’t falling for it this time.

A woman toting beer in plastic red cups held high over her head bumped his shoulder and giggled as the liquid sloshed over his arm. “Oops, sorry.” She stared at his chest then apparently realized his head was a few feet up. Tilting her own back, she frowned. “You’re a big one.”

“You don’t know the half.” He wiped off his wet arm and smeared it on her jacket sleeve, making her giggle again.

She was still laughing when he moved past her. Damn stoners.

“She’s not here,” Mal told Lila a few minutes later after making a full sweep of the first level. “Unless she doesn’t look like that picture you sent me. Was that recent?”

Blond hair, blue eyes, sweet smile. She looked more like a preschool teacher than a fairly hardcore user. Hardcore in frequency if not in selection, though as soon as someone messed with blow, he figured they were headed nowhere good. But his ex-stepmommy had been adamant that Richelle could be “saved.”

Sure, she could. Just like the rest of them could be too.

“Yes, just a few weeks ago. She changes her hair color now and then. Sometimes she’s brunette too. Hang on.”

He swallowed another curse as bubbles showed up on his screen, indicating another message was being sent. A moment later, he was staring at the same preschool teacher lookalike, except now she was vamped up. Hair so dark it was the richest color of oak, wet red lips, and still, those same innocent blue eyes. But they had a hint of something else in them now. Mischief. Seduction.

A sort of knowing that seared him right to the marrow.

“Got it,” he told Lila, making his way to the door to the central front hallway where you could choose which apartment to visit. “I’m headed up. I’ll get back to you.”

He was about to click off when her words cut through the din around him. “Mal, be careful.”

Saying nothing, he waited.

“She’s…fragile,” Lila said. “Women like her tend to bring out the desire to protect.”

Mal barked out a laugh. “What, you think I’ll fall under her spell or something?” He braced a fist on the inside door and shoved it open, stepping into the only somewhat quieter hall. A narrow stairway to his right led upstairs. “Not gonna happen.”

“Not you.” Lila dismissed the possibility so succinctly that he imagined he could see her waving her pale hand in his face. “The man she’s with. He might not want to let her go so easily.”

“So I’m to fight to the death, is that it? I’m supposed to save someone who has two working legs and probably doesn’t want to be fucking saved?”

Just as Cassalia hadn’t wanted to be saved. Oh, she’d talked a good game. One he’d even believed for a while. But she’d loved her addiction a hell of a lot more than she’d ever cared for him.

She’d proved that in the end.

“Be smart. And watch your back.” Lila clicked off before he could respond with a sarcastic remark. Probably why she’d hung up so fast.

They’d danced the same steps more than a few times, which was exactly why he didn’t know why she’d called him. No matter her reasons—that he operated in the same sort of circles and had the muscle to take care of business—she was trusting him with something very important to her. Someone very important.

He climbed the first step and gripped the banister when the stair sagged under his weight. Awesome. He chanced the next one, and the next, finally releasing the rail to bound up the stairs two at a time. Then he did the same on the next flight, stopping at the top to stare at the single door at the end of a dank hallway. The carpet was peeling up, revealing the stained floor beneath. Water spots—some small and some not—dotted the ceiling.

Welcome to the jungle.

The closer he walked to the lone door, the louder the music became. It was different than the kind downstairs. This was club music, the kind meant to screw with your mind as much as the cutesy mixed drinks served by the gallon. But there wouldn’t be any of those drinks up on this level, he was sure. The party atmosphere downstairs hadn’t reached this far.

This was all business.

Mal stopped outside the door and pulled at the brim of the ridiculous baseball cap he’d pulled on over his shaggy hair. He was going to shave that shit off one of these days. He’d alternated between shaving his head and growing out his hair for a while now, but the time had come to make a choice.

This was another of those choices. Tonight, he was finally going to leave the past behind him.

He shifted so that he could feel the reassuring weight of the gun tucked against his back. He didn’t intend to use it, but he knew how if he needed to. Walking into a situation like this unarmed could be a death sentence. He was a lot of things, but stupid enough to take that chance wasn’t one of them.

Just as he lifted his hand to rap on the wood, the door swung inward. A tall, leanly muscular guy in jeans and a Raiders jersey cocked his head, his shrewd eyes narrowing on Mal. “You must be Sampson.” He glanced at his watch. “You’re late. I don’t like to be kept waiting.”

Considering the story Mal had concocted thoroughly sucked—that he’d heard from a friend of a friend that Vinnie was the guy to see for some primo dope—he’d have to run with this one and see where it took him.

“Sorry.” Mal gave a noncommittal shrug. “Ran into some trouble.”

“Some trouble getting the money? I told you I don’t do no holds on merchandise.” He glanced over his shoulder and said something in Italian to the guy behind him, then looked back at Mal with a smirk. “Even if that merch is hot little blonds.”

Mal’s fingers twitched and it took everything he possessed not to plow his fist into this guy’s cocky face. But he had another problem now. He’d brought enough money for a run-of-the-mill transaction. He hadn’t brought enough cash to fucking buy Richelle—whatever that might cost. Unless this fuck was “selling” her cheap.

Somehow that was even worse.

Assuming that the blond for sale was even Richelle. He wouldn’t know that until he got in the damn apartment.

“Look, I’ll be straight with you. I didn’t bring all the cash with me. This place looked sketchy and no way was I walking in here with a ton of money on me and no guarantee you’ve got the girl.”

“Oh, I’ve got her.” Vinnie gripped the door and licked his lips. “We’ve both got her, right, Don?”

Mal gave Vinnie a grim smile and wished he didn’t have to play this the right way. This guy deserved a bullet between the eyes for even half of what he was insinuating. “Let me see her first, then I’ll give you a deposit and go to the ATM down the block. Pretty sure you don’t take personal checks.”

“You’d be right there, son.” Vinnie moved farther into the doorway and braced his arms on the frame. “Didja miss the part where I told you no holds? Only reason I’m doing this is because Crowley said you were in a fix and good for the cash. She’s untested, you feel me? Untrained. I know that goes for more, and I’m cutting you a deal because me and Crowley go way back.”

Mal shoved all of it into the back of his head. He couldn’t really think about the words, couldn’t absorb them, or he’d be pounding this guy and his fucking creep brother into the ground before either of them had a chance to draw a breath. And that wouldn’t be good, even if it would be immensely satisfying.

This was supposed to be easy. Clean. In and out. These types of fucks never operated alone. If he got into it with them, guaranteed there would be more assholes where they came from, and they’d probably be eager to gun for him—and possibly Richelle too. He had too much on the line with Lila to let this get out of hand.

The goal was to get Richelle out the door, nice and simple. Then he’d figure out what the hell to do with her. But she’d be safe, and this would be over.

If she was smart enough not to go back to the same bastards who’d nearly sold her. Sold her, for fuck’s sake.

Every time he thought he’d seen the worst humanity had to offer, he hadn’t.

“I’m good for it,” Mal said, voice low. “I’ll leave you what I have and be back in under fifteen.” Less if he could help it, because he needed to get this done and Richelle and him gone before the real Sampson showed up. “First I need to see with my own eyes that she’s in good condition.”

The words stung his throat, but all he was thinking about now was getting in, getting the girl, and getting the fuck out.

Vinnie glared at him for long enough that Mal braced, already judging height and weight. He could take out the wiry dude with no trouble. He just had no idea what was waiting behind him.

“Don, we’re gonna let him see her, all right? Just a second. He wants some proof that she’s ready to go.”

An unintelligible grunt came from inside. Vinnie stepped back, swinging the door wide as he made a c’mere gesture with his fingers.

Mal stepped into their apartment and barely resisted doing a double take. He’d expected the place to be just this side of habitable, and instead everything was black and chrome and modern. The shades were pulled and tall thin candles were burning in a row in front of the TV where a movie Mal knew all too well was playing, set on mute.

The Godfather. Figured.

The guy stretched out on the long black leather couch never sat up. He just lifted his fingers as if he was cocking a gun and pointed to a hallway off the living room. “End of the hall.”

Vinnie jerked his chin at Mal. “Go on. But be quick about it. You don’t get gone and get me that money and I’ll lower the price for the next guy who comes in here.”

Mal nodded and was about to move past Vinnie when the other man held out a hand studded with gold rings. “About time for that down payment, don’t you think?”

Mal fought not to smack the dude’s hand away. Instead he pried out his wallet and withdrew the sheaf of bills. He’d been running low before this, and he’d refused his ex-stepmommy’s offer to fund his excursion tonight. He was Martin Shawcross’s firstborn son, so of course he had money to burn. If he could spend it on racing and other unworthy pursuits, surely he could spare some for the philanthropic cause of rescuing a woman on the verge of being sold.

Holy fuck, how was this his life?

Mal slapped the money in Vinnie’s hand and lifted his brows. If he didn’t brazen his way through this, the gig would be up. “Remind me again how much we’re talking?”

Vinnie was too occupied counting his current pile of green to answer at first. The figure he named would’ve made Mal rock back on his feet if he hadn’t already been reeling from this whole damn situation.

So he nodded and sidestepped the guy to head down the narrow hall.

“Five minutes,” Vinnie said distractedly, still flipping through bills. “Long enough to check her over and no more. No funny stuff.”

Check her over? Christ.

Mal nodded, but Vinnie wasn’t looking at him. He also didn’t follow him down the hall. He might have, if a knock hadn’t sounded at the door.

“Bitch, you better have my money,” a man shouted.

Mal rubbed the heel of his hand over his stampeding heart. Not Sampson then. Fuck, that’d been close. Was still close if he didn’t get his ass—and Richelle’s—out of there.

The question was how.

As quietly as possible, he opened doors on the way down the hall. The bathroom had telltale steps outside, and Mal swallowed hard, leaving the door cracked as he turned to check out the other rooms. He needed to know the lay of the land if they were to have any chance to make it out of there.

The fire escape might be his only option. Possibly just for her, if he could shove her out and down the stairs before the assholes caught on.

Once he reached the last door, Mal gripped the knob. The yelling in the living room was escalating, and now came the unmistakable crack of a fist hitting an object. From the sounds of things, flesh would be next.

He wanted them both out of there before that happened.

Turning the knob, he pushed open the door and squinted into the near darkness. A lava lamp in the corner offered the only light, and tinny music came out of unseen speakers. It was so low it had to be headphones maybe, or a phone. No, headphones definitely. Crashing drums, screaming guitars. The air reeked of pot and sickeningly sweet incense. Some fruity scent—plums maybe—and the smells of smoke and weed swam in his head.

He pushed inside, his eyes finally adjusting to the low light. Disappointment surged through him. She wasn’t here.

Then he shifted his head and nearly staggered as a pale figure shifted in front of the window. Her long blond hair spun out as the woman danced. Moonlight caressed her almost translucent skin. She had long legs, capped by tiny shorts. A thin tank clung to her curves and magnified them as she moved just right, throwing back her head. She was lost to the music playing in her headphones, dancing in a way that leaned more on intrinsic rhythm than skill. Her arms rose above her head and her hips circled in figure-eights. And her breasts bounced, causing him to stiffen no matter how he hated himself for it.

There was no time for looking and even less for touching.

He moved toward her, his footsteps hushed by the plush carpeting. Just as he reached out to touch her, her eyes blazed open and he steeled himself for her to scream.

But she just smiled at him, her big eyes hazy and unfocused. She kept dancing, her tongue tracing her lips.

Though the gesture felt ridiculous, Mal lifted a finger to his mouth in the universal sign for silence. She nodded and kept moving, tilting her head so all that glorious blond hair spilled in every direction. She held out a hand to him, and he stared, on the verge of clasping it.

“Mal, be careful. She’s…fragile. Women like her tend to bring out the desire to protect.”

He shook off the stupor that had infected him since he’d walked into this room. This wasn’t happening now. Not with her.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

Her smile fled. Her expression turned quizzical and she angled her head, waiting for an explanation he didn’t have words to give.

Pointing at the wall, he lifted his brows. “Are you okay?” he repeated, keeping his voice as low as possible. “They didn’t touch you?”

She ducked her head, and he decided that was probably a dumb question. Lila had said Vinnie was Richelle’s boyfriend at one time.

He cocked a finger under her chin and lifted it. “Did he hurt you? Did he allow anyone else to hurt you?”

Confusion blossomed across her face. It wasn’t conventionally beautiful. Her features were somehow at odds with each other. Her nose was upturned and dotted with freckles he could see even in this light. Her mouth was too wide, her brows too dark in contrast with her white-blond hair. Her scant curves and angular body and pale skin definitely weren’t the standard California chic.

But she was arresting in a way he couldn’t forget.

“No.” Her voice was a rasp. “Just…no. No one hurt me.” That little half smile reappeared. “Except me.”

“Come on then.” He grabbed her hand and tugged her forward, stopping at the soft giggle that tumbled from her. It wasn’t brittle and broken, a hysterical sound caused by the traumas she’d suffered. Nor was it hysterical and unknowing, more from whatever she’d taken than from her.

No, this sound was pure joy.

“Where are we—”

He shook his head and slammed his finger against his lips again. Her hand curled into his in a gesture of trust as she nodded. A smile still danced in her eyes. It was too dark to see their color or their expression, but he knew they’d be blue and mischievous behind the veil of whatever she’d shot into her system.

Even beyond the pull still humming in his blood, he hated her for doing that to herself. For bringing them both to that point. At least she’d made the choice.

Hell, she’d fucking chosen for them both. She was the reason he was in that apartment, wasn’t she?

He dragged her to the door and pressed his ear to it, listening to the raised voices down the hall. There were no more sounds of fists plowing into walls, but the volume of their discussion hadn’t lowered. If anything, the men were even louder since there were now three voices involved.

Behind Mal, the tinny music in Richelle’s headphones taunted him. That was normal life. Music, freedom, going fast. Pushing the limits—for himself, always. Because he couldn’t fucking trust anyone else.

She leaned her forehead against his back, and fuck, she was singing softly to whatever was blaring into her head. So soft it was almost a whisper. Her fingers were twined with his like warm silk over steel. That grip was so much stronger than her ethereal appearance.

Delicate outside, solid core. She won’t be broken by this. But you’re already broke, aren’t you?

He pulled open the door—carefully, so fucking carefully—and shifted to push her into the hall, caging her within the circle of his arms as if he could shield her from any possible threat. She giggled and gripped his biceps, looking up at him, eyes so vast and deep it was as if he was falling. Too far, too fast.

Deliberately, he turned his face away. It was too dark for her to make out much. Not that it mattered. He never intended to see this woman again.

He nudged her forward, more roughly than was necessary. He didn’t want to hurt her, but she was too close. Too soft and needy, and shit, he didn’t mess around with any of that anymore.

“Be careful, Mal.”

He’d learned his lesson there. Never again.

Something crashed in the living room. Fuck, it was time to go.

Mal used his boot to push the bathroom door open wider. He drew her inside and into the tub, hauling up the cracked window in one smooth move. It groaned but not enough to make him pause. He followed up with the screen before taking a quick look at the fire escape. It appeared rickety, but it should get the job done.

He flipped the brim of his hat around to the back, then pulled her in front of him and lowered his face to her plums-and-smoke-scented hair. Now the incense didn’t smell sickeningly sweet. On her, it was like fucking candy.

Everything was.

Or maybe that was her shampoo or lotion he was smelling. He didn’t know. All he knew was that he’d never erase the scent from his mind.

Without searching for the source of the music, he hauled the headphones off her head. “Can you fly, little Ricki?” he murmured against her ear.

If she’d giggled again, he might have happily wrapped his hand around her throat and squeezed. Not because she was happy, whether that was from the chemicals or just complete naïveté about her situation. But because she could be.

He would’ve taken any fucking pill or powder that gave him that option, no matter the consequences. But those highs were brief. Fake. And he’d had enough plastic to last a lifetime.

She turned her head and pinned him with desolate eyes, her laughter gone. It had vanished from her face as if it had never been there at all. “I keep trying.”

On her hip, his hand clenched. Leaving bruises on fragile flesh. Purposely, so if she didn’t have any other reminders of this moment, she’d have that for as long as the marks lasted.

He’d mattered.

He pressed his mouth to the top of her head and sucked in a greedy breath. “You’re going down those stairs and you’re going to run. Understand me?”

She nodded.

“Don’t look back, don’t wait for me. Don’t stop for anyone. Get help and don’t ever fucking come back here, no matter what.” This time her nod wasn’t enough. He shifted to grip her chin, drawing her up on her tiptoes until her eyes met his. “Promise me, Ricki.”

He didn’t know why he was calling her Ricki. Lila had slipped and called her it once yesterday, but until two minutes ago, labeling her as Richelle in his head had been plenty. But now the name tripped off his tongue.

She didn’t reply right away, just stared up at him. “I promise,” she whispered, her chin trembling. “I won’t come back here.”

Satisfied, he shoved the headphones into her hands and gave her a boost out the window. Once her feet landed on the iron platform, his heart started beating again.

She was going to be okay.

But she didn’t run. Unsteadily, she crouched down and grabbed a hank of the hair poking out beneath his cap. Too damn long. “What’s your name?” she mouthed, as silent as the moon bathing her in an unearthly glow.

“Your worst nightmare. Now go.”

The corner of her lips lifted as she tugged on his hair. “Beautiful nightmare,” she breathed, leaning forward. He figured she was balancing herself on the sill, so he wasn’t prepared for her to dip down precariously to crash her mouth onto his.

The kiss lasted ten seconds. Less. Her lips were rough, not soft. But the sweetness lingered even as she drew back and lifted her shaking hand to her mouth. To seal in his taste or to wipe it away, he didn’t know.

Then she was gone.

Read the rest of Mal and Ricki’s story in Raw Rhythm, now available.