Rio (Redcars Book 3), page 7
Jamie didn’t even turn.
The door slammed, Killian’s voice chasing Jamie down the hall. Robbie shot me a wide-eyed glance, but Enzo steered him away.
I stared at Lyric. Whatever the hell this was… I wasn’t walking.
Why?
I grabbed my phone off the side table, typed in burning up, fever, and skimmed through the kind of shit Google spat back. Sepsis, infection, flu, dehydration—none of it was helpful. I checked his wounds. They all appeared okay. Clean. Healing. No fresh blood, no pus, nothing out of place.
I went through the checklist of medications Doc had left us, mentally checking them off one by one. Antibiotics. Painkillers. Fluids. And still…
None of it made sense.
I thumbed out a message to Doc.
Rio: Fever. Shaking. Wounds clean. Meds taken. No drip left. Now what?
Doc replied almost instantly.
Doc: Fever breaks or doesn’t. Five grand upfront, plus expenses, for a visit.
Anger flared, hot and immediate, a gut-deep fury I couldn’t shove down. That was Doc—blunt, mercenary—but tonight it felt personal. As if the fucker couldn’t be bothered to care. I ground my teeth, shoving the phone back into my pocket with a force that sent a sharp jolt up my arm, then swallowed the bitter tang of resentment—and the craving riding up the back of my throat. I’d been clean since we killed Mitchell, or near enough, but stress made addiction hum in my blood. The hollow pull for kickers was always there, waiting. Easier than this, easier than anger. Easier than watching someone die when I’d played a part in hurting them. Yes, in the grand scheme of things, all I’d done was choke him, but…
All I did was choke him? Jesus, I could have killed him!
But if he’s one of the bad guys, I’ll kill him anyway.
Lyric shifted, a soft sound escaping him, more a breath than a word. His eyes were shut now, lashes dark against the sickly pale skin of his face. He looked… small. Fragile in a way that twisted something in my chest. Curled on his side, hands loose on the sheets as if he’d fought and lost. Vulnerable in a way I hadn’t seen in a long time.
He reminded me of Danny. And that nearly wrecked me.
Lyric wasn’t dying on my shift.
It wasn’t just about him. It was about me—about this crack in my armor I couldn’t seem to fix. I’d swapped one addiction for another. The pills had dulled everything; now the obsession sharpened it all to a blade’s edge. If I couldn’t save him, what did that make me? I needed him alive because walking away felt too much like losing again. Failing.
Danny.
And I wasn’t built to fail.
The door eased open with a soft creak, and Robbie slipped back inside, cradling a jug of ice as if he were sneaking contraband into a war zone. He hovered near the foot of the bed, gaze darting between me and Lyric.
“I read up on it,” Robbie whispered. “He needs fluids. If he can’t drink… maybe just rub some ice on his lips?”
He was so fucking young standing there, hope and worry tangled in his voice. I couldn’t believe Enzo had let him up here—with someone who might be here to hurt us. Someone who might have had something to do with what happened to Robbie.
I gave a nod, reaching for the jug.
“Yeah,” I muttered. “Let’s try that.”
Robbie hovered, then added quietly, “And you could try elevating his legs a little. Apply a cool compress to the back of the neck. Monitor his breathing rate… maybe tilt his head if he starts choking.”
I raised an eyebrow. “You swallow a medical directory or something?”
Robbie ducked his head, the tips of his ears flushing. “I… I read one. A while back.”
The door cracked open again, and Enzo stepped in, face tight, eyes locked on Robbie. “I don’t like you being here, sweetheart. Please come back down.”
Robbie lifted his chin. “He can’t hurt me.”
Enzo didn’t answer right away—just gave him a look. Stricken. The kind of look that said protecting Robbie wasn’t a choice for him. It was instinct. A need so deep it cut through everything else.
Robbie hesitated, then gave me a quick smile, soft and full of reassurance. “I’ll check back in a bit.”
I swear, Enzo growled.
Robbie patted his arm as he passed. “And I’ll bring my protector with me.”
I watched them start to leave, then Enzo stopped, his brow furrowing as if he’d just remembered something. “Killian’s gone to the Cave, took Jamie with him. And the Chevy with the fucked timing is back in, the transmission’s grinding as if it’s chewing gravel.” He glanced at Lyric, who was mumbling in his sleep. “You got this?”
“Sure.”
“No fight tonight?”
“Not if I don’t have to.” The fight tonight? Some mouthy nobody I didn’t even care to remember. Lianne could handle it—she always did. Eight hundred bucks wasn’t worth the tape on my fists. I’d shoot her a message, take the hit when she got pissed, and promise a bigger, better fight in the future. End of story.
More frowning from Enzo. “What if you need to fight?”
I knew what he was asking. He wasn’t talking about some cash fight in a backroom ring. He was talking about the itch under my skin—the violence in me that I didn’t know how to shut off. The part of me that enjoyed the hit, the rush, the control. The part of me that needed the burn of a fist on my jaw or the weight of someone collapsing at my feet. Fighting had been my outlet, my excuse, my high, long before the pills stopped doing the trick.
But this? Sitting here, watching a half-dead man try to stay alive? That was its own kind of addiction.
Why?
Why was I even here? Why the hell did I care? Was this about keeping him alive—or about proving something to myself? Was it about being the guy who could kill with one hand, then patch up the broken, or drag someone back from the edge because I couldn’t live with another failure?
Or maybe it was just another fight. A new rush. Trading fists for fever, and swapping knockdowns for bedside vigils. Because stepping away meant losing, and I wasn’t built to lose.
And hell, maybe I wasn’t trying to save him at all.
Maybe I was still trying to save myself.
Enzo huffed as if he had more to say, but then, he shook his head and shut the door behind him.
I crossed the room and cracked open the window. The air that rushed in carried the bite of oil, rubber, and gas—the low hum of the garage seeping through along with the muted clang of tools, the distant whine of a drill, the bass thud of some rock song on the radio. The normal sounds of our world, all crashing into the quiet of this room.
I dipped a cloth into the jug, grabbed a few ice chips, and brushed them over Lyric’s lips. His skin felt dry and too hot, his breath shallow. For a moment, I thought he wouldn’t react—but then, his lips twitched, and his tongue darted out, catching the melting ice. It was a small thing, automatic maybe, but it felt real. Something human.
I pressed in a little closer, heart thudding way too loud in my chest. Even if he was a bad guy… Maybe, I could keep him for a while?
Lianne, as expected, lost her shit when I sent her a message saying I wasn’t fighting tonight.
I answered her call on the third ring, and her voice was strident and bristling with temper. “What the fuck, Villareal?”
“Something came up,” I said, keeping my tone even.
“Yeah? Well, unless it’s a bullet with your name on it, I don’t give a shit. You had a fight. Now, I’ll have a pissed-off crowd and no headliner.”
Lianne wasn’t only pissed—she was looking for blood. Bottle-blonde, hard as nails, with eyes that’d seen more backroom deals and bareknuckle brawls than most men alive, she was a dragon. There wasn’t a caring bone in her body, and I was another name on her roster that made her money.
“I’ll make it up to you,” I promised.
“Cortez is looking for a fight on Saturday.” She dropped it in like it was nothing.
I froze. “You want me against Cortez?” I asked.
“He’s got thirty pounds on you, undefeated. Good matchup. Big purse.”
Cortez. He was solid, dangerous, the kind of fighter people whispered about. But all I could think was how a fight might burn away the tension boiling in my blood, bleed it out of me round by round. And the purse—hell, I needed that. On a good night, I could take him. I knew I could.
Her anger at me giving up tonight’s lesser fight had flipped to interest—the scent of a payday sweeter than any apology because I knew she’d be playing both sides at the Pit. Jamie was going to lose his damn mind when he heard what I was planning—but screw it. I wasn’t leaving tonight, not for anyone.
Robbie popped back every so often, slipping in with quiet footsteps and sharper eyes than I gave him credit for. After a couple of hours, he murmured that Lyric’s fever had broken—and that, apparently, was a good thing. Not that I stopped watching him. I kept at it, pushing fluids into him when I could, keeping that barrier up between him and the rest of the guys. I wasn’t taking any chances.
It was Robbie who brought me snacks and drinks, checking in every hour like some silent shadow. So, when the door cracked open at midnight, I figured it was him again—more supplies, maybe some medical assessment to go with it.
It wasn’t.
Jamie walked in first, Killian right behind him, and trailing them both was Caleb. I hadn’t met Caleb more than a handful of times, but I knew enough. He worked with Killian—their own little Scooby Gang for the criminal underworld, pulling monsters apart one encrypted file or hacked server at a time.
Jamie stopped at the bed.
He gave me a long look, then said to all of us: “Here’s the deal—Lyric’s in deeper than even he knew. We checked the server logs. The hits on him aren’t random. Someone’s been tracking him through every system he’s ever touched. Nine contracts have been issued since he left MIT—real contracts, not just threats—on dark web channels. And the data on the servers he had? It’s damning for Kessler. Logs, backdoors, coded triggers… and receipts. Proof he’s been hunted for years, whether he meant to be or not. And the worst part?”
“What?”
Jamie glanced down at Lyric, then back at us. “Every time Lyric thought he was covering his tracks, it wasn’t Kessler upping the bounties or tracking him down. It’s Kessler’s AI that is always two steps ahead—found him every time in some sick, twisted game to test a system that shouldn’t even exist. He’s a walking target. He didn’t just piss off a few bad guys. He tripped an entire network.”
I blinked at Jamie. Some of the words made sense, but the shock in Jamie’s tone spoke volumes.
“He’s not one of the bad guys?” I asked with caution.
Jamie’s gaze locked on me. “This isn’t about whether he’s a good guy or not. He wasn’t here to hurt Robbie; he had nothing to do with what happened to Robbie or any of the other shit we’ve uncovered.” He took a deep breath. “The contract on him is now at fifty million. Kessler’s AI is out of control. It wants him, knows what he’s doing, could well find out he’s here. He’s the fuse on a powder keg. And now we’ve all got front-row seats to the explosion.”
NINE
Lyric
I blinked awake, brain fuzzy at first, the world swimming in slow, syrupy waves before it settled. I was wrapped tighter than a burrito, a rough blanket cocooning me from shoulders to toes. Weirdly… I felt clearer. Not great, not even good—but clearer.
The room was quiet, soft shadows stretching across the walls. There was no sign of Rio.
But next to the bed, perched on a battered chair with his knees drawn up, sat Robbie. His nose was buried in a thick, battered paperback titled Clinical Neurology and Neurotherapy. He chewed the edge of his thumb, eyes scanning the page as if he actually understood it. Maybe he did? Maybe he was a doctor?
I blinked again. “Hey?”
Robbie startled, fumbling the book so hard it almost hit the floor. He caught it at the last second, cheeks flushing red. Shoving it onto the chair, he stood quickly and crossed over to me.
“Hi,” he said with a cautious smile. “How are you feeling?”
I considered the question as he helped me scoot up a little, careful hands adjusting the pillow behind my back. Then, he offered me a cup, a straw sticking out of the top.
I swallowed a mouthful of water. “Not dead, I guess.”
“Thank goodness.”
I tried for a smirk. “Gold star for surviving…” I muttered, or joked, or whatever.
Robbie didn’t smile. He met my eyes instead, his voice quiet. “We didn’t know if you’d make it.”
That hit harder than I expected. The lightness I’d been aiming for shriveled in my chest, and I stared at my hands, swallowing again—this time around a knot that had nothing to do with being ill.
And where was Enzo? Wasn’t he supposed to be Robbie’s shadow—his personal guard dog? The man hadn’t been more than a step away the last time I’d seen them together. So why wasn’t he here now?
And Jamie? Rio? Where the hell were they?
I dug through the fog in my head, searching for the last clear memory… but all I got was a mess of heat, voices, flashes of pain. The harder I tried to piece it together, the more it slipped away.
Why couldn’t I remember what happened?
“Enzo’s not worried about you right now.” Robbie’s voice broke the silence, and I realized I must’ve said that out loud.
I glanced at him, frowning.
He gave a small shrug. “You gave all your access codes to Jamie—”
“Fuck!” Panic surged as I recalled the hazy begging as I tried to get Jamie to listen to me, but had I made the worst mistake of my life? Handing over everything—my code, my intel, my last shreds of leverage. Was I insane?
“Are you okay?” Robbie said, sounding as panicked as me, his gaze darting to the door as if he wanted to call for help.
I groaned and hid my face. How could I doubt what I had to do when it had been the only move I had left? I had to trust the group of men who’d made it very clear they were ready to kill me if things went sideways. Had to hope they could help and not hand me over for the money. Who else did I have?
“I gave access to Jamie,” I finally murmured, attempting to quell the instant panic that the secrets I’d had for so long were now in someone else’s hands.
“He and Caleb have been running them through a custom sandbox server with mirrored protocols and live-traced root logs. Said something about isolating backend triggers and neutralizing autonomous execution layers.”
I stared. “What?”
Robbie’s ears went scarlet. “I… uh… overheard.”
I narrowed my eyes. “You ‘overheard’?” I hadn’t missed the way he’d rattled that off—not like someone parroting words, but as if he understood every layer of what Jamie was doing with what I’d given him. Robbie hadn’t just overheard… he spoke with the kind of quiet authority that came from knowing.
Robbie ducked his head, suddenly very interested in the floor. “I read… things.”
I didn’t get a chance to ask him what he meant, because Robbie’s head snapped up at a sound from the hallway. He gave me a quick, awkward smile and hurried to the door.
Then, left me sitting there, clutching a freaking lemon-yellow sippy cup with the attached straw like some overgrown child.
Perfect.
I heard voices outside the door—words muttered too quiet to make out. One of them sounded like Rio. Maybe Enzo too. I half expected all of them to come barging in.
But it was Rio who stepped inside alone.
He filled the doorway, arms crossed over that broad chest, his unreadable gaze on me in a way that made my skin itch, and he didn’t say a word.
I took him in for the first time—dark hair cropped close, a neat beard framing a mouth that rarely, if ever, curved into a smile. He was gorgeous, everything I wanted in a man: sharp cheekbones, a strong jaw, eyes carrying a challenge in every glance. Broad shoulders stretched his shirt, power radiating from the way he stood, as if the world couldn’t shift him without his consent. Trouble through and through—and exactly the kind of trouble I craved to tame. Tattoos inked their way down both arms, twisting in intricate patterns beneath the short sleeves of a fitted black T-shirt that hugged his broad shoulders. He wasn’t as tall as Enzo, didn’t have Jamie’s wiry build, and he sure as hell wasn’t small and fragile, like Robbie. No. Rio was… a powerhouse. Solid. Built as if he could walk through walls—and tense, as if every muscle in his body was coiled, waiting to snap.
I let myself imagine it for a heartbeat—Rio on his knees for me. All that strength, that raw, brutal power, bent to me, his head lowered, his lips parted, waiting. The thought of it made my chest tight, a kind of heat curling in my stomach, because it would be beautiful. Not weakness, never that—submission like his would be its own kind of dominance, a choice he’d allow no one else.
But then, the doubt hit. Rio wasn’t built that way. He commanded, he fought, he protected. The idea of him kneeling felt like a fantasy I had no right to touch, and I hated how much I wanted it anyway.
He dropped his arms, fists clenching at his sides.
I should’ve been scared. He’d said himself that he’d be the one to end me. But the fear wasn’t about that—it was seeing the sheer force of him; the threat he carried was like nothing I’d ever seen before.
After a moment’s hesitation, he stalked toward me. Every step made the air in the room seem denser.
He reached out and pressed a rough, calloused hand to my forehead.
Then, he gave a curt nod.
“Shower,” he said and yanked back the covers.
I froze.
Yeah, I was kinda proud of my body—compact, small, sure—but strong in its own way from working out and learning the skills to fight or hide. I’d survived on instinct and speed, on being overlooked, on slipping through cracks bigger men couldn’t fit through. But right now?
Right now, I was naked aside from boxers; I must have pulled off my shirt, or someone else had, which was even worse. Every scar, every mark, every thin line crossing my belly from old wounds and worse mistakes—all of it on display. Add in the stink of fever-sweat, the weakness that had me shaking, the fact I couldn’t sit up without help… and I fucking hated it.
