Hammered: A Shadows of Chicago Novel, #1

By Rose Hudson

Fighting has been engrained—hammered into me. It’s something I know all about, yet wish I knew nothing at all. For the last seventeen of my twenty-seven years, hurt has fueled my desire in the ring.

But I want better.

I’ve paid my dues. I want far away from this life. I thought I finally had my chance and then corruption threatened to take it away. I’m no stranger to challenge; it just makes me more determined to come out on top—of my world and her.

She thinks we’re from opposites sides of the track, and she’s right. But we’re both blinded by pain, and I see hers. I’ve fought plenty of fights and Lydia Norberg may prove to be my strongest opponent yet.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Rose Hudson
• Release date: May 3, 2017
• ISBN: 9781521180006

Book preview

Hammered

Copyright 2017 Rose Hudson

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form, including electronic or mechanical, without the written permission from the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only.

Published by: Rose Hudson

Published date: May 5th, 2017

Editor: Ellie McLove (Love N. Books)

Formatter: Stacey Blake (Champagne Formats)

Cover Designer: Sommer Stein (Perfect Pear Creative Covers)

Cover Photo: Calvin Smith (Dream Digital Photography)

Cover Models: Jurnee Lane & Lance Jones

Table of Contents

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Prologue 1

Prologue 2

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Epilogue

Dedicated to:

Finding friends in unlikely circumstances. To 3am brainstorming sessions. To second chances that motivate and inspire. To finding a sort of real and crazy to match your own.

Love and thank you, Kimme.

Months earlier…

I THOUGHT DAMON IS SIGNING a contract to fight in the UFC? I ask Madi as we make our way down dank smelling concrete stairs beneath an even smellier south side bar.

He is.

Then why in God’s name are we headed for our possible demise in an underground parking garage? I mean, I don’t know much about fighting, but I’m pretty sure it’s more legit than this.

She loops her arm in mine and pulls me forward as we reach the last step, and suddenly, it’s like someone turned up the volume, the sounds of men yelling and cheering echoes around us.

I don’t deny I’ve lived a sheltered life. So, I’m aware things sometimes seem wrong and immoral to me, when to others, more worldly people, they don’t. But law school has broken me in, and now my mind deals in corruption, illegal activity, or the wrongly accused.

But as soon as we step up to this group of men, and now I see a few ladies with questionable morals, it’s almost like illegal takes on a smell and gives me a nosebleed from its potency.

There are several guys sitting off to the side, getting what I assume is considered medical attention in underground garage fights. The smell of pot is thick, but almost overpowered by alcohol of all colors and flavors, and a couple of men with small flip pads jot down bets and collect cash.

But of course, no sport would be complete without the girls, and although the few I’ve spotted have seen better days and are definitely on that side of thirty, the men in here hassle them like they’re Dallas Cowboy cheerleaders.

Really, Madi? What the actual hell have you brought me to? And God bless her, she laughs.

Oh, stop it, Lydia. You really do need to get out more, you know? Spotting someone across the room, she waves wildly and pulls me by the hand.

Whoa, where—

It’s Damon’s manager.

Well, looky looky. Who’ve we got here, angel? The greasy guy says to Madi as he pulls her in for a hug, looking me up and down in my black slacks and black chiffon top like I’m an alien he’d like to fuck.

This is my sister, Lydia. She always introduces me as her sister, which causes confusion, but she doesn’t care. Her father, Aston, and my father, Stellan, are business partners and best friends, so we have basically been sisters our entire lives. Although I’d rather scratch out my eyeballs with the heel of my stiletto boots, I extend my hand and plaster on a smile.

And of course, the skeezball kisses it. Gag.

Hi Lydia, I’m the hungry shark and I’d love to eat you up. He laughs way too hard at his sorry attempt at a joke.

I thought it’s a wolf that says that?

Today it’s Shark. That’s what they call me, so if you ladies need anything, just ask for me.

I remove my hand from his grasp as quickly as I can without slapping myself in the face and look over at Madison like I could light her on fire. I swear, all her parents, Liz and Aston, did while she was pregnant with Madison, was get high. Madison is a total flower child.

Miss free spirit.

Miss make love, not war.

Miss hey-let’s-go-watch-my-asshole-boyfriend-partake-in-illegal-activity.

Considering I’m mere months away from becoming an attorney, I’d say this speaks volumes about how dumb I can be when it comes to her. I swear to God, she wouldn’t be alive today if I hadn’t been attached to her hip since basically birth. But I wouldn’t be either.

And don’t get me started on her asshole boyfriend, Damon. Even though we are twenty-five, this is the first guy she’s done more than bang on occasion. Make love, not war. Yeah. I can’t even bear to think she could actually be in love with this guy.

I’ve had this sick feeling in the pit of my stomach since he came into the picture, but I’ve been chalking it up to jealous best friend syndrome. I work at our fathers’ law firm and go to school. I have no boyfriend.

But as we watch Damon and some other guy stand in the middle of this crowd, the only safety precautions being the light wrap of medical tape across their knuckles being applied as the final countdown to the fight begins, I know this is why my gut ties in knots every time I’m in a room with him.

The look on his face is menacing, his stance malicious. Almost as if a dark cloud falls over him and he transforms into a midnight creature.

Isn’t this exciting? Madi asks, pulling me up to her side from where I stand behind her. I look down at her face and see pride and adoration for this man and it’s like I’ve been doused with cold water.

Madison lives in the gray areas. For me, life is black or white and there is no in-between.

"Are you sure we should be standing in the very front? Can we at least back up a little?" I plead with her. She concedes and we allow a couple guys to slide in front of us. We locate a bare area on the concrete wall at our backs and decide to sit on the edge to give us a better, and safer vantage point.

One of the men taking bets and collecting cash yells, Shop’s closed.

Everyone takes two steps back and spreads out to form a wider circle around the fighters. ‘Shark’ steps to the inside and speaks to them both loud enough for everyone to hear.

This is a rough and tumble bout, so all’s I got to say to you boys is- may you both live to see another day. Demon, you ready? He points to Damon who replies by spitting on his opponent’s feet. Fucking imbecile. Barista, you ready? The other fighter nods. Let’s go!

Shark quickly bows out of the circle as the guy’s size each other up and begin to move around. Damon is one cocky bastard because he doesn’t even guard his face. He stands there, unmoving, making it apparent to all that he wants this guy to make the first move. It doesn’t take long for the sound of fists hitting skin to sound out in the now quiet atmosphere. And that’s all it takes for the crowd of vultures to go nuts.

Fucking kill him!

Knock his ass out!

Go for blood, Demon!

I’m sure it’s that last one that gets him moving, and when he does, my stomach somersaults like I’ve just gone down a roller coaster drop. Madi told me on our way here these guys fight under names given to them by the organization, and Damon is known here as Demon.

Fitting.

With his hands planted on the back of Barista’s head, he brings it down onto his knee, slamming it over and over until the guy frees himself. Barista’s eye is covered in blood and he wipes at it to clear his vision. Damon grins, eyes hooded and looking more like Lucifer than any depiction I’ve ever seen.

Barista lands a thump to the side of Damon’s head contacting his ear, causing him to reach up instinctively. He pulls his hand away and I can see the red color on his fingers from where we sit. We’re two minutes in and already both are bleeding.

Bile rises in my throat.

I’ve seen fights in movies before, but nothing as barbaric as this. And just when I think it can’t get worse, Damon head butts Barista, his blow landing on his already damaged eye and causing it to release from its socket as I can only assume the bone around it shatters.

I lean back, throwing up behind the wall we’re sitting on. Madison pats my back and hands me a water bottle from her tote, seemingly unaffected.

You okay? she asks.

I nod, covering my mouth with my hand, studying her as she returns her attention to the circle. I can’t help but wonder how many of these fights she’s already been to and if they are always this gruesome. But I think I already know the answer.

That’s a first. She makes as much of a shocked face as Madison is capable of. I shake my head at her, but mostly at myself as I hop down from the wall. I look up at her expectantly. Just one more minute? It’s almost over, she says, holding up a finger.

I start to scream at her, but the shouts of the crowd turn to roars, and even though I’m beyond disgusted and disturbed, I turn to see what’s happening. Like a disaster I can’t look away from, what I see is Barista on the ground, unmoving, and Shark in the center holding Damon’s arm up in victory.

I scan the crowd and listen to their screams and chants and praises for Demon, concluding that these spectators are just as vicious as the men who tear each other apart in the circle.

These people are fucking animals and I feel dirty just being in the same cage with them.

But when I look up at Madison perched on that wall, yelling in celebration just like them, I realize that I’m worse than dirty, I’m a shitty best friend for ever letting her get wrapped up in a world like this.

That’s why I’m the worst.

Months earlier…

EVER HEARD THE EXPRESSION ‘THE mean streets of Chicago’? Well, I grew up on those streets and I can tell you firsthand, that only begins to cover it. But what’s crazier is there was a time that I would’ve chosen those streets over the four walls of my foster home. At least until I became useful to Jerry, my foster father. I learned quickly that keeping him happy, kept my two younger brothers out of harm’s way, or kept them from being Jerry’s next project. My youngest brother, Rush, was just a newborn when we were given over to the state. But Thorn, just two years younger than me, was always next in line. That just made me learn faster—work harder. Just made me the strongest kid in the room wherever that may be.

My foster mother, Celia, was everything our own mother and father could’ve hoped for us in their absence—all be it by choice on our mother’s end. If she would’ve just been stronger.

If only we’d mattered more.

For the last seventeen of my twenty-seven years, that’s what fueled my drive in the ring. Hurt or be hurt. I’ve had enough fucking hurt for the lot of us. It’s my turn to give back some of what I’ve been handed. Don’t get me wrong, this isn’t some fucking pity party, this is fuel. This is the force behind each blow as it makes contact with my opponent. This is the strength within hands that inflict such hurt upon these sorry motherfuckers I’m surrounded by. The difference between them and me?

I want better. I want out.

I’m losing my sight, losing my mind…

The music blares through the speakers of the cheap stereo in the corner of the parking garage under Timmy’s bar, where my Tuesday night fights take place. They blare the loud, rage-filled music through the speakers to pump us up, to ensure a good fight. If only they knew I didn’t need that shit they’d get a much better show. Let us fight within the silence, let them hear the crack of bones, the slap of fists to the face of the dumb fuck in front of me. That’s what they came for after all; blood and utter demolition.

I’ve paid my dues.

I want far away from this life

Breathing in the stale aroma of sweat and mold, and the body odor of the old fuckers that form a circle around the two of us, is enough to make me tear a hole the size of a fucking Mack truck through the brick wall at my back. They’ll get their show, and I’ll get my money and become one step closer to that goal because unlike these animals I have something to work for.

A better life awaits me.

That’s why I’m the best.

Months later

CHICAGO WINTERS ARE BLISTERING, WITH well below freezing temperatures and about five hours of sunlight each day. But from the double corner windows of my office, you could almost mistake it for a winter wonderland in the late afternoon hours. Surrounded by smells of a catered holiday feast, and the knowledge that a new year is mere days away, you’d think I would be happy—hopeful.

A new year means new beginnings.

But ironically the biggest part of me would rather fall, tumbling down from this window, rather than see the wonder in the snow-covered Chicago Loop below.

I’m not going to say that you need to just lay down your sword, Lydia. But what I will say is remember you’re talking to Aston and that you both want what’s best for her. You’re here every day, yet somehow, you manage to avoid him. You need to talk. He loves you, Helaena, Aston’s sister, and our firm accountant, says. I look down at my hands, tamping down the urge to spur the pointless conversation further, picking at my nails to keep from it.

I’ll talk to him after we come back from New Year’s, I say, turning away from the window to look at her. The look on her face changes like a set of automatic blinds.

Speaking of New Year’s, what’s your plans? She leans forward, clasping her hands on the desk. I shrug.

Nothing. I suppose I’ll stop by the hospital and—

Not on New Year’s Eve you won’t.

My eyes round at her.

I’ve wanted to invite you for some time now, but decided to wait until I felt like you were up for it.

Up for what?

Oh, I don’t know. Maybe a little intimacy without intricacy. She cocks an eyebrow at me, smirk evident on her red lips. I ease to my chair, propping my elbows on the desk and coming closer as she continues. Members of the Elite will bring in the new year at my home and I would love for you to come.

And the Elite is what?

Professional twenty and thirty something’s that don’t have time for dating or relationships.

Isn’t that most Chicago singles these days?

Most Chicago singles aren’t on the list, so no. We meet once, twice a month. No last names, no business talk. Just light conversation, and if you meet a match, multiple orgasms. She treats her response as if she were discussing hiring a maid service. I lean back into the chair and look at her for a second.

So, I come to this party and find someone to fuck, basically? I try not to sound like a child, but by the way she looks down and smirks, I’d say I failed.

We’re all human, Lydia. We all have needs, but not all of us have time to find an appropriate mate to satisfy those needs. Right? You need an outlet, and as classless as it is to say, sometimes a good fuck is the best outlet there is. Helaena has always been a straight-shooter, but as bold as her words are, they still aren’t as bold as the thought of walking into a room full of strangers with the intent of singling out someone to have sex with.

I’m stunned. "I don’t know what to say. I’ve never considered meeting people strictly for sex. I’m not a prude, I just never knew that existed—the Elite."

Helaena stands, gathering files from the seat beside her.

When you are in an intimate, romantic relationship with someone, what purpose do they serve in your life?

I suppose someone to enjoy life and possibly grow old with. She faces me fully, placing the remaining files in her briefcase and grabbing her suit jacket from the back of the chair.

And maybe fulfill your desires?

I shrug and nod.

Then if you aren’t at a place in life where you’re ready for all that other stuff, then wouldn’t it make perfect sense to find someone, multiple people even, to bring you pleasure? Meet those desires? Her words wash over me like a wave of provocation and she grins as realization transforms in my eyes. "I have an appointment in twenty minutes, so I’ve got to run. Our gatherings usually aren’t formal, but we dress things up for New Year’s. Find a dress that doesn’t say monastery, and be at my house at ten Saturday."

I follow her out and she grins at me over her shoulder, turning to the right toward the stairs while I stare out into space from the doorway of my office.

I’m left reeling, and a bit disoriented at the thought that tomorrow I’m apparently throwing my boundaries right out the window.

My Greek and Swedish traits couldn’t be more opposite; Swedish women are known for their platinum locks and piercing blue eyes and Grecian women known for their dark hair and olive skin. When you take the two and put them together? You get me.

I inherited my mother’s dark hair and long stature and my father’s ice blue eyes and fair skin. It caused unwanted attention as a child, from modeling agencies and other pointless ventures I wasn’t interested in, but seemingly never from the right person as an adult.

I dated my only real boyfriend through high school, but as soon as he realized law school was in my immediate future, and becoming Suzy Homemaker wasn’t, he decided I wasn’t wife material. Which couldn’t have worked out better, really. The woman I am now, compared to the uneducated push over I was then couldn’t be more opposite. I know what I want now. Mostly.

As much as I wanted to deny Helaena’s adamant request for my appearance at her annual New Year’s party, a small part of me was urgent to attend.

Everyone says there should be more to a relationship than physical attraction, but what if Helaena’s right and you find yourself at a point in life where that’s precisely what you need, crave, even?

I crave a man’s hands on me for no other reason than pure, unadulterated lust. No hidden expectations of more, just pleasure. Anything to take my mind off my reality and send me into orbit around a brighter place.

But why has society placed such a label on people, relationships, and what they do in or out of them?

If there’s one thing we’ve done as a human race up to this point, I’d say our major accomplishment is humanism itself. Advancement in all things, but most importantly, bettering our race and shedding the cloak of bull shit placed over our shoulders hundreds of years ago; feminism, racism, etc. So, tell me why not sexualism? Or more specifically, female sexualism.

My mother used to tell me, Lydia, I won’t hear of you being one of those promiscuous girls. Your father is the only man I’ve ever been with, and I want the same for you.

First, thanks for the over-share, Mom. Never been aware of my under-appreciation of split-floor plans until right then. Second, why does a woman have to be labeled as promiscuous because she chooses to have multiple partners in her life? Hell, maybe she wants to have multiple partners in a week. Why the need to label her a slut or whore, or whatever other colorful bumper sticker you want to slap on her ass?

I’ve known of Helaena’s dating preferences for the last couple of years after I finally got the gall to ask her why she’d never married, nor had I ever seen her date. Helaena is gorgeous. A complete knockout. At thirty-eight, she is the youngest sibling to Aston, who is the oldest of the six Eriksson children. Her being just twelve years older than me seems like there’s a world of difference between her and Aston, but not so much between her and me.

Her response to my question didn’t surprise me.

I haven’t time nor the patience to mess with boys. My needs are met by the skilled hands of men who know what they’re doing.

Those words resonate with me as I take in my appearance, the hum of need rising to the surface. The thought of walking into a room full of attractive, successful people, all there for the sole purpose of pleasure, brought about feelings of fear yesterday, but today, turned me on beyond recognition and caused me to question who I am.

A year ago, I never would’ve entertained the idea of something like this. Growing up with parents like mine, devoted high school sweethearts, predestined your future to some degree. But the last six months brought about change and altered my perspective.

My phone rings from the bed and I move to grab it.

Hello?

Miss Norberg, I’m parked just outside if you’re ready.

I’ll be down in five. I hang up the call and take one last look at myself in the mirror before grabbing my clutch and sequined cape.

The elevator ride down is spent second guessing myself; should I have worn a different dress? Am I showing too much cleavage? I look down at my boobs. Maybe.

As I open the building door, exposed to the elements, I’m reminded why I barely leave the comfort of my warm apartment on the weekend and briefly wonder if tonight will re-solidify that or make me regret not leaving sooner.

How are you, Tony? I ask as I walk quickly toward the town car.

Great, Miss. Got it warm and toasty inside for you.

I smile warmly at the man who has become a sort of a constant in my life since Dad insisted I stop using public transportation considering the daily trips to the hospital and work. When he closes the door behind me I am pleased to feel the truth in his statement as the thin material of my dress is all that separates my ass from the warm leather seats.

From the looks of that dress, I’d say we aren’t taking our usual trip tonight? Tony looks over his shoulder as he settles in his seat.

Tonight it’s 34 East Bellevue, please. I smile generously at him. Speaking of the dress, you don’t think it’s too much? He looks at me from the rearview mirror now.

I think depending on who you ask, that dress is a lot of things, but too much ain’t one. Besides, you can’t have too much of a good thing.

He pulls away from the curb and points us in the direction of Gold Coast. Snickering, I slide the door of the console between the bucket seats open to find ice and a bottle of gin and tonic. While I prepare a much-needed drink, Tony speaks.

I figure it will take us about thirty minutes to get there with tonight’s traffic, so take your time. Wouldn’t want you getting sloppy for your date before we get there.

Is that right? And how do you know I’ve got a date? He rolls his lips and chuckles.

With a dress like that, if you don’t have one yet, you will.

When we make it through the insane traffic and start down Bellevue, a knot forms among the warmth created in my belly by the gin and tonic. It’s not like I have anything to be nervous about, I’m here as a guest. She informed me that each member can bring a guest. You aren’t expected to match with anyone, but the opportunity is there.

Tony stops the car and exits to come around to my door. It’s not till he opens it and takes my hand to help me out that I realize just how high the slit in this dress is. I step out onto the sidewalk and straighten the floor length skirt and enclose my silver cape around my shoulders, covering my bare midriff as I head for the door.

Do I need to come pick you up later? Tony calls from behind me. I pause and turn, closing my eyes briefly at my forgotten manners.

I’m sorry, Tony. In another world, I guess. That won’t be necessary.

I hope you let loose a little tonight, Miss Norberg. Happy New Year. He tips his hat to me and I nod in return.

Thank you and Happy New Year. I reach out and ring the doorbell to the townhouse. It immediately opens and an attractive man about my age waves his arm out for me to enter.

Would you like me to take your coat, ma’am? he asks and I look up, smiling and nodding as I release the cape clasp at my neck. His eyes briefly trail down my torso, past my cleavage and stopping at the exposed skin of my stomach before meeting my eyes and taking the cape. Clearing his throat, he continues. I will place this in the coat closet. The guests are at the top of the stairs on the rooftop deck.

I nod, a satisfied grin plastered on my lips as I turn my back to him and head up the stairs. I can use all the confidence I can gather right about now.

The closer I get to the top, the clearer music and voices become. I stop short for just a second, questions and second guesses flooding my mind as I wonder what I’ll find. Which makes what I do find after taking the last two steps such a relief.

I’d estimate somewhere around fifty people fill the expansive deck atop Helaena’s townhouse. Women dressed in cocktail dresses and the men in suits, some with ties, some without. A jazz quartet plays in one corner and several members of a catering staff pass around trays of champagne and hors d’oeuvres.

I painted this picture in my mind of people standing silent in a room or walking around until someone snatched them up and propositioned them. Some secret society to be kept free of onlookers like bands and wait staff.

I close my eyes and shake my head, chuckling to myself as I make my way toward the crowd. Nodding and smiling, several people take notice of my presence as I scan the crowd for Helaena. At five foot nine and platinum hair, you’d think she’d be a bit easier to find.

The space is decorated beautifully. White twinkle lights hang from the center of a stilted roof, casting an angelic glow over everyone. And thankfully given the insane temperature of the late December evening, a large fireplace caps off the opposite end of the roof and tall space heaters are set intermittently around. There are large couches and chairs around the room, although most people stand and mingle with one another.

Lydia. I turn to my right to see Helaena walking up to me. She opens her arms and grabs my shoulders in each hand, kissing each of my cheeks. When I said don’t dress like a nun I didn’t mean show-up everyone here. She smirks. I look down at my dress.

You like it?

Are you kidding? I think I’ll be borrowing this in the future. She wraps her arm around my shoulders and starts walking me through the crowd. Now that you’re here and see things for yourself, how do you feel?

I chew at my lip as I look back to her. I have to be honest, I thought there might be kinky public stuff.

She nods, grinning. This is a regular party. Nothing takes place here but the exchange of information. You did remember to bring a card with your first name and phone number, right?

I nod.

Is this the guest you spoke of, Helaena? A man sidles up beside us. She kisses his cheek and places her hand on his shoulder, looking to me.

Yes, Byron, this is Lydia. Lydia, this is my friend, Byron. He holds out his hand and I shake it.

They talk back and forth and I smile, nodding as they speak, taking in each guest we pass, trying my hardest not to appear rude or gawking. But in reality, looking more at their posture and presence, the way success pours out with each word spoken or hand gesture made. I’m around successful people daily; my parents, Madi’s parents, clients. But in this setting, from my vantage point, it carries a different look and feel. Even the way they hold and sip from their cocktail glasses seems so effortless and unrehearsed.

I swallow down the insecurity rising up my throat and press my chest forward ever so slightly,