And then, in the back room, her usual vitriol returned. Like it’smyfault.
As if. She’s in my space. I never imagined she would get an invitation here.
Damn Tyler. Damn Scarlett for going to the gym and presumably putting it together.
And she wants to blackmail me!
The rotten part is, it might work.
I give up on finding her and lock eyes with my opponent. I’m supposed to lose this fight, but my skin crawls at the idea ofgiving Scarlett more ammunition against me. My bruises have finally faded, but the memory of that pain is sharp.
“Touch knuckles,” the emcee tells us.
The guy I’m fighting isn’t someone I’ve ever seen before. He’s shirtless, like me, with his knuckles wrapped. He has no tattoos, a preppy yacht-owning haircut, and a smarmy smile. Rich, presumably.
Someone might consider him handsome, but he and I are so very different.
Why the fuck is he in this dingy warehouse, scrapping with strangers, then?
I clench my jaw and step into the center of the cage, my arm outstretched. He comes to meet me. We’re the same height, but he might have fifty pounds on me. I train to be lean and quick. This guy’s muscles probably came from a personal trainer having him bench press until he can’t breathe.
“You know Scar?” he asks.
I tilt my head. “What?”
“Scarlett.” He smirks. “We went to Yale together. But hey, I hope the sloppy seconds are worth it.”
My expression drops. She slept with this prick? Dated him?
“Ohhh,” the guy continues. “She hasn’t put out yet.”
I jerk. “Excuse me?”
He leans in. “The trick to getting her legs to open is to get her blindingly drunk. Works like a charm.”
I see fucking red. The slam of the cage door closing rings in my ear–the signal to start the fight. I lunge without hesitation and pop him in the nose. His cartilage crunches under my fist, and he falls backward. Belatedly, his hands come up to defend himself. I give chase, striking low.
Get her blindingly drunk.
The insinuation sits like acid on my shoulders.
He manages to bring his knee up, and I let out a hollow grunt at the impact. He shoves me away, and I allow us to separate.
Blood drips from his nose, but he doesn’t seem perturbed. If anything, he seems more sinister than he did a minute ago. He grins at me, his white mouthguard bloody.
Side note: that’s why I picked a black mouthguard, precisely to avoidthatderanged look. Sure, it can be a bit of a mind game, but I don’t need to fall back on tricks to win.
His muscles bunch a split second before he comes at me, and I evade, my steps light. Part of me wants him to keep talking, keep giving me evidence to stack against him, to fuel my rage. Unfortunately, he seems fresh out of words at the moment.
I drop into the zone, tuning out the roar of the crowd that’s been energized by the first sight of blood. Sometimes I think the people outside the cage are more vicious than the fighters.
We reconnect, exchanging hits. I grunt when he connects with my ribs and again when he kicks at my thigh. My leg goes numb, and my knee gives out. Motherfucking Charlie horse. I stumble to the side, and I hit the cage hard with my shoulder. All the while, he’s right in front of me.
I duck, protecting my head, and I manage to circle around. It’s a circle–there’s no getting trapped in a corner–but that doesn’t mean he can’t get me up against the cage and hammer body and face shots while my feet stick to the floor. That’s the surest way to lose.
I just need to finish this. There’s no getting out of here otherwise.
The tiniest voice of reason rings in the back of my head. I promised to lose this fight. But how was I to know he knew Scarlett?
