Seb nodded in understanding. “He broke three of them and had a pretty nasty concussion that night too.” He smiled proudly as he crossed his arms. “Dean still won though.”
I looked back at the fight just as Dean recovered from an elbow to the face. He wiped his nose on the back of his hand and smiled a little when he saw the blood. This clearly frustrated Murphy as he threw more punches but missed each time. He was exhausted while Dean looked like he was just getting started.
“Antonio had to force Dean to go to the hospital after that.”
I frowned and found Seb’s smile had wavered. “Why?”
Seb hesitated, shifting on his feet and sliding his hands into his pockets. “Dean isn’t a huge fan of hospitals.”
The night I found Dean, he was adamant that he wouldn’t go to the hospital. I thought it was because he didn’t want to be caught by the authorities.
I didn’t need to pry, not when Dean’s mother came to mind. Sofia had been a dancer before they moved from Italy and now she was in a wheelchair. Whatever caused her to be that way would’ve included hospital visits. Possibly traumatic ones that Dean had to be there for. It wasn’t my business to know.
The fight lasted an extremely long 15 minutes before Dean, blood dripping from his nose, punched Murphy across the face. Murphy spun on the spot. Spit, blood, and a tooth flying, before he landed face-first on the ground, breathing heavily, and too dazed to get to his feet. Joe, after circling them and counting to ten, rang the bronze bell in his hand. The audience was already roaring, but the volume increased tenfold.
Dean stepped up alongside Murphy and offered him a hand up. An offer that was quickly turned down when Murphy slapped his hand away and got up himself. Struggling at first to gain his balance before he staggered out of the pit, swaying as he passed Seb and me on his way through the doorway.
Seb was clapping as he leaned closer to me and muttered, “He’ll be back.”
Similarly to the first time I had seen him fight, Dean didn’t wait around to celebrate his win with the audience. He simply held up a hand by way of appreciation and left the pit with his head down. Wiping at the blood that stained his lips, he strode for the exit.
His hair hung in messy, wet waves across his forehead, while his tattoos seemed to darken with the added sweat on his golden-brown skin. It was hard to look away when his body was a literal canvas — a very toned canvas that moved with self-assured but humble confidence.
I caught myself trailing my eyes down to where his waistband sat a little too low on his hips and then flicked my gaze back up to his face. And instantly wished I looked anywhere else but at him.
Dean was looking straight back. His head cocked back to stop his nosebleed and his eyes partially hooded as he lazily raked his eyes over me. Replicating how I had just gawked at him but doing it with a little more subtlety.
I fixed my eyes on the fight pit instead. As if watching the audience slowly collecting their winnings and filing out of the basement was the most fascinating thing I had ever seen. Meanwhile, my face burned as if I had stood out too long in the sun. Heating even more so as Dean stopped to chat with Seb nearby. Their voices were drowned out by the rest of the noise before one tugged my sleeve. Not Dean, as he was already walking to the lockers, but Seb.
His mouth twisted into a smile when he saw my face. “Are you feeling alright? You look a little red.”
“I’m fine. The air down here is just a little stuffy.” I fanned my face with my hand for emphasis.
He chuckled and nodded to the lounge area where everyone was gathering. “There should be some bottled water in the fridge.”
As we joined the rest of the fighters (their opponents having already left via the back door), Antonio started a congratulatory speech for those who had won their fights. It was short and simple. And something Seb wasn’t about to interrupt to go to the kitchen, so we waited behind one of the couches. Seb with his arms crossed while I subtly covered my nose with my hand, blocking the smell that was wafting across the room from all the sweaty bodies.
My eyes drifted towards Dean again, sitting on the couch adjacent, to our left, with Roxy perched on the rolled arm beside him. Like myself, they were only half listening to Antonio’s speech. Dean was pinching the bridge of his nose with a frown on his face, his head resting on the back of the couch while Roxy whispered something into his ear. Her jealousy towards me was long gone.
I assumed he debunked her assumption of me being his plaything.
She trailed her red fingernails through his jet-black hair, unbothered if anyone was watching the not-so-subtle show of flirtation. Until Dean jerked his head away and moved aside.
Roxy bristled but played off the rejection with a sultry smile, stood, and began a hip-swaying strut towards the first door that led into the other room. Passing Seb and me on her way, we caught the moment her smile dropped, and her gaze grew seething. If looks could kill, she would’ve just butchered everyone in the basement. And whoever crossed her path when she got upstairs.
“I feel sorry for Jen and Xavier,” Seb muttered.
When Antonio’s talk was done, he left via the back with his entourage of burly bodyguards in tow. This prompted the fighters to begin their movements, gathering their belongings before they left too. Some took their time doing so, like the two standing on the opposite side of the lounge area with their backs to the kitchen as they joked about their plans for the night. One of them had a nasty scar running diagonally across his face. Joe had announced him as Scarface, like the movie.
“I’ll get you that water,” Seb smiled as he moved to the fridge.
I waited idly behind the couch in silence. My arms wrapped firmly around my middle as I kept a wary eye on the movements of every man down here.
Dean was still on the adjacent couch, arms spread out along the back, his head reclined with his brows pinched and eyes closed. The trail of blood coming from his nose had dried and crusted across his lips and chin.
Scarface suddenly laughed loudly at the joke his friend made. The punchline was his blatant mistreatment of the women he planned to see tonight. Followed by crude jokes and hand gestures.
I tightened my arms around myself, shifting on my feet.
