Because this isn’t the night to cut a brother’s fingers off.Not with whatever the hell is happening between Legend and his woman.Not with the club looking for excuses to fracture.
Oaks coughs, rubbing his throat, eyes glassy.
“This ain’t over,” I mutter.
He nods quick.Afraid now.Good.
I turn away, stepping onto the announcer platform as the crowd roars again.At the bar, Sophie slams a shot.Legend tries to talk her down.The dog mayor barks.
Hell is alive tonight.
However, my thoughts are consumed by the girl restrained in my room.The girl Oaks dared to stare at.The girl who smiled at me like danger was her love language.
Becki.
I step up on the busted-ass milk crate they use as a stage, the damn thing wobbling like it wants me dead.Figures.The crowd’s loud, drunk, and ugly, my people.I tap the microphone.It squeals like a stuck hog.
When I speak into the mic, my voice comes out rough, edged with the kind of fury that could burn a town down.
“Alright, shut the hell up,” I say, and somehow they do.“Welcome back to Heck’s Kitchen, the only place in Hell, Kentucky where you can lose your money, your dignity, and your last tooth all in the same night.”
A cheer goes up.Someone throws a half-empty beer that misses me by an inch.Good.I’m not in the mood.
“In the left corner,” I continue, pointing.“We got Big Todd.Weight, unknown.Reason?None of us are brave enough to ask.He claims he’s sober tonight, so statistically speaking, that means he’s three times more likely to stab someone.”
Todd flexes.The crowd boos.He loves it.
“And in the right corner… Sticky Ricky.”I pause so the room can react.They do.Violently.“Do not ask why he’s sticky.I sure as hell didn’t want the answer, and now I gotta live with that knowledge forever.”
Laughter rolls through the room, rough and wild.
I hold up a hand.“Rules are simple.No biting unless it’s funny.No kicking unless you yell ‘yeehaw’ first.And if either of you bleeds on the new rug, Legend will personally tan your hide and turn you into wall décor.”
Legend, leaning on the railing, flips me off without looking away from Sophie, who’s trying to pry her hand out of his back pocket.
“Touch fists,” I bark.“Say your prayers.Kiss your favorite body part goodbye.”
I step back off the crate, boots hitting the gummy concrete.
“Let the beating commence,” I say, before I set down the mic.
The crowd explodes, hungry for blood.
I crack a grin.
Hell, so am I.But my mind isn’t in this ring.It’s in a locked bedroom with a girl who shouldn’t matter.Who already fucking does.
The fighters keep beating the hell out of each other in the ring, fists cracking bone, blood spraying in arcs that glitter under the floodlights.But the noise fades under pressure from something heavier.
Legend.
He’s coming.I can tell by the way the crowd shifts.The way men step aside.The way even the goddamn dog mayor stops panting and watches.
Prez walks toward me with that slow, controlled stride of his.Shoulders squared, beard dusted with beer foam from where Sophie threw her drink.His cut hangs open, showing the black shirt beneath, damp.
A few bikers scatter, sensing the storm.
I brace my hands on the announcer table, back straight, jaw locked.I’m not backing down.Not tonight.Not ever.
