The Butcher looks and sounds like a redwood falling in the forest if a bloodthirsty crowd was there to hear it.
He is face down on the mat, eyes open blankly and blood oozing from his nose. Mason’s on him in a second, kicking him onto his back and pounding the hell out of him until the referee puts his arm between them. Good. He’s stopping the fight. Not exactly… he’s looking at Mason, then at the now unconscious Butcher. The ref’s hand goes up and then down, waiting for Mason to communicate… something, I don’t know what.
There’s an ugly energy in the crowd now that rises like cigarette smoke to hover over the cage. The crowd is screaming, faces distorted, fists clenched, and I finally hear what they’re saying.
“Kill him!”
“Kill the fecker!”
“Snap his goddamn neck!”
Mason rises, his hands on his hips, chest heaving. He looks down dispassionately at the Butcher, still drooling blood and shakes his head at the referee.
“Knockout!” The ring announcer thunders into his mic and the place erupts. Everyone’s screaming and shouting, there’s money exchanging hands, cups of beer flying everywhere as Mason raises his arm, briefly acknowledging the crowd before leaving the ring, following Michael to an exit in the back of the room.
He’s a head above everyone else, so I watch his progression as people in the crowd reach out, trying to touch him.
But no one does. I got a glimpse of his set expression and cold, blank eyes as he pushes through the crowd. I’m not sure I would try to touch him, either.
I slump back down in my seat, ignoring the spilled champagne on my dress and the excited chattering around me. A very young blonde is pouting prettily at the much older man sitting next to her. “I thought someone was going to die. You told me The MacTavish would snap his neck.”
A surge of nausea is pushing up my throat but I swallow hard, gripping the arms of my chair and trying to block everything out.
“Are ye awright, then?” Talon gently pats my arm, looking worried.
“I’m fine. This is… that was quite the revelation. Can we go find Mason now?”
Michael appears then as if summoned. “Come with me, aye? I’ll take ye to him.”
We weave through the crowd and down a hallway, water dripping down the walls and pooling on the floor. Michael opens a black door and escorts me in, nodding to Talon to stay outside.
Mason is leaning against a counter that runs along a bank of mirrors. A sign is taped to one of them. “No pissing in the dressing room. This means ye, fecking walloper!” Other than a couple of dented lockers and a bench, that’s all there is.
My husband looks up and sees my reflection in the mirror.
“What thefuckis she doing here!” he shouts at Michael, his fists clenching.
“Someone’s got to pull your head out of your arse before one of these bastards rips it off,” Michael says calmly, refusing to back up.
Other than those tight shorts, Mason is bare, his skin shining with perspiration and there’s sprays of blood staining the colorful tattoos on his chest and arms. His blonde hair is sticking up in wet, sweaty tufts. He’s almost unrecognizable until I spot his wedding ring, his left hand curled into a fist but the obsidian band gleaming in the terrible lighting.
This is still my husband. Michael thought I needed to be here.
So, when Mason snarls, “You need to get the fuck out, Afton, this isn’t the place for you,” I glare right back.
“No.”
Michael looks between us with an expression that indicates he is rethinking his life choices, but when I nod at him, he heads for the door.
“I’ll be outside if ye two need me.”
***
Walloper - Scottish slang for an idiot.
Awright – Scottish slang for all right.
Chapter Thirty
