The buzzer sounds, and we all turn back to the ring in the center of the room. Wilde’s standing on the top platform, panting hard and looking down at where Foley is lying on his back on the padded floor. When Foley lifts his arm above himself, the angle of it looks … wrong.
“Urg …” Kennedy says, cringing away. “Wilde actually did it.”
“Not like it was on purpose,” Hart replies, and he sounds disappointed.
Hudson slumps in his seat. “I’ve never been more turned on.”
I’m still not comfortable enough to talk properly around them, so I don’t correct Hart’s assumption. I didn’t see it, but it was definitely on purpose. A hit hard enough with Wilde’s post could smash bone easily enough, and Wilde wouldn’t have made a promise he didn’t intend to follow through with.
They’ve both had more broken bones from this than I can count.
I watch as Foley pushes to his feet, arm cradled to his front as he cackles deeply. His normally smooth hair is the mess it always is once they finish fighting, and he stumbles immediately for Booker, his hangers-on following at a distance.
“Good thing you have a doctor here,” Kennedy mutters.
It sounds like a coincidence, but I’m sure the only reason Booker settled here was thanks to Peril. Every month after the fights, he pulls an all-nighter tending to people, and he’s in his element while he does it.
A few of the people around us stand and start moving down the row.
“Was that the last one?” Kennedy asks.
Looks like it.
We’ve been here for hours, but it passed quickly. It always does. I’ve stopped coming to Peril matches recently because it’s a lot of people, and sitting alone while Wilde fights always makes me self-conscious.
I can’t remember the last time I sat with a group of people.
“I can’t believe it’s over already,” Hart says, following us from the row of seats. Hudson disappears, I’m assuming to find Wilde, and the twins follow me out of the building. Most people head to their cars, but a small line cuts off toward the chop shop. Booker’s home is within view of the Lair, all the lights on giving it an illusion of warmth. Like an angler fish attracting prey.
My gaze moves from the line of people to the one lone form leaning against the side of the Lair.
Foley’s watching the chop shop, arm held protectively against his torso, but he makes no move to join the others. In the shadows, his tattoos look more menacing than ever.
Kennedy’s hand on my back steers me away.
“I don’t like him,” he murmurs by my ear.
He’s not the only one. As the mayor of Dale, he’s enemy number one in Wilde’s End.
We reach my old truck, and I unlock the passenger-side door. Kennedy pulls it open, then pauses.
“Ah … so, is this … night over?”
I glance at where Hart was following us, but he’s not there. “Your brother?”
Kennedy shrugs. “Said he was going to look at something and not to wait for him.”
“Will he find his way back?”
I don’t want to leave without Hart because I can tell how conflicted Kennedy is. One part of him wants to act like he doesn’t care, the same way they do, but he’s made of better stuff. He can’tnotworry about the people he loves.
“He’s a grown man, and he said to go. So let’s go.”
I’m nervous as I kick at the dirt. “Will you stay the night?”
“With you? Always.”
My eyes clash with his. There’s nothing like spending the night wrapped around him, but I also remember what he askedfor last time. He wants to fuck me. And remembering that has nerves flooding into my gut.
