“You know what else?”
“What?”
“Win or lose, I’m always going to support you and be in your corner,” Patrick said. I smiled as I snaked my hand under the sheet and wrapped it over his waist and set it against his lower back.
“Will you always be in my bed?” I half teased. Part of me was afraid to hear his answer because he might very well want to settle down with someone and not have to hide. It was no secret that I was happiest and felt the freest with Patrick. But I wasn’t sure I wanted to share him or expose him with the world. He was my best secret and what I cherished the most.
“I’ll be wherever you want me to be.”
“Good. I’d like that, Patrick.”
When I closed my eyes tonight, I allowed myself to believe that things with Patrick would be okay out in the public eye. And they would be … in my dreams at least.
Marcos
Thirty-nine-years-old | December
Isat in the smoked-filled sportsbook at one of the run-down casinos in downtown Vegas with my eyes strained and squinting at the big screen TVs. The fifth round of the TCF fight between Brendan Rowe and Hollis Ward had just started.
I tugged the brim of my baseball cap down further; I’d be surprised if anyone in this shithole recognized me. It was full of the older crowd of Vegas and those who didn’t grasp or appreciate the mixed martial arts sport.
These run-down casinos had become my new home and my new source of income; it sure as fuck wasn’t TCF anymore.
I didn’t care for Brendan Rowe, and I hated Hollis fucking Ward. Hate wasn’t even a strong enough word for what I felt for Ward. I fought that little fucker three times, and each time he collected the wins while my losses stacked up. He tookmytitle. The last time I fought him he took my career from me.
We fought this past July, and I could have had him. But forty-two seconds into the fourth round he knocked me out with that fucking upper cut of his that slices through the air in the blink of an eye. Over the days that followed the fight, I still hadn’t fully regained vision. A week later I went to the doctor and learned I had a detached retina. My career was over at age thirty-nine.
And TCF hardly acknowledged it. They made a brief statement in the newspaper about the demise of my career, and that was it. It was like the entire TCF family breathed a sigh of relief that I was gone. They were all so in love with Hollis Ward and thrilled that he would become the face of the sport.
Hollis pranced onto the TCF scene, and the owner was so eager to climb up his ass that it made me sick. Vin liked guys like Rowe and Ward; guys who played by the rules and brought a fucking family friendly image to the sport. That wasn’t what it was created for, and it was a disgrace that they wanted to turn it into a Mickey Mouse sport.
I was supposed to continue to be the face of the sport.
Me.
Not Ward.
I fucking hated that kid because he took everything from me. And in time, I planned to take it all from him too. Even before he ended my career, I’d begun using him to my advantage. That fucker had a perfect record, and I had no shame in putting down money on several of his fights. He’d fucking won everything else, and even though I despised him, I had no problem using him for my financial gain. His talent had been lining my pockets by betting on him to defeat his opponents.
Tonight was no different. I put down $500,000 on Ward beating Rowe. The money was a drop in the bucket for me. Of course I wanted to win money, and it was a substantial amount that I stood to win tonight, but I also wouldn’t mind seeing Ward get the shit beat out of him.
Initially I’d been using the money to stockpile. I had started a side gig by loaning money to addicts to gamble, then I charged an asinine amount of interest. Addicts would pay just about anything to get their hands on more money to gamble. And because of my extra deep pockets, thanks to Ward, Las Vegas had become mine. It was one of the few places that could make a person and break them in the same day. Sometimes within the same hour. I was an enabler, of sorts. I gave men the chance to be “made.” And just like the cruel city, I had the ability to break them like the pathetic twigs that they were.
Now, I fed addicts—sports betting addicts. I loaned money to the desperate so they could place sports bets on whatever game or fight their little shitty heart desired. They paid me back the money I loaned them, plus interest. Yes, the interest was steep, but I didn’t really give a fuck. It was my money, and I could do whatever the fuck I wanted with it. Besides, if someone was desperate enough to borrow from me, typically they didn’t give a damn what the interest was. And if a client was late or fell behind on making their payments… Well, let’s just say that was when the breaking began.
Since my TCF career ended abruptly over the summer, my plans had changed slightly. Now, I was using the money I earned off Ward and the money the gambling addicts paid back to build a team of young fighters designed and trained to destroy Ward at every turn.
I wondered how the silver spooner would react if he knew I’d been placing bets on him to win, and that my winnings were going to form a team of fighters to cripple him.
“Come on, Dragon! Fucking knock him out!” I turned my head in the direction of the voice and closed my right eye so I could get a look at the fucker making the noise. The man paced in front of the row of seats as he yelled at the TV.
Dude was desperate… And just the kind of guy who’d be eating out of my hand soon.
I’d seen this guy’s type here before. They were usually younger than they looked but had given into an addiction, or sometimes multiple. It all eventually took a toll on them. This guy was no different than the others I’d enabled.
I glanced at the TV screen and saw that the round had ended. I was surprised Brendan Rowe had managed to last in the cage all five rounds with Ward. Brendan was about ten years older than Hollis, and he wasn’t nearly as capable as Ward. But Ward must have been nursing an injury or something because he didn’t fight as well tonight like he usually did.
“Fuck,” I murmured under my breath when I realized I was probably going to lose my $500 grand bet. “I fucking hate you so goddamn much, Ward.” I reached for my bottle of beer and downed the rest of it.
