I point, answering before Ford can. “Down that hall, second door on the left. But stick close, I don’t trust anyone here.”
She flashes me a smile and walks away, Ford watching her ass all the way.
Once she’s out of sight, he turns to me, smile dropping away. “You got a problem with me and Ava?” he asks, voice low and dangerous.
I meet his eyes. “Only the stupid fucking games you keep playing with her.”
He laughs, but there’s no humor in it. “Like you give a shit. You’re just pissed because you’re losing her to me, and you know it.”
I don’t rise to the bait. I just stare him down, letting the silence stretch.
He drains his drink, slams the glass down, and grins. “May the best man win, huh?”
I just grunt in response, turning away and gazing off toward the ring.
Ava returns from the bathroom and squeezes between us, her hands finding both our arms. She’s glowing, the excitement and danger making her look even sexier than usual. Ford pulls her in for another kiss, and I watch, my stomach twisted up with something I don’t want to name.
The first fight gets called, and the crowd surges forward, everyone jockeying for a view of the bloodbath. We grab a spot near the ring, pressed shoulder to shoulder. Ava leans into my side, her hand slipping into mine.
“When’s Raf’s turn?” she asks eagerly.
I squeeze her fingers. “He’s on last. The main event.”
She smiles, and for a second, I can pretend it’s just the two of us, that nothing else matters. That maybe, after tonight, things could be different.
Ford catches me looking and smirks, sliding his other hand around her waist, pulling her close. I let go of her hand and step back, begrudgingly giving them space.
The announcer’s voice booms over the speakers, and the crowd goes wild. I watch the first pair of fighters step onto the mat, circling one another like vultures, sizing each other up.
Ford whispers something in Ava’s ear, and she throws her head back laughing. I don’t turn to look. I just watch the ring, thelights, the swirl of bodies pressed in around it. And I know that if there’s a way to win her, I’m going to find it.
Fight night has only just begun.
CHAPTER 29
FORD
The cheap whiskeythey’re slinging at this shithole warehouse tastes like gasoline, but I keep drinking it anyway. Some might call that alcoholism; I call it the makings of a damn good Saturday night.
The space around the bar is packed, heat and sweat thick as a blanket over the crowd. I like it that way. You can do anything in a mob, and nobody gives a shit as long as you keep your elbows sharp and your hands to yourself. Unless, of course, you look like me, in which case you can pretty much do whatever you want and get away with it.
Ava’s perched on the barstool next to me, drinking her second– or fourth– vodka cranberry of the night. Her cheeks are already flushed, her dark hair falling loose around her shoulders. She’s giggling at something, the wild sound of it slicing through the bass thumping through the warehouse speakers. A few heads turn at the noise, including a couple of meathead townies at the far end of the bar, but I cut them off with a glare that promises violence if they look twice.
I don’t know if it’s the booze or the way Ava keeps crossing and uncrossing her legs, but my head’s a blur. Every time she laughs or leans into me, I get a little harder. Every time her handlands on my arm, I forget what I was supposed to be doing. It doesn’t help that she’s wearing that skirt– black leather and short enough to give a man a heart attack. Paired with thigh-high boots and a shirt that barely contains her tits, she looks like a crime waiting to happen. Which is absolutely my vibe tonight.
We’re supposed to be watching for Wes, who disappeared to the locker room with Raf an hour ago to do their usual pre-fight bullshit. Rituals, pep talks, whatever. I offered to take Ava back there to see them, but she vetoed that idea before I could finish the sentence, reminding me what happened last time. I get it, but deep down, I think she just didn’t want to see Raf all jittery. She likes him best when he’s dangerous, not when he’s nervous.
So, here we are: me, her, and a row of empty glasses, waiting for the main event.
“Ford,” she purrs, voice syrupy and sweet, like she’s barely holding onto her words. “How many shots have you had?”
I glance at the line of empties, squint, and try to count. “A gentleman never tells, babe.”
She rolls her eyes, a smirk curling her lips. “I think you’re drunk.”
“Good,” I reply, flashing her a grin. “I’d hate to be sober for this.”
She lets out another giggle, which just makes me want to fuck her senseless. She slides off her stool and crowds into my space. I like the way she looks at me when she’s tipsy– like she’s surprised I’m real, or like she’s daring herself to see how far I’ll go if she gives me an inch.
