“Is it almost time?” she asks breathily, craning her neck to see over the crowd toward the makeshift ring at the center of the warehouse.
I check the time on my phone and nod. “Ten minutes till the main event, babe. We should probably stake out a spot near themat before the rest of these dickheads realize they’re about to miss history.”
She bounces on the balls of her feet, hands gripping my arm. “Let’s go.”
We push through the mob, bodies pressing on every side. It’s a good night– everyone’s too amped for violence to care about the price of beer, the music is so loud you can’t even think, and everywhere you look, there’s another beautiful disaster waiting to happen. I shoulder us a path to the front of the ring, cutting death glares at anyone who dares to look at my girl. Sometimes it’s the little flexes that count.
The ring itself is simple as hell, just a square of canvas set into the floor, steel posts, and plastic ropes marking the boundaries. Blood stains the corners, a faint haze of sweat and disinfectant clinging to the air. It smells like home.
Ava presses in close, her hand slipping into mine. She’s jittery, but not scared. I squeeze her fingers. “Ready to see a bloodbath?” I murmur, leaning down to brush my lips against her ear.
She shivers, but doesn’t pull away. “You really think he’s gonna win?”
“Raf always wins,” I say confidently. “It’s the only thing he’s good for.”
She laughs just as the lights dim, the crowd exploding. The announcer steps up to the mat, mic in hand, voice booming over the speakers.
“Are you ready for the main event?”
The responding roar is deafening. Ava jumps, startled, then laughs at herself. I can’t help but laugh, too. Her energy’s infectious.
The announcer goes into his spiel, talking up the history of the fighters and the massive gains to be made from the bets. Ibarely listen. Instead, I scan the crowd for Wes, searching for any sign of him in the darkness.
Finally, the announcer introduces the first fighter. “Standing six-foot-four, two hundred and sixty pounds, fighting out of Dyersville… Diesel!”
The crowd goes rabid as the guy comes strutting out, shirtless, veins bulging, arms raised like he’s already won. The fucker’s a tank, all muscle and tattoos and a mean-mug that would make a priest wilt. His walkout song is some stupid Linkin Park track, and I hate it immediately.
He climbs into the ring, pounding his chest, hyping up the crowd. A handful of groupies along the sidelines start chanting his name, and Diesel flips them off, smiling a jagged-toothed grin.
Ava bites her lip nervously. “He’s huge,” she murmurs.
“Size isn’t everything,” I tell her, eyeing her up and down.
She blushes, then elbows me in the ribs. “Shut up, Ford.”
I wink, then turn my attention back to the ring.
The lights drop again, and for a beat, the crowd falls eerily silent. Then the opening ofWar Pigsby Black Sabbath rattles through the warehouse. The first time I ever saw Raf fight, he walked out to this song, and I swear, the hair on my arms stands up every damn time. The first few chords hit, and I can practically taste the adrenaline.
The spotlight finds him as he stalks out of the locker room, shirtless and taped up, eyes so dark they look bottomless. For a split second, his gaze flicks out over the crowd, finds us, and lingers. I give him a cocky nod and a middle finger. He smiles, just barely, then drops his head and keeps moving.
He’s a fucking monster. You don’t realize it until you see him like this– head down, jaw clenched… a walking time bomb with a body count.
Ava screams for him, and he doesn’t even flinch. That’s how I know he’s locked in.
He slides into the ring, bouncing on his toes, eyes never leaving his opponent.
The announcer brings them both to the center and does the obligatory hype, the crowd getting even louder. Wes pops up out of nowhere, finally joining us, and Ava throws her arms around him like he’s been away for a fucking year. The asshole grins at me, squeezing her ass, then the ref starts to give his speech, drawing our attention back to the ring. It’s just the usual rules– no biting, no groin shots, and keep fighting until one of them can’t.
Raf and Diesel bump fists, then the bell rings.
They circle each other, and for a minute, it’s nothing but footwork, both of them gauging distance, waiting for the other to make the first move. Then Diesel throws a jab, fast as fuck for a guy his size. Raf dodges, counters, and the crowd goes ballistic as blood sprays from Diesel’s nose.
“YES!” I bellow, clapping my hands together so hard my palms sting.
Ava clings to my arm, jumping up and down as they trade blows, each hit louder than the last. It’s like watching two gorillas go at it with sledgehammers. They’re both bleeding within a minute, but Raf’s still in control. His eyes are calm, movements calculated.
“He’s killing him,” Ava shouts, her voice breaking through the noise.
