“No.”
“Just doing these?” He gestured vaguely around the warehouse.
“Pretty much.”
He studied me for another second. “You’ve got good instincts. Your balance is solid, and you recover quickly. You’re just … unrefined.”
I gave a humorless laugh. “Good to know.”
“It’s not an insult.”
“Okay.” I wasn’t sure what the guy was getting at.
“Have you ever thought about training for real?”
I adjusted my grip on my bag. “Not really.”
“Why not?”
“Training doesn’t bring in money or keep my car running.”
“Fair enough,” he agreed. “I’m Devon Marshall.” He stuck out his hand.
I hesitated for a moment before reaching out to shake. “Keaton Stafford.”
“I know,” he said.
That made me pause. “How?”
“You’ve fought a couple of times in Sacramento, right?”
I lifted a brow. “You’ve been watching me?”
“Not in a creepy way,” he replied. “I live there and check out the local talent from time to time. About a month ago, you fought a guy twice your size. Dropped him in the second.”
I remembered that fight. The guy was huge, all wild swings and bad intentions, and he’d driven me into the fence hard enough to rattle my teeth before I knocked him out. I went home with cash in my pocket and a bruise blooming across my ribs.
Devon glanced toward the exit, then back at me. “Have you eaten yet?”
I blinked at the shift in conversation. “What?”
“Food,” he clarified. “You look like you could use some.”
I almost said no out of habit, but I hadn’t eaten since I’d gotten on the road. The adrenaline crash from the fight was already starting to creep in, leaving me feeling a bit shaky.
“Depends,” I answered. “What’s the catch?”
His mouth twitched. “No catch.”
“People usually don’t offer to buy me food for no reason.”
“Maybe I’m just a nice guy.”
I took him in for a second, trying to decide if that was bullshit. “Maybe.”
“Or,” he added, “maybe I see someone with potential who’s currently wasting it by getting punched in abandoned warehouses.”
“So which is it?” I asked. “You being nice or are you trying to recruit me into something?”
