Chapter One
The large roomwas loud and noisy, and aggression hung in the air. There was an aura of restlessness as the spectators moved about as if trying to spend their excess energy. Faded brown spots dotted the checkerboard linoleum floor, metal walls and beams gave the room an industrial look, and a metallic scent of copper mixed with sweat permeated the room. A square ring was the centerpiece in the room; four parallel rows of rope enclosed it. The glittering stars blinked through hundreds of small square windows.
A man in his late forties stood in the middle of the ring, a microphone in his hands. Gray streaks at the temples colored his brown hair, and his toned body shone under the bright white lights above the platform. The crowd of about two hundred and fifty turned their eyes to the man.
“That’s Bloody Knuckles,” someone from the crowd said.
“Thank you all for coming out tonight. We have a great lineup of fighters for your entertainment.” The man paused for a few dramatic seconds. “Let the fights begin.” His deep voice echoed through the room.
The lights flashed three times, then blasting hard rock music shook the walls. An electric tension filled the air as the spectators stood waiting for the first set of fighters to step into the ring. The crowd, who would soon be cheering, cussing, and whistling as the two fighters connected their punches, enjoyed the adrenaline rush of seeing hardcore fights.
Diablo, sergeant-at-arms for the Night Rebels MC, stood behind the audience, his eyes constantly moving. He worked as a bouncer for underground fights to earn some extra money. He’d done many gigs at small warehouses such as this for the past two years. His reputation as a no-nonsense enforcer who kept his nose out of the promoters’ business earned him a solid reputation on the illegal fighting circuits.
That night was the first time he’d worked with fights organized by Bloody Knuckles. Diablo had heard about him; he was known as the kingpin of underground fighting in southwestern Colorado. As Diablo scanned the crowd, he saw the tautness of excitement etched on their faces. He spotted Chains, Army, Skull, Brutus, and Sangre—some of his Night Rebels brothers—among the sea of faces.
Then the crowd went wild as two men, bare-knuckled, shirtless, barefoot, and wearing black boxer shorts, walked up to the ring. They had a no-holds-barred attitude as they stepped into the ring, ready to draw blood on their opponent. Underground fighting brought strangers together to pummel each other for the entertainment of the crowd.
“Are you fighting tonight?” a woman in a short spandex skirt and tight sleeveless top yelled in Diablo’s ear.
He ran his eyes quickly over her body and laughed dryly; he’d lost count of how many times he’d been asked that question. He shook his head and averted his gaze to the two men with raised fists.
The woman lingered.
“I’m working here. You have to move on.” Diablo gave her shoulder a soft push.
“When do you get off work?” she asked.
“No reason for you to know that.” He shifted his body away from her. Slowly, she walked away and disappeared into the crowd.
Diablo was used to the attention he received from men and women alike. Men tended to either be intimidated by his six-foot-four size or see it as a challenge. He’d lost count of the number of times guys started shit with him, sure they were going to prove they could beat his ass. During those altercations, he left bloodied and broken assholes on the floors of bars as he walked away practically unscathed.
Women were another story. They flocked to him, loving his toned chest and arms, his dark beard, and his colorful tats. His shaved head, ear tunnels, and penetrating stare lent to the danger and excitement a lot of the women craved. But he wasn’t interested.
He didn’t like the way women threw themselves at him. If he was interested, he’d let them know, but the chicks never gave him a chance. They always wanted to touch his firm biceps, run their fingers over his tattoos, and tug gently at his beard. He knew they wanted to fuck him because he wore the Night Rebels patch; they didn’t seem to give a damn abouthim. All they wanted was the thrill of screwing a bad boy because they saw his height, his toned chest and arms, and his dark beard.
He usually didn’t give them the time of day. When he wanted carnal indulgence he always went with the club girls. He wasn’t looking for a woman in his life; he’d gone down that path once, and that was more than enough for him.
“The testosterone is bouncing off the fucking walls!” Bloody Knuckles bellowed in his ear. Diablo gave a curt nod. “Damn, man, don’t youfeelit? I love this shit. It’s raw and unfiltered. It’s combat at its most honest and ruthless state.”
Diablo stared straight ahead, surveying the two men punching it out in the ring. Sprinkles of blood fell around them like thin mist. The two guys didn’t look tough.Probably work in a bank or a law firm.In the two years that Diablo had been bouncing for the underground fighting world, he’d learned that the fighters came together for a variety of reasons: to release their anger and stress, to find their masculinity, and to go against the grain of normalcy in their safe lives. Fighting made them gods for that twenty or thirty minutes in the ring.
The crowd yelled and screamed as one of the fighters unleashed several punches on his opponent. There was a savageness that appealed to the crowd as the fighters went head-to-head in the ring. The more blood spilled, the crazier the crowd cheered. Diablo figured the spectators’ anger was unleashed on each punch and kick; they were out for blood, and the more there was the better time they had. Betting on the fighters was another thrill, and big money could be made depending on how large the crowd was and who was in the ring.
“Tonight’s gonna bring in a lot of dough. I told the other bouncers to be on alert.” Bloody Knuckles clapped Diablo’s forearm.
Diablo took a step away from the promoter. “I’m always on alert, and don’t fuckin’ touch me again.”
The promoter’s eyes widened, and then he laughed as he smoothed his hair back. “You bikers are so fucking sensitive. I keep forgetting that.” He glanced at Diablo’s stoic face. “I’m gonna circulate. If you need something, come find me.”
Diablo narrowed his eyes as he watched him walk away. There was something about the man that he didn’t like.He’s trying too hard for me to like him. I don’t trust him. He better fucking pay me or I’ll split his head open.
Half the crowd cheered while the other half booed. He snapped his gaze to the ring and saw the blond-haired fighter crumpled on the ground. A short man with wiry black hair and beady eyes entered the ring, bent over, then blew a whistle. The loud music shut off and an eerie silence fell over the room.
After a couple seconds, a man in the crowd yelled, “What the fuck? Is the fight over?”
The wiry-haired man raised his hands. “Striker is passed out. The fight is over. McKinnley is the winner.” A burst of cheers, whistles, and claps moved through the room like a tidal wave.
The rules surrounding the fights were simple: the fighters could do just about anything to one another’s unarmed bodies, no shirts or shoes, and if a fighter called it quits or lost consciousness, the fight was over. Striker had lost consciousness, and the ones who’d bet on McKinnley had just made a shitload of money.
