“Lexie. Lexie Morgan. Nice to meet you. And you are?”
Holding her gaze, the security guard drags his hands along her arms, sides of her boobs, and armpits before dragging them along her torso. “Head inside, Lexie.”
“Don’t mind if I do.”
“Next,” he grunts.
I step forward and spread my arms, mirroring my best friend's stance from moments ago. “Hello, Barry.”
“Name’s Paulson.”
“Hello, Paulson.” He almost cups my boob, and I shy away from him, my nostrils flaring.
“At least buy her dinner first,” Lexie quips from the side of the entrance.
I fight the urge to bat at his meaty paws despite him being nothing but analytical in his search. “You guys aren’t kidding about the no recording device,” I add.
“Not even close.” His hands leave my body, and he steps aside. “You’re good to go.”
“Why, thank you.”
I meet Lexie at the entrance, and we head inside. It’s dark. Not pitch black or anything, but dark. Ominous, almost. Fluorescent lights hang from the tall ceilings on thin wires. It makes me feel like I’m trapped in an abandoned basement, and I’m about to be tortured by a serial killer or something. I step closer to Lexie’s side and thread my arm through hers.
“Don’t worry,” she says. “It’s always like this.”
Always.
Because Lexie goes to so many Harden Nights.
Suuuure.
“Lexie!” someone yells.
Standing on my tiptoes, I search for the culprit. A guy with dark brown hair buzzed close to his head and the same olive skin my best friend was blessed with is staring at us with his arms raised ina what took you so longgesture.
“Get your ass over here!” he calls.
I give Lexie the side-eye. “Is that your brother?”
“Okay, he’s a little impatient. Come on.” Keeping her arm looped with mine, Lexie tugs us toward her brother and the small group of friends. Or at least, I think they’re his friends. They’re standing around, shooting the shit together like chaos doesn’t surround us. Okay, chaos is a bit of an overstatement, but also…is it?
The sound of fists hitting flesh mingle with groans and cheers as I try to take it all in. The sea of people. The alcohol. The familiar scent of perfume and cologne mixed with sweat. It would remind me of the other night at Harden Estate if itwasn’t for the added undertone of copper, thanks to the blood. Two stages are highlighted in the center of the large, open room. Each one showcases a pair of angry men in bottoms and nothing else. Sweat glistens off their muscles as they dance around the rings with their hands raised. Each of them takes turns throwing punches left and right while spectators surround the small platforms and shout at the opponents. Cheering. Booing. Gasping. Groaning. Chanting. The energy is overwhelming. It also makes me want to step closer out of sheer curiosity. I thought I’d seen it all, but this? This is something else entirely.
One of the fighters takes a hit to his jaw and stumbles back, covering his face with his hands while the opponent takes full advantage and barrels closer.
Lexie guides me through the throng of people until we reach her brother.
“You’re late,” he says, stealing my attention.
Here he is. The infamous Ethan Morgan. It’s kind of weird. Because I almost feel like I should know him, thanks to my relationship with his little sister, but with how little she talks about the guy, instead, all I feel is…confused. And now that I’m closer, I can’t help but notice their similarities. Not just the olive skin, but the shape of their faces, too, though Lexie’s nose isn’t crooked from taking one too many hits. Yeah, this man screams fighter. Bulky muscles. Cauliflower ears. Roid rage aura. Okay, that last one’s a bit of an assumption, but I wouldn’t be surprised if he dabbled in a bit of the juice. He sure as hell looks like he has.
Waving him off, Lexie says, “Or did we make it just in time?”
He gives her a look that would make a lesser woman cower, but she only gives him a smile. “When do you go on?”
“Up next.” He casts her a quick glance before turning back to the closer brawl. “You gonna place a bet?”
“I would, but it would mean talking to the enemy, remember?”
