Page 67 of The Devil’s Feather

I shrank in my chair. “I didn’t want to be rude.”

“Oh no, I should have asked,” Zainab assured me. “It just tastes better with regular milk.”

“I’m sure it does.” We shared rueful smiles, and she skipped off to the kitchen.

Ross clapped with delight. “Ok but we love a protective Daddy.”

Rafael winced over his small porcelain cup. “Do not call me that.”

My friend’s eyes narrowed, and his lips pursed. In a loud stage whisper, he asked me, “So, apart from the deep sexy voice and being able to climb this man like a mountain, why do we like him?”

I snorted. God, I’d missed Ross. “I swear, he’s normally witty and charming.”

Rafael set his cup down. “This woman is ruining my terrible reputation.” He leaned back and raised his voice just enough to carry to the kitchen. “Zainab, Mehmet, come and tell them how I am wretched and not at all charming.”

Ross nodded thoughtfully. “Oh, he’s a smartass. You do love a smartass.”

1 “The Devil Went Down to Georgia” by Charlie Daniels Band

19

I AM JACK’S LINGERING AGGRESSION

Ross and I rolled up to the fight in his silver Prius; it was in a sketchy-as-fuck empty warehouse in South San Francisco. Even the parking lot gave me the heebies. Originally, Ross had been excited to show off his new “butch” motorcycle boots and jeans he’d found on our shopping date. The enthusiasm faded with the venue.

I clung to Ross’s arm, since he had five inches and probably a hundred pounds on me. He looked like he was all fluff, but he worked out, and there was strength in those arms. He’d claimed it was for fending off all the hot men who wanted him.

“Are we about to get axe murdered?” he muttered through his teeth.

“You know, that has been a theme.”

The bouncer was a big brute who looked like he’d been dragged across concrete face-first more than once in his life. Recognition and, weirdly, a hint of respect lit his otherwise flat eyes when he checked our IDs. “Oh, you’re with Nazim? Yeah, go on in.”

“Oh my god, girl,” Ross whispered harshly in my ear. “I wanted to see hot men tussle, not watch them literally kill each other. This is like a legit Fight Club moment.”

I only nodded. We sidled through a crowd of mostly men, speckled with a few tatted, very busty, scantily clad women. Lots of metal and gym t-shirts, cauliflower ears, and badly healed broken noses. Several burly bikers clustered together off to one side of the ring—which was really more of a cage with its chain link sides. Their leather-clad backs proudly displayed their motorcycle club logo.

“Aww, look, they’re all matching,” I whispered to Ross. “That’s so cute.”

Ross snorted. “You are gonna get us killed.”

We got drinks—deciding cans were the safest option—and found our seats in a corner reserved for us.

The first fights were featherweight, with each round announced by a guy standing on a crate with a megaphone and scantily clad women holding up numbers. The fighters were gangly but fast. I winced every time a bony joint collided with the mat.

We clapped and cheered for whoever Ross deemed hotter. He declared none of them were husband material yet. By the time the welterweights were through, I was getting tired. It was approaching midnight. I bounced to my feet with a second wind when the heavyweights were announced, but Rafael was not among them.

Ross perked up as I drooped. “Girl, you know this means your man is a superheavyweight.”

Burly fighters circled each other. One beat his chest and yelled. Did they not realize how silly that looked?

“I don’t really know what that means.”

Ross grabbed me by the shoulders, peering deep into my eyes as if about to impart the wisdom of the universe. “It means he weighs more than 265lbs. There’s no upper limit on that weight class. I’m guessing he’s over 300.”

Jesus, I’d known Rafael must be heavier than average just based on his height and muscle, but I’d had no idea what that really meant. The crowd roared as one heavyweight landed a solid uppercut, knocking his opponent out cold.

Finally, the superheavyweight bouts were announced. Ross and I stood to cheer as my composer entered the scene. Unique among the competitors, Rafael wore a thin, long-sleeved compression shirt and leggings to his ankles under the fight shorts. All black, of course. His shorts were a little longer than most others. Damn, he looked good.