“Sure. That’s why you were watching him like a hawk.” He looks out across the bar, and she stands there next to the makeshift ring, waiting for Grave to go on. Jasmine on one side and Nite on the other.
“She’s hot.” He nods to himself. “I like the whole purple hair and piercing thing.”
“What the fuck do you want, Jimmy?” I snap. “A drink?”
He turns to face me, placing his forearm on the bar. “How about we even the scoreboard?”
“What the fuck are you talking about?”
“You want Grave to remember you, right?” He steps into me. “Then you make him jealous.”
I pull my lip back with disgust. “Are you suggesting I fuck you?”
He licks his lips, placing a hand on my hip. “Or I fuck you.” He shrugs. “However you prefer.”
GRAVE
I stand next to the ring with my eyes on April. She’s laughing. Her head thrown back as Jasmine leans in, holding onto her. They’re both drunk. I can still taste the liquor on my tongue from our kiss.
I meant it when I told her the Mason brothers wouldn’t touch her. Not here. Not ever. Tanner won’t go back on his word, and that’s why I made him promise. It’s also why I’m standing here shirtless about to beat the fuck out of some unlucky kid. He leaves her alone, and I fight. I bring in money for them.
She’s worth that.
Nite stands next to them, his eyes always scanning the crowd. No man allows their girlfriend to come here alone. Too many empty rooms and dark corners for them to be raped or beaten. The Airport doesn’t have hours. They’re open twenty-four hours three hundred sixty-five days a year. Sometimes, even the homeless will find a corner to sleep in just to get off the streets for a night.
The Mason brothers don’t give a fuck. They’re protected and so is their money. That’s all that matters.
“Ready?” A hand slaps my bare shoulder.
Colt Tinsley stands next to me. He helps run this place. Either he’s taking money out on the tarmac before races or he’s overlooking the fights—he’s their go-to man. “Yep,” I answer, pulling my cell from my pocket and handing it to him.
He smiles. “Okay, then. Go knock someone out.”
I enter the ring, and the crowd starts to scream out my name. I smile, lifting my hands to protect my face. The thing about fighting in the pit at the Airport is that there are no rules. It’s a free-for-all. You fight until someone is on the floor unconscious, and however you accomplish that is up to you.
The man who stands across from me has every bit of six inches in height on me and probably five in reach. I’ve seen him fight before. There’s a reason they call him thunder and not lightning. He’s a big guy, which limits his movements. He hits hard but moves slow.
I step into him and swing. My right fist makes contact with the side of his head. He immediately swings back, and I duck, throwing another punch to his ribs. He bends forward, giving me an opportunity to grab his head and lift my knee.
He takes a step backward, dazed.
“Come on, fucker,” I taunt. My girl is here. I gotta show off for her, show her what I’m made of, so she knows I can protect her if she ever needs me.
He charges me, wrapping his arms around me and picking my feet up off the floor. I’m body slammed down onto my back, the concrete momentarily taking my breath away.
I slam my elbow into his jaw, knocking him off me. I roll over onto my side as he starts to get up on his hands and knees. I throw my legs around his neck and squeeze, dragging his ass back down to the floor. And I hold him there. He fights me—his legs kick the floor and his nails dig into my thighs, but I hold on.
He starts tapping my leg as if he expects me to let go. I guess he didn’t get the memo on how these fights work.
The crowd is chanting my name and slapping the railing. I feel him start to loosen his grip on my thighs. His body relaxing. Seconds later, he goes completely limp, and I let go of him, jumping to my feet.
Everyone is jumping up and down and hollering as I exit the pit. Colt hands me my phone and a wad of cash. “Here you go.”
“Thanks.” I breathe and make my way over to the bar, dying for a drink.
Tanner Mason waits there for me with a bottle of water in his hands. The guy looks like he owns a Fortune 500 company with his black three-piece suit. He always dresses up with his highlighted hair combed back. If you didn’t know him, you’d think he was a stuck-up rich kid. But I know him and he’s nothing close to that. He’s a killer in a five-thousand-dollar suit that you don’t want as an enemy. Too bad he hates me for putting his ass in jail. “Good job, Grave.”