“Got it.” I nod, scratching beneath the itchy mask.
“It’s required by all employees, no matter what level you work. No exceptions. It’s added safety. Harder for creeps to get attached. I make sure all my employees are taken care of, but I have neither the time nor inclination to babysit beyond this building.”
I was also given a fake, very stripper-esque name. As if Poppy doesn’t sound enough like a stripper. But apparently, we don’t tell the customers our real names for the same reason we wear masks. So, as far as anyone here knows, my name is Ginger. Yep, the most fucking cliché name ever.
A door swings open and out steps six-plus feet of raw intensity, ripped and coiled, beneath a tight t-shirt that barely contains him. When I see his face, I swallow a gasp.
Casey’s elusive and enigmatic stepbrother is the last person I expected to see here.
Then I wonder why he’s here instead of with his family celebrating.
We stop when we reach him. His eyes rake over me, his tongue darting from between his lips as if he’s trying to figure out who I am before he turns his attention to Dominic. Of course, he doesn’t recognize me. A mask isn’t the best of disguises, but it hides enough. Especially from someone who’s only seen you once.
Not for the first time tonight, I think about the contrast—the stark difference between him and his brother. At the restaurant, it was easy not to ogle. Too much to do, too little time.
But now? He’s impossible to ignore, even if I should. He fills the space, not just with his incredibly sculpted body, but with a presence that rivals the intimidating man next to me.
Then he’s walking toward the arena, and we walk toward the end of the hallway. Dominic’s arm extends out when we reach an open room at the end. “This is where you will come for breaks. The bathroom is through there.”
“Breakroom, bathroom. Got it.”
He spins on his heels without another word, and I’m once again playing follow the leader.
In the arena, the seats are filled. Chaotic demands for the next match boom. Dominic leads me toward a seat closest to the cage and gestures for me to sit. “You say you’re not squeamish. Tonight, you prove it.”
The space between my eyes crinkles with confusion. “It’s just fighting. Like boxing or MMA, right?”
His head turns toward me, dark eyes assessing me. “Yes, it’s fighting. But no rules. Just adrenaline and bloodlust. This doesn’t end because a timer goes off. It ends when they quit or they’re unconscious.”
My chest lifts with a sharp inhale as I absorb the unspoken.If they die, it’s on them.I search his face for any signs of exaggeration, finding none. Slowly, I bob my head once in understanding and turn toward the metal cage, my eyes landing on Jagger, my friend’s brother…stepbrother. Does she know about this? What makes a young, rich, hot-as-sin guy who gets to work with music artists every day want to step into a no-holds-barred cage fight? One that could have catastrophic implications.
He bounces on the balls of his feet, loose but coiled with adrenaline and anticipation. Black-taped fists flex at his side, causing the inked skulls on his arms to writhe over corded sinew. Even a simple neck roll commands attention. I can’t take my eyes off him.
Intensity rolls off him in palpable waves that can be felt all the way to the front row. It’s so thick, I bet they feel it in the locker rooms, too.
He looks manic. Unhinged. Beautiful. A full dichotomy.
Someone walks past me, breaking the one-way connection. Turning my head, I see Will sitting on the other side of his brother, looking pissed as he leans over, whispering to him. I shake my head, thankful for his distraction, reminding myself I should not be ogling my friend’s brother right now. Or ever.
Leo steps inside the cage with a microphone. The energy in the room shifts as the crowd takes notice. Excitement surges through the venue like an electrical current. It’s not the first fight of the night, but it seems to be the most anticipated. “Ladies and gentlemen, it’s time to get bloody.” The crowd roars with that, and I’m unsure if I’m excited or disturbed. “In the black trunks, standing at six-foot-three and a quarter inches tall, weighing in at two hundred twenty pounds with a win-loss record of four and two, Jagger Davis.” The crowd is a mix of cheers and boos as Jagger continues to bounce on his feet, unfazed by the reaction, his focus solely on the man across from him. “And in the green trunks, standing at six-foot-four inches tall, weighing in at two hundred thirty-two pounds with a win-loss record of twelve and one, EzraSharpshooterMason.” Excitement erupts, but I barely contain my eye roll. I’ve always thought the nicknames fighters use were stupid and obvious.
“I’m going to make you fucking bleed, pretty boy.” Mason’s voice booms through the sound system, igniting his fans like a lit fuse.
But I’m watching the man he’s talking to. His lips lift until a wide, disturbing grin splits his face. Arms stretched wide, he says, “That’s what I’m here for,” then he lifts a hand, gesturing for the man to bring it.
My stomach knots tight and low. Not fear. Something insidious and concerning, buzzing just beneath my skin from the display. It looks like a cocky, trash-talking move. I have no reason to believe it’s not arrogance motivating his reply. I don’t know Jagger Davis beyond what little Casey has told me. We’ve never had a conversation. He only knows my name because of my name tag from the restaurant last night.
Yet, I can’t shake the feeling that his words aren’t typical heckling. Something I cannot put my finger on makes me believe he means exactly what he says.
Leo exits the cage, leaving the two men alone. No referee to speak of. Though I suppose if there are no rules, there wouldn’t be. I can’t help but wonder who ends the fight.
They circle each other. Mason charges first, moving like a freight train. He lands three devastating body shots that Jagger doesn’t even attempt to block. He presses forward until Jagger is backed up against the cage. My heart stumbles after a right hook splits Jagger’s brow. Mason follows up, catching him again on the jaw with a left cross. A third strike sends Jagger to the ground. Not once did he try to protect himself.
But when Mason goes to capitalize, he’s not smart. Instead of approaching from the side, he dives straight for Jagger, andJagger catches him in the face with his knee. Blood erupts from his nose as he stumbles back a few steps before he lands right in front of where we’re seated.
Jagger is on his feet before Mason hits the mat, giving him no time to recover before Jagger straddles him and rains down punches like a storm. My heart pounds in time with every blow. Each one lands like a silent scream of fury he can’t contain. Mason’s attempts to block are useless, only giving Jagger another opening to deliver destruction.
My stomach clenches, every muscle goes taut with conflicting emotions coursing through my veins. Time seems to crawl. The roar of the crowd is drowned by the sound of flesh on flesh, bone breaking bone. It’s a massacre, yet somehow beautiful.
