“Win the fight,” Zane said, “then bitch about it.”
I went out, and I fought Juarez. I forced my attention away from the scene unfolding beyond the crowd, and fended off Juarez’s quick fists and quicker feet. He caught me with several lancing blows, making my cheek swell and splitting my lip, but I was the one to draw the first real blood, my left hook ripping open his cheek and a right cross bloodying his nose. He returned the favor almost immediately, though, with a scything, snakebite-fast sidekick I never saw coming, cracking my teeth together, followed by a wicked right jab to break my nose.
It was on, then. We bruised each other through the second round, and then I retreated to my corner to get cleaned up by Moss. By this point, each of the SUVs had disgorged four beefy-looking private bodyguards, the types that wore matching black suits, earpieces, and were armed for sure. They formed a semicircle around the truck, hands crossed in front of them, positioned to watch the curious crowd, which was starting to take notice of the unusual proceedings, distracting some of them from the fight.
“Stay focused, Bax,” Moss rumbled to me as he dabbed at my nose. “That shit don’t concern you.”
“Yes, it fuckin’ does.”
“Ain’t gonna get you your cut if you lose because you’re distracted by pussy, even fancy-ass, high-class pussy like that.”
“Watch your—” I started to growl.
He cut in impatiently. “Yeah, yeah, watch my fuckin’ mouth, I get it. She’s special, yada yada yada. Focus on the fight, Bax. Win the fight and then go chase the tail.”
I snarled, prepared to curse him out, but the bell rang and I had to go face Juarez for the third round. I wasn’t focused, though. Part of my attention kept drifting to Eva, standing in the bed of the truck, a red Solo cup in hand, still dressed in that fine-ass skirt and top she’d put on this morning, which she’d stripped off for me mere hours ago. She was facing the limo, back straight, head up, shoulders squared. Waiting.
Maybe I was reading things into her body language, but it seemed to me like she was preparing to face a firing squad, almost. Going into something she hated but had no control over. Which was fuckin’ bullshit, if you asked me, but no one was asking.
I caught a sharp jab off Juarez, which brought my attention back to the fight, and I had to duck and weave and fend off a sudden flurrying onslaught of fast fists, which drove me back against the ropes and put me on the defensive in a way no fighter ever had before. I let the ropes catch me and warded off the punches, watching for an opening. Saw one, a slight hitch in his step as his foot caught a slippery patch of grass, giving me a split second to cut in with a messy but effective jab-cross combo. It put Juarez back on his heels just enough to let me get away from the ropes and the grabbing, pushing hands of the crowd pressed up against the edge of the ring, but then my gaze slipped, just for a second, to Eva.
A tall, stern, swarthy, black-haired man at the far end of middle age stood facing her in an expensive suit. He was speaking to her, and she was arguing back, gesturing angrily. Beside the older man was a younger version, blond hair swept backward, also wearing a full three-piece suit that probably cost more than the Silverado. The younger blond man stepped forward toward Eva, gesturing at the crowd, at the ring, at Juarez and me, and I could almosttastethe derisive, bitter ridicule he was probably spouting, and Eva pivoted to face the blond guy—Thomas, I would bet any money—her hands gesturing even more angrily, waving, chopping.
Good girl, Eva, stand up for yourself. Tell those fuckers who’s boss.
But then, in the split-second between my gaze flicking back to Juarez and his onrushing left foot and back to Eva, she was hopping down from the truck, refusing her father’s hand or Thomas’s.
I caught Juarez’s kick straight to my belly, knocking the wind out of me.
Eva was walking, shoulders hunched, toward the limo.
FUCK!—the sight of her walking away left me even more wounded than Juarez’s kick.
Rage blistered through me, and I gasped through the breathless agony of a cracked rib, twisted aside to dodge a follow-up kick and block a one-two punch combo, accepting a third shot to the cheek in return for an opening, which I took.
One punch, the most brutal I’d ever thrown, with the full force of the red, seething rage boiling inside me.
It caught Juarez on the side of the jaw, spun him around, and he dropped to the ground, out cold.
I wasted no time sprinting across the ring, caught the upper rope and used it to vault myself over, landing on my feet at a dead run. The crowd parted, probably seeing the rage on my face.
As Eva stood waiting for one of the bodyguards to open the limo door for her, Thomas pressed up against her, pinning her to the side of the limo with his body; her father watched impassively as Eva squirmed and slapped at Thomas, trying to get away.
Oh,hellno.
The bodyguards saw me coming and formed a barrier between us, one of them reaching into his coat to withdraw a silver pistol. I halted a couple feet away from the line of bodyguards.
“EVA!” I shouted.
I felt a burst of pride when she finally shoved Thomas away with a violent curse, turning to look at me.
“Baxter,” she breathed, and moved past Thomas, approaching the line of armed guards, stepping between them to stand inches from me. “Hi.”
I was a bloody mess, my nose sluicing blood, my cheek split open, holding my rib cage with one hand. “Eva. You know these tools?”
She gave a half-hearted smile. “I knowthattool, andthattool,” she said, pointing at her father and Thomas.
“Evangeline du Maurier! This is unacceptable. Get in the limo,now,” her father snapped. “No more of this nonsense. I’ve wasted far too much time and money trying to find you, and I’m not wasting any more.”
