I nod toward his cheek. “Really?” I say blankly.
He waves his hand dismissively. “A one-time thing. He wouldn’t do it again.”
Damien grunts beside me, then sips his drink like he isn’t listening to our conversation.
“Did you share bunk beds?”
Rico whistles. “He wishes he could get all this.”
I roll my eyes, settling my attention on the empty platform. “Let me guess, you were too fast for him?”
His eyes twinkle. If he tells me how fast he is again, I’m going to punch him myself.
“You and me, chica, we’re the real pair. Riviera ain’t got shit to what we got going.”
I hum in patronizing approval.
With beer in my bloodstream, there’s no stopping my hand from slapping Rico’s chest when he tugs at my hair. “Ow! What was that for?”
“Don’t touch me. And don’t be a baby; I didn’t hit you that hard.”
“Here I was, innocently trying to make conversation and ask you what’s with the pigtails, and you attack me. You’re breaking my heart, bella.”
I let Roman do my hair today. He tried to act chill about it, pretending it was no big deal, like his offer was as mundane as asking if I wanted a tissue after sneezing. But the psycho started humming while getting all the accessories and items he needed. His step even had a tiny little bounce as he moved through the room. Then his forehead crinkled with concentration while he brushed my hair. Mickey went so far as to ask me what I was thinking of wearing so he could match the ribbons to it. But then he decided he would pick my outfit for me: his red shirt, my black jeans, red ribbons and black lace in my hair, and his zip-up and leather jacket. He also made me wear his studded belt.
I had to put my foot down when he tried to make us match. That’s too much, even by my standards. He reluctantly agreed, then shoved a red shirt into his duffle bag when he thought I wasn’t looking. The little shit.
“You could have ruined my hair,” I growl at Rico.
“Why didn’t you say so earlier? It would be my pleasure to ruin you, sweetheart.” He winks.
I fake a gag and swear I hear Damien snort beside me.
The conversation drops when the MC walks into the ring, calling out The Unseen Destroyer, one of the fighters who won yesterday. I have no idea how Roman’s going to win this one. The guy is double his size.
Rico barely notices the crowd growing wild, and honestly, neither do I. The second we walked in here, I made a conscious effort to unplug myself so I wouldn’t wind myself up to the point of nausea again.
This is a job.
The last one.
Then we’re getting our IDs and doing God knows what. No more cartels, no more fighting, no more guns to my head. It’ll just be me and Mickey.
Plus, I didn’t want to ruin the high I’d been running on all day. I didn’t leave the motel at all, so I got to spend the entire day drawing and working on some commissions. It was one of the best days I’ve had in a long time. Hell, Mickey even got me a new phone to message all my customers.
So, after the two a.m. wake-up sex, the drawing, and the food coma I fell into after dinner, there’s no way I’ll let this fight ruin my otherwise perfect day.
This means, the only way for this whole affair not to get to me is by downing beer like water. Luckily, I’m not drinking for taste. But unluckily, my bladder is suffering for my crimes because I desperately need to go, but the line was a mile long last I checked.
The air magnetizes as Mickey forms from the shadows after the MC calls his name—Ares. This time, the crowd sees him for the threat he is. People roar as he walks onto the stage.
“Time to get rich.” Rico grins. Then the lunatic wraps his arm around my shoulders and whistles to get Roman’s attention. The cherry on top of this mess? When Roman looks our way, Rico kisses my cheek.
Rage blasts through the air. Roman twitches forward like he’s about to lunge across the ring and tear Rico’s head off. But I can’t let that happen. We need the money the fight will bring, and Roman needs to keep laying low—well, as low as he can.
Without thinking, I let my reflexes take over. I slam my elbow into Rico’s ribs. When he keels over—no hard feelings, Rico—I straighten my arm and ram my fist into his groin. It isn’t hard enough to do any real damage, but it’s enough for Roman’s eyes to brighten with pleasure.
Rico’s too busy cupping his manhood and groaning in pain to see Roman’s scathing glare, but I don’t miss the wink he throws my way. My cheeks heat like I’m back to being a teenage girl who doesn’t know how to handle being shown affection in public.
Oh God.
My entire body is on fire when he taps the tattoo of my name, blowing me a kiss.
Roman—Ares—blew me a kiss.
Not at home. Not at a game in high school. No, he did it in front of Chicago’s biggest mafia family, the freaking Bratva, a cartel, and Lord knows how many other criminals.
I think I might die from renewed nerves. From the looks of the people around, even they’re confused by the whole scene.
Surely, street fighting 101 is not to look weak in front of your opponent?
“Loverboy Ares won last night’s match against Copper,” the MC continues his introduction, and Rico hobbles off somewhere. To ice his balls is my guess.
Damien doesn’t look up from his phone once, not even when Ares and The Unseen Destroyer square off, and the MC trades places with the referee.
What even is the point of the referee anyway? I haven’t seen him step in once, and I don’t think there’s a single rule in this underground version of sport. Shit, I don’t think murder is off the table, for that matter.
I take another swig of my now empty bottle of beer, and my bladder reminds me that it exists and is in dire need of a reprieve.
Damien tucks his phone into his pocket when the Destroyer lands a blow to Roman’s face. I wince and scream Mickey’s stage name, which may as well be a magic trick or spell, because Roman lands three consecutive punches to the Destroyer’s stomach—which counts for something, even if it barely made the guy flinch.
“I need to pee,” I yell at Damien.
He nods, uncaring about my bodily needs, and I scurry off to where I saw the ladies' room. It’s down one of the creepy corridors, but it could be in the middle of the woods, and I wouldn’t care right now. I’m seconds away from combustion.
I breathe a sigh of relief to find the bathrooms blissfully empty—disgusting, but empty. I know I'm in trouble the second my behind hits the toilet seat.
How much did I drink? Like… four bottles? Or was it six?
I think I’m substantially drunker than I thought. The alternative to my inebriation is that the world is moving, and I’m the one that’s completely still…which seems unlikely.
I’m not sure how long I sit there. Maybe a minute, maybe twenty. I’m dead to the world, attempting to take deep breaths and ground myself physically, mentally, and metaphorically.
How the hell did I get here?
Not the bathroom, but here, in a goddamn underground fighting ring? I thought the wildest thing I’d do in my life is be an accomplice to an after school fight involving Roman or maybe break into a place or two because he convinced me to tag along. But now I’m hanging out in an arena filled with every shade of criminal in existence.
Mickey said this is the last time. I believe him.