Chapter 8 Definitely Not Freaking Out
Raine
The crowd is pumped with a restless kind of energy, something between excitement and intoxication.
Golden hour light spills over the asphalt lot, catching the chain-link fence and the chalk lines that mark the ring.
Legal fights mean no dank warehouse at night and no cops to worry about.
Instead it’s chalk boundaries, a medic on standby, and a bunch of people pretending this is civilized because someone bothered to get a permit.
“Rainwater’s up!” someone shouts.
I hate that name. Always have.
It stuck after I wiped some guy out in the rain two years ago, and apparently, that’s all it takes for strangers to brand you for life.
The guy across from me is a mountain with fists. Broad shoulders, thick neck, too confident for someone who’s about to eat pavement. His tape is stained with old blood, his grin even worse.
“You sure this is your bracket?” he calls, too damn smug, thinking my size is something to laugh about. “Don’t wanna bruise that pretty face.”
“Positive.” I tighten my wraps, clenching and unclenching my fists to test it. “You can bow out if you’re nervous, though. No shame.”
That earns a few laughs from the edge of the crowd as someone yells, “Get him, Raine!” I flash a grin that’s more teeth than charm before the bell clangs, and he comes in fast.
Predictable. Big guys always are.
He throws a wild hook that could probably take down a wall, but I manage to duck under—the wind of it brushing my hair—and I fire a low kick straight to his shin. He stumbles a couple paces, staring at me like he just realized who he’s dealing with.
“Ooh!” the crowd howls.
He recovers, angrier now, and swings again. I step back, letting him chase me, then I pivot hard. My knuckles catch his jaw clean with an uppercut that snaps his head back. There’s more cheering from the crowd that I try to tune out.
Have to stay focused.
He wipes his mouth, spits blood onto the pavement, and laughs. “You’re fast. I’ll give you that.”
“Thanks,” I snark out, circling him like the prey he doesn’t realize he is. “You’re slow. I’ll give you that.”
He charges again, like maybe this time it’ll work. I bait him, stepping in at the last second, taking my knee to his ribs and my elbow to his temple. The hits land quickly, strong enough to steal his air and balance.
When he swings again, it’s sloppy, which makes it easy for me to duck out of the way again.
I drive a punch into his side and follow with another low kick that buckles his leg hard enough to drop him to his knees.
It’s my favorite move. It brings them right to my eye level.
The ref moves in, hand raised ready to stop this, but the guy waves him off and tries to stand.
I sigh, upset this fight is taking longer than it should. “Seriously?”
Fine. Get your ass beat by me then.
It takes one last hit—a clean hook across the jaw—for him to finally go down for real.
The bell rings, the crowd roars, and the lights flash off the sweat on my arms. I raise one fist and exhale hard through my mouthpiece, trying to ignore the way my heart doesn’t calm even after the win.
I nod once at the crowd, shake the tension out of my shoulders, and grab my towel from the fence, ready to get out of the spotlight and away from the noise.
My pulse is still hammering even though I should feel good right now. But as I glance toward the edge of the lot—at the line of parked cars and the silhouettes leaning against them—there’s a flicker in my chest that doesn’t settle.
For a second, I swear I see one of Bash’s men. And suddenly, the cheers feel like noise instead of victory.
They wait until the crowd thins before crossing the lot. Two guys as always—the scarred one leading, his new shadow trailing half a step behind, eyes darting everywhere but mine.
He stops just short of my duffel and stares at me as if I should be afraid. “Good show,” he patronizes with an even voice. “Boss heard you’ve been busy.”
I twist the cap off my water bottle and take a long drink, dragging it out just to be annoying. The bottle crinkles in my grip when I set it down. “Didn’t realize he was keeping tabs.”
“He keeps tabs on everything that’s his.”
There it is—the claim, wrapped up in neat little words. I meet his eyes long enough to make the message clear: I don’t belong to anyone. Then I shrug, like it doesn’t matter. “So, what’s new? The payment's not due for another two weeks.”
“Boss wants to talk.” He shifts his weight, thumb hooking under his belt like he’s patient but not generous. “Tomorrow at seven.”
“That soon?”
He shrugs like it’s none of his business even though he's the one enforcing it. "He likes punctual people.”
Behind him, the new guy keeps glancing at the parked cars like he’s wishing for an escape hatch. His nervousness bleeds into the air, making everything feel off-balance.
I wipe the sweat from my face with the towel slung around my neck and then stare right into scared man's face. “You can tell him I’ll be there.”
Scar’s mouth twitches. “You say that every time.”
“And I show up, don’t I?”
He studies me for a moment longer, trying to figure me out. “You’ve got a smart mouth for someone who owes interest.”
“It’s my only asset,” I throw out lightly, though my pulse is starting to pick up.
He takes a half step closer to me, enough that I catch the faint scent of ash and something metallic. “Tomorrow,” he repeats, quieter now, as if suddenly aware there are other people listening. “Don’t test him, Raine. He’s in a mood.”
I keep my posture loose even as every instinct screams to punch him in the face. “Sure. I’ll bring cookies.”
That earns me nothing—not even a smile. He just watches me for another second before turning away. The rookie follows quickly, relief plain on his face.
I don’t move. Not until I see them.
Theo. Jax. Elias.
Standing near the barrier, half hidden by the crowd but close enough that I know exactly who they are. Jax’s shoulders are squared, Theo’s mouth a tight line, and Elias—he’s the picture of calm anger, hands in his pockets but ready.
My stomach sinks.
Scar catches the direction of my gaze, starts to pivot. I jump in fast.
“I’ll be there,” I say, louder than necessary, forcing a casual tone. “No delays this time.”
His eyes narrow just slightly, suspicion flashing before he nods once. “Good.”
The rookie opens the car door for him, and they get in without another word. The engine hums, headlights cutting through the dim light, and I stand there pretending to check my hands until they’re gone.
When I finally turn, the guys are already moving toward me.
Jax gets there first, all restless energy. “You wanna finally tell me who those guys really are?”
I tug at my wrist wrap. “Nothing to tell.”
Theo folds his arms, like he knows there’s more to this story. “You looked… nervous.”
“I just fought a match in ninety-degree heat,” I flick my hand toward the ring. “I’m allowed to look a little human.”
Elias doesn’t buy it. He studies my face, the line of my shoulders, probably cataloguing every tell I’ve got. “They from the garage?”
“No,” I answer too quickly. “Old friends.”
“Didn’t look friendly.”
"You said they were clients yesterday," Jax counters, thinking he caught me in a lie.
"Old friends can be clients," I fire back, fast enough to not be suspicious.
I grab the bottle again just to have something to do with my hands.
Jax’s mouth tilts into something between a grin and a frown. “You’ve got a real bad habit of saying nothing with a lot of words.”
“Thanks,” I mutter, flicking my eyes toward my next fight area. “Now, if you’ll excuse me—”
Theo cuts in softly, stopping me before I can move forward. “Raine.”
Something in his tone makes me pause. He’s not accusing, not prying—just worried, and it makes my chest tight.
“I’ve got another fight,” I tell them, forcing my voice steady. “If you’re gonna stick around, stay back. Please.”
Elias doesn’t answer right away, and that silence says more than words could. Finally, he nods once. “We’ll stay clear.”
Jax sighs like he’s giving up a fight. “But you’re telling us if that conversation comes back to bite you.”
“Sure,” I lie through my goddamn teeth.
Theo’s the last one to move, still watching me like he’s trying to solve a puzzle he doesn’t have all the pieces to.
I turn before any of them can see how rattled I really am, checking my tape and squaring my shoulders. Just one more round, and I can go home and pretend the world’s not closing in.
The lights are brutal now. Bright enough to make the concrete shine and the sweat sting my eyes. The sun kissed the horizon and set into the night about fifteen minutes ago.
My second fight means a heavier, broader opponent. Big enough to block the floodlights when he steps forward. He cracks his neck like he’s warning me, but I’ve seen worse.
The bell hits and it all starts in a flash.
He lunges first—predictable. I sidestep, send a jab straight to his ribs, feeling it connect. He grunts and swings again, slower this time. I duck under, twist, and land one clean to his jaw. The crowd yells something I don’t bother to make out, focusing solely on him.
He gets a hit in, catching my shoulder. Pain flashes but I push through it, returning the favor with a kick to his thigh that makes him stumble. Another jab, then an uppercut to the jaw that shuts his mouth for good.
He drops like dead weight.
Cheers go off around me, but I don’t feel elated or triumphant.
All I can feel is nervous. Nervous about them.
About having them cross into my life and getting caught up in a shitstorm they didn't realize they were driving into.
I glance up, wipe the sweat from my mouth with the back of my hand, then see them.
The three of them are still here, of course.
I should have guessed as much.