Chapter 8 #2
I sigh and pull his hands off my shirt. “Come on.” I grab him by his arm again and try to pull him forward, but his feet are planted to the ground. Like a cat digging their claws in to the carpet, he refuses to move.
“Come on, Carm,” I whisper at him as I lean in further. “If you don’t get outta here, you might not make it out.”
“Maybe I don’t want to!” he shouts at me.
I blink, just staring at him for a moment. My chest aches. Like a stone surrounding my heart, another small piece of it starts to break away.
“You don’t mean that. Now come the fuck on.” I pull him, practically thrashing and kicking all the way to the exit of the arena.
People are booing in annoyance, and as I force him out, the guards close in so that he can’t turn around and run back in when I let him go.
If I let him go.
“Jesus Fucking Christ, you’re acting like a goddamn toddler!” I drag Carmine to the back of the room, near the left corner, and then slam him against the concrete wall in front of us.
Carmine gasps, sucking in air in shock, and then grabs me by the collar of my jacket.
“Why did you do that?” he asks me. His eyes are shining, wet, reddened.
Likely from crying his eyes out earlier.
I find myself wanting to ask what happened.
Something did. I’d seen the pile of glass in the library on the camera when I’d checked.
I’d watched him get dressed and leave the house, but I’d missed everything before that.
“You don’t need to be fighting anyone,” I tell him. “You’re supposed to call me, remember?”
“Pft. For what? So you can stop me from doing what I actually fucking want to do?” he asks me.
“Yes, exactly that, you stubborn asshole.” I grab him by the jaw.
He grabs me by the wrist but doesn’t pull my hand away.
I lean in closer to him. “The guys who fight in there, they’re fighting for life or death. They’ve got nothin’ to lose,” I remind him.
He looks at me, glassy eyed, and he doesn’t need to even say the words for me to know. I can see them in his eyes. In the way his breath hitches. In the way his fingers tighten even more around my wrist.
“Don’t even,” I mumble just loud enough.
I pull my hand from his face but lean in slightly. He smells…disgusting. Like sweaty liquor and concrete dust. Yet…every inch of me wants to move in closer. Taste the alcohol on his breath with my tongue. Inhale his moans and make him feel something besides the guilt and anger.
Let him use me for whatever he needs to, while I use him…
My cock twitches and I lift a hand, brushing it against his lip.
He meets my eyes, confusion in his that starts to warm with desire.
“As if you could even make it in there,” I tease him as my thumb slides down his chin. I feel several pairs of eyes on us, but I don’t know whose, and I almost don’t care.
“Shut up.” Carmine exhales quickly but doesn’t attempt to move away from me or shove me away.
“Make me. You wanted to fight, right?” I ask him. “You think it’ll make you feel better. Fight me then.” I lean in closer. “Make me shut up, Carmy.”
I swear Carmine’s face gets two shades darker and four shades pinker.
“Asshole,” he spits. Droplets of his saliva speckle my face.
“Mhm. That’s right, take it out on me,” I hum at him with a smirk.
Carmine groans and finally shoves me away. I don’t stop him. I do, however, glance down at his crotch and see the tenting in his jeans. It makes the blood pump harder throughout my own body, all traveling down to my dick.
I chuckle. “Feel any better?” I ask him.
He’s glaring at me, but before he can reply, I feel a light touch on my shoulder. I look to the side and see Rosalie there.
“Having fun?” she asks me. Her lipstick is slightly smudged.
“Not as much as you apparently,” I ask her. “I didn’t know you and the boy had an open arrangement.” I’m teasing mostly, because I don’t really care what my sister does.
She rolls her eyes. “I smeared it with my hand,” she insists. “Besides, you’re the one getting close and personal with…” She looks over at him.
Carmine brushes his sleeves off and shoves his hands in his pockets. “Who’s this?” he asks.
I laugh. “You don’t know?” I smile. “That’s lucky.”
“Or he’s too drunk to remember,” Rose teases.
“I’m not too drunk to remember anything. What, did I fuck you or something?” Carmine asks between clenched teeth.
“I wasn’t talking to you,” Rosalie says with a pointed glance in his direction. “Anyway. Are you done here yet? I’m not having very much fun.”
I know that’s code for, “I’m not getting fucking shit” when it comes to information.
“You’re free to leave,” I tell her. “I’m still having a good time.”
She rolls her eyes, and then looks between me and Carmine. “I can see that. Maybe you two should get a room. I’m going to call a car and head to the bar up the street.”
“Fine,” I reply.
Rosalie knows I’ll meet her there later to talk about all of the information she didn’t get.
For now, I need to continue keeping an eye on Carmine. At least, that’s the reason I’m telling myself for not leaving with her.
“I didn’t know you have a girlfriend,” Carmine teases me in return once Rosalie has walked away.
My nose crinkles. “That’s my sister,” I tell him. “Rosalie, and believe me, even if she wasn’t my sister, I wouldn’t be interested.” I shake my head.
Carmine looks in the direct she left. “Well, that’s an image I didn’t fuckin’ need.”
We both seem to shudder at the same time, and then I smirk at him, and he slowly smiles a small smile back at me before looking at the floor.
“Guess someone in the family had to get the pretty genes,” he insults me, but the look on his face keeps me from being too annoyed. For once he’s not brooding. Not entirely at least.
I take a step back, feeling the distance between us now that I’m not touching him.
I remind myself what I actually came here for. To keep an eye on him, and get in with him even further. Not just that, though. I look around and observe briefly if there are any Carvels here or anyone who might be related to them. Friend, family, or foe.
I don’t see anyone, not yet. So, I simply turn around and look through the crowd at the arena as the music lowers and a voice begins to announce the first round of fighters.
“At least let me get a good look at the fight,” Carmine says from behind me. He moves past me and starts his way through the crowd.
I can’t help but follow him, until we’re close to the front again; just a few feet back from the chain link.
“Can’t believe you stopped him,” a woman on the left of me says, leaning in close. “I would’ve bet three hundred he’d get pummeled.”
My jaw clenches as I ignore her, not even giving her a first look much less a second.
Still, I can’t help but imagine what might’ve gone down in there if I hadn’t dragged him out. If Tiger had been interested in letting him fight to the death.
I don’t have to imagine. Not as two men are introduced to the crowd.
One large, muscular, broad shouldered and dressed in street clothing.
The other, small but lithe and limber, already moving around like he knows exactly how to bounce on his feet to get out of the way.
He’s shirtless, and his torso is covered in tattoos.
The crowd cheers as they’re announced, but I tune the sound out. It’s all background noise as I watch them square up to each other.
Hand to hand combat. No rules. No illegal moves.
Just two dark-eyed men, each trying to choke the life out of the other for a sum of five hundred thousand dollars at the end of the night.
Winner lives on with the money, and loser’s family has to hope the winner will agree to pay for their funeral.
If they have any family left to even grieve.
“That’s Chico,” Carmine mumbles. I barely hear him over the crowd and music.
I look over at him. “You know him?” I ask.
“Nah, he’s just been fighting the last couple months,” he explains. “He’s small but deadly.”
“He’s gotta be.” Looking back into the arena, I lock eyes with Chico. I can see now under the brighter lighters at the center of the circle that the skin under his tattoos is jagged and torn.
The fight begins before I can finish observing him. At first, punches are thrown slow and steady but quickly devolve into wild swinging and reaching for the other man. The taller, broader man has a strength advantage, but his large stature makes him slower and an easier target to hit than Chico.
Each time a hit is landed, the crowd reacts.
Chico gets his legs around the other man’s torso as he brings him to the ground and starts to demolish his face one punch after another, but then he’s flipped and a large hand comes down onto his neck. Ready to choke him out.
Blood is splattering onto the floor and dripping from their noses and mouths. Their eyes flare with an angry heat, but Chico’s are like an inferno blazing.
I look to Carmine, intending on just glancing at him to make sure he’s where he should be. Beside me.
What I see on his face makes me stop.
His shoulders are tight, eyes cold, and he’s one of the few not cheering. He watches like he’s studying each and every move.
An icy expression that far differs from the fiery anger and grief he showed earlier.
I can practically see the wheels turning in his head.
“You’re not going to fight him,” I remind him.
Carmine doesn’t look away. Eyes glued to the fight, glued to Chico. “It’s good to know any potential opponent,” he says, voice low.
It’s clear that it doesn’t matter what I say, he’s not going to back down from the idea that he might be in that ring someday. I know I can’t stop him forever, and I know that’s not my fucking job.
Carmine very well might be up against Chico one day. Eivor would probably love that. Another way to get the Dresvannis out of our way without being directly involved.
I don’t bother trying to rationalize with Carmine, I just look back into the arena as Chico is struggling to get the bigger man’s hands off his throat. Kicking and thrashing.