19. Ford
CHAPTER 19
FORD
“We’re going out tonight,” I comment as Ava and I climb the stairwell of Sutton Hall after our last class of the day. It’s one we share, so I insisted on walking her back to the dorms afterwards like the goddamn gentleman I am. Also, because I can see up her skirt when she climbs the stairs ahead of me, and those virginal cotton panties she wears have unlocked a kink I didn’t even know I had.
“What?” Ava barks, whipping her head around to look back at me as she halts her climb. “No, I can’t! I have a paper to finish and a ton of reading to do tonight, there’s no way…”
“Oh, not you , Ava baby,” I chuckle, lifting a hand to cut off her panicked tirade. “Me and the guys.” I wink at her, delivering a sharp swat to her ass as I climb to the stair she’s on, then continue ascending past her.
“Okay…” she replies, drawing out the word as she stands there gripping the railing, staring up after me hesitantly.
I step onto the landing for the fourth floor, pausing to turn back and look down at Ava. She’s still just standing there, brow furrowed in confusion, head tilted. “Why are you telling me this, then?” she asks warily.
“Raf wanted me to remind you about the English Lit paper.”
“Yeah, I’m almost finished,” she replies, blowing out a breath and ascending the last few stairs to join me on the landing.
I arch a brow. “With both?”
“What do you mean, both ?”
The perplexed look on her face is pretty fucking adorable, but she won’t get anywhere by playing dumb. “You need to write his paper too,” I deadpan.
“What?!” she exclaims, jerking back like I slapped her. “It’s due tomorrow!”
“And like I said, we’ve got plans tonight.”
Ava gapes at me in disbelief, her mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. “But I have my own paper to write!” she blurts, eyes bugging wide.
“Looks like you’re gonna be up late then,” I murmur absently, fishing my phone out of my pocket to check my messages.
“No, tell him I’m not doing it.”
I sigh as I thumb through my texts. “No can do, doll.”
“Fine, then I’ll tell him myself,” Ava huffs out, knocking her shoulder into mine as she moves past me to ascend the stairs to the fifth floor.
Before she can even reach the first step, I grab her by the elbow, yanking her back harshly. “You don’t want to do that, Ava baby,” I drawl. “Raf’s not to be disturbed before his big night.”
She scrunches up her nose in confusion. “What?”
I heave another sigh, closing out of my messaging app and pulling up the video on my phone that I’ve watched way too many times at this point. “You’re not gonna make me hit send on this, are you?” I ask, turning the screen toward her and waving it in front of her face tauntingly.
She pales, snapping her mouth closed.
My lips spread into a lazy grin. “Glad we understand one another.”
I see a full range of emotions play out on her face– shame, offense, anger, and resignation.
“Ugh, whatever!” she finally groans, pushing past me to enter the hall for the fourth floor.
I grab her elbow again to stop her, tugging her in close and lowering my face until it’s right in front of hers. “Just write the paper, Ava. You don’t want to know what’ll happen if you piss off Raf.”
She hits me with a death glare as she wrestles her arm free of my grip, then stomps away down the hall toward her dorm room.
I watch after her for a moment, amused by the little tantrum she’s throwing, then turn to climb the final flight of stairs up to the apartment I share with my friends.
“Bout time,” Raf growls as soon as I walk through the door. He’s hovering in the entranceway like he’s been waiting for me, posture rigid and muscles coiled tightly.
Wes pops up behind him, looking to me pleadingly. “Are you ready to go?”
The poor guy looks like he’s been through the ringer. I can’t imagine Raf has been fun to be around for the last hour– I mean, he’s always an irritable bastard, but he’s ten times worse right before a fight.
“Yeah, yeah, just gimme a few minutes to change,” I mutter, carding my fingers through my hair as I move past them to head to my room.
They each mumble a few choice expletives as I start down the hall, taking my sweet ass time just to fuck with them a little. I push open the door to my room, kicking some laundry out of the way to clear a path to my desk and tossing my backpack down. Then I head over to my dresser, picking through the laundry basket sitting on top for something to wear.
I find a black t-shirt and jeans, giving each the sniff test before changing into them. I honestly can’t remember if the clothes in this basket are clean or not, but I guess it doesn’t matter much considering where we’re headed. The warehouse in Dyersville that hosts the underground bare-knuckle boxing matches is a shithole– the kind of place where you feel like you need a shower the moment you step inside.
I grab a couple stacks of cash out of my dresser and my leather jacket off my desk chair, slinging it over my shoulder as I exit my room and call down the hall to the guys. “Alright, you assholes finally ready to roll or what?”
Raf and Wes point twin glares in my direction as I approach them.
“What?” I ask, feigning innocence as I slide my gaze between my friends.
“Let’s go,” Raf snaps, shifting his gym bag higher up on his shoulder and yanking the door open, sending it careening into the wall with a loud bang.
I step up beside Wes, nodding toward Raf’s retreating form. “It’s a good thing we booked this for him, the man obviously needs to blow off some steam.”
“The whole Ava thing is really fucking with his head,” Wes replies with a wince. “I don’t think he’s having nearly as much fun with it as we are.”
I clap a hand down on his shoulder. “Guess we’ll have to change that then, huh?”
“Come on!” Raf roars, the low timbre of his voice echoing up the stairwell.
I bark a laugh, leaving Wes behind to lock up as I bound down the stairs to catch up to the snarling asshole.
The three of us exit Sutton Hall and head to the student parking lot, piling in Raf’s black-on-black Cadillac Escalade. Wes takes the drivers’ seat, as usual, while Raf claims shotgun and I sprawl across the back, pulling out a bottle of whiskey from my stash under the seat. I always like to have a solid buzz going before we roll into one of these things. It makes me more tolerant of the riffraff that turns up to spectate. I like to fight, too, but I’ve been grounded from the ring since I put a guy in a coma a few months back.
Not my fault he couldn’t take a hit.
I’m not as big as most of the guys I’m put up against, but I’m ten times as crazy, and crazy wins out every time.
We blast music the entire way to keep Raf in the zone, and a half hour later we’re pulling up in front of the seedy warehouse in Dyersville, tipping our heads to the greasy looking bouncer at the door and heading inside.
The energy in the building is palpable as soon as we cross over the threshold, the air tinged with the scent of smoke and sweat, the crowd vibrating with anxious excitement for tonight’s lineup. There are three fights slated, with Raf’s being the main event.
It should be a good one. He’s fighting Hopkins again tonight, a surly local fucker who’s definitely a crowd favorite. Raf’s a legend around here in his own right, but the last time he went up against Hopkins, he caught Raf with a cheap shot and narrowly pulled out the win. Knowing Raf’s appetite for vengeance, that won’t be the case tonight. He’s out for blood, and I can’t wait for the show.
While Raf heads to the locker room at the back of the building to get ready, Wes and I make our way over to the ramshackle booth in the corner to place our bets on the fight.
“Hey, Ford!” Angela greets from inside the booth as we step up to the counter, flashing me a bright smile. She’s a tall, curvy brunette, and though she’s pushing forty, the girl can still get it. I’ve got a thing for older women– they have all the experience and none of the bullshit. I don’t need to place a bet on whether Angela will wind up underneath me later, she’s one of my regular cock warmers on fight nights.
What can I say? Blood and violence make me horny.
If the assholes who run this place won’t let me fight here for the foreseeable future, at least I can still chase a thrill by fucking their employees.
“What are the odds on my boy tonight?” I drawl, resting my elbows on the counter with a lazy grin.
A blush tinges her cheeks as she drops her gaze, shuffling a few pieces of paper on the counter in front of her and hissing a breath in through her teeth. “Oof, five to one,” she replies, meeting my eyes again. “Guess they remember their last match. You sure you don’t wanna hedge your bets on Hopkins?” She arches a dark brow, batting her lashes.
“Nah, two grand says Raf has this in the bag,” I state confidently, reaching into my back pocket for a roll of cash and tossing it onto the counter. I step back, glancing to my left. “Wes?”
“Eh, I didn’t bring any cash tonight,” he mumbles uncomfortably, patting the pockets of his jeans in demonstration.
Figured as much.
“I’ve got you,” I say coolly, reaching into my back pocket again.
“No, you don’t have to–”
“It’s only money,” I scoff, brandishing another roll of bills. “You can get me back out of your winnings.” I toss it toward Angela before he can protest further. “That’s four on our boy, babe. Mark it down.”
Wes chews on the inside of his cheek, his gaze downcast as Angela scoops up the money and drops it into a metal cash box. “Good luck, guys,” she sing-songs as she hands us our betting slips.
“Come find me later,” I reply with a wink, stepping away from the booth to head to the bar.
Wes sticks by my side, hassling me about fronting him the money for the bet as we make our way to through the crowd. The guy is too damn proud for his own good. It’s no secret that he’s been struggling for cash since his old man lost it all, yet he refuses to take handouts, even from me and Raf. He’s been getting by on our payouts from the jobs Gideon occasionally sends us on, but now that Raf’s old man has gone AWOL, that well has run dry. Betting on Raf tonight will at least give Wes something to get by– he should be fucking thanking me.
I ignore his ungrateful tirade as I proceed to the nearest bar and order us drinks, downing more whiskey while the crowd in the warehouse continues to grow. The wild energy already pulsing through the place ratchets up even higher as it fills up, the air electrified with the promise of violence.
A few of the local girls approach and try to hang all over us, and while I scare them away with one pointed look, Wes eats up their attention like fucking candy. I swear, no amount of attention is too much for that guy. It’s like he’s making up for lost time. Back in the day, girls stomped all over his heart, but now, he does the stomping.
As he should.
After I get a few more drinks in me, Wes and I go to the locker room to check in on Raf and pump him up for the fight. He’s completely in the zone, listening to music through his earbuds while Wes wraps his knuckles and gives him a few last-minute tips about Hopkins’ weaknesses. Based upon how he’s performed in his last few fights, he’s been favoring his right knee lately, which gives Raf an opening to take him down quick if he can get a decent shot in.
I slip out a few times to grab drinks and watch the other fights, wishing I was in the ring participating. The mat makes the prettiest canvas for the blood splatter. My fingers twitch to break something, but I drown out the urge with more whiskey.
By the time they announce the main event, the crowd is riled up into a frenzy. It’s so loud that my ears feel like they’re bleeding as Wes and I take our positions at the corner of the ring, the announcer stepping to the center and introducing fan-favorite Hopkins to a chorus of cheers.
‘ Kick in the Door’ by Notorious B.I.G. starts playing over the speakers as the big lug strides out from the locker room with a grin on his face, pumping his fists in the air as he jogs to the ring.
Wes elbows me, leaning in. “See the limp?” he shouts into my ear in an effort to be heard above the roar of the crowd.
I nod back, though honestly, I don’t see shit. I’ve had enough liquor tonight to drown a sailor, so I’m practically seeing double as Hopkins climbs into the ring, puffing out his chest and raising his arms to the crowd, soaking in their adoration.
Showboating asshole .
I can’t wait to watch him bleed.
The announcer introduces Raf next, and the crowd goes just as wild. ‘ Remember the Name’ by Fort Minor blasts over the sound system as he pushes out from the locker room door, his black athletic shorts slung low on his hips and the tattoos on his chest and arms rippling with his movements like living, breathing art.
My art.
I’ve given Raf most of his ink myself, and goddamnit I do good work.
Raf doesn’t feed into the fanfare like Hopkins– which, honestly, is probably why the crowd doesn’t like him as much even though he’s a better fighter. He keeps his head down as he stomps through the crowd to his corner of the ring, stone cold and laser focused.
Wes claps him on the back as he climbs up into the ring, mumbling some words of encouragement that I can’t hear, while I just tip my head to him with a grin. From the murderous look in his eyes, I’m gonna cash out big tonight. My boy didn’t come here to play– he’s ready for a bloodbath.
The announcer starts jabbering on about the rules, though in a place like this, there aren’t many.
Basically, anything goes during the three rounds of the fight. If there’s a knockout, it’s an automatic win, but the shitbags who run this place get salty if there’s a first-round K.O., so the fighters typically do what they can to make it last all three. A clean fight is encouraged– though not mandatory– and winner takes all.
The fighters are beckoned to the center of the ring to fist-bump, then the announcer calls for the first round to begin, clearing out of there as the bell sounds.
Hopkins and Raf take their places, each sinking down into a defensive crouch before starting to circle one another. The spectators egg them on as they slowly draw closer, both coiled to strike.
Raf gets the first hit in. It’s a left hook, and the crowd draws a collective gasp as his fist connects with Hopkins’ cheek and blood sprays from his mouth onto the mat. He recovers fast, and Raf blocks a responding blow to his own face, though in doing so he leaves his ribs open for Hopkins to land a hard jab to his side.
Any other man would probably double over from a hit like that, but not Raf. The guy is built for fighting because pain doesn’t faze him. It fuels him. He doesn’t miss a beat before coming right back at Hopkins, landing another punch to his face that splits his lip, blood dribbling into his mouth and coating his teeth.
Not gonna lie, I’m so wasted that I zone out a little bit. I’m imagining how fucking cool a raven tattoo would look added to Raf’s chest piece when the announcer calls the end of the first round, Raf stomping back over to the corner of the ring and slumping down onto the stool that Wes places there. Sweat drips from his inky black hair, blood streaming from his nose as he takes a water bottle from Wes and sprays it into his mouth.
The announcer calls the first round for Raf, and while Wes and I celebrate, he doesn’t even blink. He just sits there hyper-focused, chest heaving as he waits for the bell to signal the start of the next round.
I glance up toward the betting booth to find Angela sitting on the edge of the counter, gazing longingly in my direction. She throws up a wave when our eyes meet, but I give her the brush-off, turning back to Raf while Wes coaches him through moves to try in the next round.
I’m not even sure why I do it. I had every intention of ending the night balls deep inside her, but for some reason, I’m just not feeling it anymore.
Funny, whiskey goggles usually have the opposite effect.
“You gonna hit?” Wes asks me, jerking his chin toward Angela. I hadn’t even noticed that he’d stopped coaching Raf, or that I’d diverted my attention back to the thirsty bitch in the betting booth.
“Nah,” I murmur, wetting my lips with my tongue as I turn his way. “She wants it too much. Might just get Ava to play with my dick when we get back instead.”
Raf jerks his head around, his murderous gaze landing on me, but I’m saved by the bell. As soon as it sounds, he lurches off his stool, stalking across the ring to meet Hopkins in the center of the mat again. The latter rushes first, but Raf’s ready for him, blocking his hit and getting in one of his own.
Knew that comment would rile him up.
Hopkins stumbles back, blood flowing from his nose and staining the mat at his feet as he gathers himself, but Raf doesn’t let up. He keeps advancing on him, getting in three more brutal hits before Hopkins goes for the cheap shot, raising a knee and aiming for Raf’s balls.
That pisses my guy off. I see the moment it registers for him what Hopkins is trying to do, and he just barely manages to evade the move, eyes flashing with malice as he retaliates with a swift kick to Hopkins’ bad knee.
The dude goes down hard . Raf lands on top of him and the pair start grappling on the floor while the crowd goes absolutely insane, the volume in the warehouse cranking up to a hundred. Hopkins does his best to block his blows and fight him off, but he’s no match for Raf’s killer instinct. Nobody is.
I swear I see Raf smile as he rears back his fist a final time, landing a hard punch to the side of Hopkins’ head.
It’s a knockout.