Chapter 8 Jagger
JAGGER
Seriously, where does Ford find these guys?
My opponent for the night stands across the ring, his arrogance so strong I swear I can taste it.
Yeah, it’s gonna be fun knocking this asshole down a few pegs.
I wonder what his name is? I probably should’ve checked the fight sheet, but I’ve never cared before.
To be fair, I don’t exactly care now, either.
They’re all the same. All angry. All cocky.
All with something to prove. Sometimes I wonder if I fit the same bill.
If it’s a commonality we all share, and a reason to drive us into the ring.
My opponent raises his chin at me, then raises a hand, flipping me off. “Come on, motherfucker. Let’s do this.”
Well, all right, then. He’s a prickly little bastard, isn’t he? I tug off my shirt and toss it on the ground at the edge of the ring when my gaze catches on a blur of gold in the crowd. I do a double-take, my balls aching at the sight. What the hell is she doing here?
Violet Reeves. The one and only. For a girl who was nothing but a ghost in this town, she has a hell of a way of popping up when I least expect.
Like right now. When my head’s supposed to be clear.
The tape across my knuckles pulls at my calloused skin as I squeeze my hands into fists at my sides.
She peeks up at me, her lips parting in surprise.
Is it because she didn’t expect to see me?
Or is it because she didn’t expect me to see her?
I tilt my head, letting her view my curiosity.
She lifts a shoulder, looking…damn, Little Thief. Are you shy?
The ref steps into my line of sight. “No biting, no eye gouging, no crotch shots. We clear?”
I blink, forcing myself to focus on the fight. “Yeah, we’re clear.”
Satisfied, the ref turns to my opponent. “We clear?”
The asshole stares back at me, his eyes nothing but slits. “Depends on how long he stares at my little sister.”
Sister?
What the hell?
Violet’s this asshole’s little sister?
“What did you say?” I ask.
“That’s not an answer, Morgan,” the ref warns.
“Yeah, we’re clear,” my opponent answers.
The look in his eyes says differently. Hell, I’m pretty sure if he could gut me right here, right now, he would, and the fight hasn’t even begun.
He must really care about his sister. Not that I’m a threat.
The girl hates me and has been nothing but a pain in the ass since we first met.
“It’s tap out or pass out,” the ref continues, but I’m too distracted to make out much else.
I’m busy digesting Morgan’s words. Little sister.
Violet is Morgan’s little sister? Nah, there’s no way.
Hawke would’ve known. Roman would’ve, too.
Wouldn’t they? Muscle memory takes over as the ref adds, “Touch knuckles,” and I raise my fists.
Morgan does the same, brushing our closed fists against each other before we bring them up to protect our faces.
Then, the bell rings.
My opponent steps out fast, bouncing on the balls of his feet, his shoulders coiled like loaded springs.
Circling wide, I keep my arms loose and wait for the hothead to strike.
Clearly, he prefers being on the offensive.
When he finally gets close enough to reach, I dodge his jab, then test the waters with a low leg kick just to mess with him.
It thuds against Morgan’s thigh in a solid blow, but the asshole absorbs it with a smile.
“That all you got, pussy?”
I move fast, driving into his space with a quick jab right in the bastard’s nose. His smile vanishes, and his head snaps back in surprise.
Yeah, motherfucker. I’m here to fight.
Recovering quickly, Morgan feigns left, spinning into a back elbow.
It barely grazes my temple when I jerk away, pulling a gasp from the crowd around us.
All right, that was close. Keeping my fists up to protect my face, I dart forward again, throwing a quick jab-hook combo to keep him from tying me up in the clinch to kill my momentum.
A grunt escapes me as his knee connects with my side.
I pick him up, slam him to the mat, and cock my arm back for another few jabs.
Blood stains my taped knuckles. It pours from his nose, though I’m not sure if it’s from the earlier hits or this position.
Not that it matters. He raises his arms, blocking my fists the best he can before twisting his hips and rolling us both on the mat.
Wiley fucker. He clearly knows how to fight, which is more than most who meet me in the ring.
Moving to half guard, Morgan lands a short elbow to my eye socket, and I swear I see stars.
All right, that hurt.
I try to buck him off, kicking and fighting, but Morgan stays heavy, using his weight to keep me pinned to the mat. Slipping in a shoulder choke setup, he grinds my face into the canvas, leaving a smear of blood from where he caught my brow earlier.
All right, this has been fun, but I’m done messing around.
I pull Morgan’s choking elbow, moving my hips to the side to relieve the pressure before landing another uppercut to his chin.
He stumbles back, the lights almost going out in his eyes as I push to my feet and stalk closer.
Trapping him at the edge of the mat, I drive my knee into Morgan’s ribs again and again until he folds in half.
“Fuck!” he yells.
That’s right, motherfucker. Let’s end this.
I wrap my arm around his neck and jump for a guillotine choke, pulling guard as Morgan’s legs kick wildly in front of him.
Four more seconds.
Three.
Two.
Morgan jabs his fingers upward and straight into my fucking eye, gouging the hell out of me. I loosen the choke instinctively, but the asshole takes full advantage, transitioning to a rear-naked choke while my mind spins.
The asshole almost took out my eye! My fucking eye! Cheating sonofabitch!
My fingers claw into his arms as blood runs down my cheek, but it’s too tight. Too fucking tight. My vision shrinks, but I don’t know if it’s from the cheap shot or lack of oxygen. Probably both.
“Fuck!” I seethe as my hand finds the mat, and I slap my palm against it, tapping out just to see if my eye is still in my skull or if it’s punctured on the asshole’s finger like a black olive after the shit he pulled.
The ref approaches instantly. He tugs Morgan off me, then raises my opponent’s hand into the air, declaring him the winner, and fuck if it doesn’t sting.
Literally. Gingerly, I press my fingers against my eye, confirming it’s where it’s supposed to be.
Yeah, it doesn’t feel good. I’m gonna need some ice and maybe a doctor’s appointment.
I’ve never lost a fight. Not an official one, anyway. It probably cost my brothers a few grand a piece. The realization burns almost as much as the loss. Add in my aching eye that’s already swelling shut, and I’m nothing short of livid.
“Good fight, Jag off!” Morgan calls behind me.
Ignoring him, I stand up from the mat and stride toward the edge of the ring as the crowd loses their shit around me from the fight’s results. Yeah, I didn’t think I’d lose either. Join the club.
“What the hell happened?” Roman demands. “You had him—”
“Guess it wasn’t my night.” Attempting to block the damage from his view, I reach for my discarded shirt and press it to my eye socket.
“Let me get you some ice,” Roman grumbles.
“Probably a good idea.” I can feel my heartbeat in the side of my face. Thump thump. Thump thump. Yeah, this can’t be good. I can only imagine how shitty I must look right now. Not that it matters.
My best friend returns a minute later, offering me the ice wrapped in a towel. “Here.”
Removing my shirt so I can replace it with the homemade ice-pack, I take the towel from Roman when he grabs my wrist and stops me. “Let me see,” he demands. Roman grabs my jaw and forces my head to one side so he can get a better look. “Shit.”
Sensing our friend’s concern, Ford moves closer and pushes Roman aside, so he can discern the damage, too. “What the hell?”
“Ref!” Roman booms.
“Don’t,” I seethe.
“Ref!” Ford chimes in.
I shove him away. “I said don’t.”
“There a problem?” the ref interjects.
I look over my shoulder, and the man frowns before moving forward with the same concern as my family.
Careful of my split brow, he frames my eyes with his thumb and forefinger, spreading the swollen surface apart so he can get a better look at my actual eyeball.
Coming to his own conclusion, I’m almost surprised when he asks me, “Did he eye gouge?”
My glare cuts to Ethan. The bastard’s already off the mat, celebrating with his friends. He pulls the girl beside Violet into a hug, then does the same to his sister, causing another wave of red to wash over me.
“Jagger?” the ref pushes.
“It’s swollen from the hit in the first round,” I answer, tearing my attention from Violet and back to the ref. “It was a clean fight.”
“Bullshit,” Ford snarls.
I give him a warning look. “I said it was clean.”
The ref gives us both a pointed stare as my brother’s jaw works overtime. Yeah, he’s pissed, but I’m not a rat, and I sure as shit am not interested in winning by default.
“If he says it was clean, it was clean,” the ref finally decides.
Another heavy pause follows until Roman steps forward. “Thanks again for your help tonight. We’ll be in touch when the next fight night gets closer. As always, I’ll drop off payment tomorrow morning.”
The ref nods and shifts back. “Thanks again.” He turns to me. “Take care of the cut above your eye, too. It looks like it’s gonna need stitches.”
“Sure thing.”
“I’m serious, Jagger,” the ref warns.
“So am I,” I lie.
“We’ll take care of him,” Roman promises. He slaps me on the back and shoves the ice pack to my chest. “Put this on your eye.”
I do as I’m told, wincing when it connects with my face.
Yeah, this is gonna feel like a bitch tomorrow.
“I’m gonna take him home,” Roman tells Ford. “Where’s Hawke?”
“By the door,” Ford answers. “I’m gonna stick around and finish the books.”
Caught between resignation and determination to not lose my shit in front of everyone, I ask, “How much did we lose?”
Ford gives me a pained look. “You don’t wanna know.” I grab his bicep, daring him to deflect again. “With fees and the spread and—”
“Just tell me,” I demand.
The muscle in his jaw jumps. “Twenty one thousand, two hundred, sixty seven dollars, and fourteen cents.”
My head throbs even more, and my chin falls to my chest. “Fuck.”
“Come on, man,” Roman mutters. He offers my blood-stained shirt, and I take it, slipping it over my head.
When my head pops out the opposite side, I glance over at the celebrating Morgan again.
This time, Violet stares back. She isn’t basking in the win like the rest of them.
Honestly, I don’t know what she’s thinking.
What she’s feeling. She’s almost as good at keeping her emotions locked down as I am, and if I wasn’t so frustrated by it, I’d almost be impressed.
“Told you my brother would kick his ass,” the girl beside Violet squeals.
My brother?
So Violet isn’t Morgan’s little sister. She’s Morgan’s little sister’s friend. Interesting. The realization is almost enough to dull the sting from tonight’s loss. Okay, not really, but I tuck the information aside, anyway.
Who are you, Violet Reeves?
Oblivious to my stare, the friend wraps her arms around Violet and dances them around like they just won the lottery. Then again, maybe they did.
“Did Violet bet?” I ask Ford.
He follows my line of sight, then shakes his head. “Nah, no bets.” He tsks. “It’s almost a shame. If she had, we could stop feeling guilty for her dad being a dick.” He shrugs. “Guess it’s a shit night all around. Go on, Roman. Take him home.”