Chapter 48 Jagger #2
A rematch? I pull back, surprised. He wants a rematch?
I replayed a solid number of scenarios on my drive over and none of them included a rematch.
Not. One. “You mean, outside of this morning’s brawl?
” I ask, my tone thick with sarcasm as if to say, Exhibit A.
Why the hell would he want a rematch where spectators can watch me beat the shit out of him?
“An official one,” he clarifies.
“Why?” My eyes narrow in suspicion. “You already won, remember?”
“True.” He tosses the half-full bottle across the room, letting it crash against the wall.
The alcohol and shards of glass pool on the floor and slowly seep toward my feet.
It’s another unnecessary mess. One he’s using to prove a point.
The irony isn’t lost on me. “But you see, this time, I can put more money on it,” Morgan explains.
“I was a little strapped for cash before our first fight, but things have been looking up for me.”
I fight to rein in my disdain. Looking up for him?
Yeah, because he started taking bets he has no right taking.
The man’s been stealing business from right under our noses and instead of addressing it like I’d love to, I’m stuck playing his game in hopes of winning back Violet’s home and the last memory she has of her mom.
“I fight you, and I get the house?” I ask.
With a subtle shake of his head, he laces his fingers in his lap. “You fight me and lose, you get the house.”
What’s this bastard playing at?
“I already offered you cash for the house,” I remind him. “Why fight?”
“My fans have been begging for a rematch since the moment you tapped out.”
My molars threaten to crack as I stare at the cocky motherfucker on the couch. Is he serious? He wants to talk about his fans? Who? His little posse of pussies who’ve been following him around? The sentiment is laughable at best.
“It doesn’t hurt that I cleaned up, either,” he continues. “And with a fight, I get the added bonus of humiliating you again.”
Humiliating me if I lose. If I win, the asshole has to walk away with his tail between his legs, but it’s a big if, if I understand what the man’s insinuating. “Are you asking me to throw a bet because you’re afraid you can’t beat me fair and square?”
“I beat you fine the first time.”
“Pretty sure I covered for your ass after you almost took my eye out,” I remind him.
I can’t help it. I’m curious. Whether or not he’ll deny it. Whether he’ll lie or surprise me by owning up to it. How he cheated. How he shouldn’t have won. How we both know I had him until he broke the rules.
Staring at me, his expression heavy yet disinterested, Ethan says, “You know, I’ve been curious. Why’d you lie to the ref?”
A muscle beneath my eye jumps. “Because when I win shit, I win it fair and square.”
“Not this time,” he murmurs. “Because if you throw the bet and someone finds out, your business goes down with it. Am I right?”
He is. And damn, does it piss me off. If I agree to this ludicrous plan, and someone finds out, knowing I rigged a bet, our entire business goes up in flames.
My brothers would never forgive me. Hell, I would never forgive me.
But it doesn’t make this right, either. The fact that an asshole like Morgan gets to sit on Violet’s couch with his muddy boots on her coffee table and his beer bottle shattered on the ground all because of a decision her father made. The whole thing makes me sick.
“You trying to blackmail me, Morgan?” I question.
“Nah, I’ve already got that locked and loaded from the haunted house.”
My eyes thin. Did he just say he has something locked and loaded from the haunted house?
What does he have? He can’t have evidence.
The only actual proof available is the footage from that night, which is on our servers and only our servers.
But if he doesn’t have anything, why mention it all?
How did he know about it in the first place?
Was it his sister? Did she say something? “What did you just say?” I ask.
“Nah.” He picks up the second beer and waves it around like he’s batting away a pesky fly. “We’ll save that reveal for a different day. Right now, all I wanna know is whether or not you’re in for a rematch.”
Refusing to give in unless I’ve exhausted every other option, I try a different tactic. One I know will leave a mark, even if it doesn’t convince him to agree to a fair fight.
“Honestly, I’m a little disappointed, Morgan. A rematch, sure. I get it. But asking me to lose on purpose?” I scoff. “And here I thought you were an actual competitor.” I rub my jaw. “Is it because of this morning?”
Shifting forward, his expression twists in disgust as if he’s seconds away from snapping. “I had you.”
“How’s the windpipe?” I ask.
His nostrils flare, the hostility growing in the small shack with every bated breath.
He squeezes the bottle in his hand so tight, I’m surprised it doesn’t shatter.
He’s probably debating whether or not he’d hit his mark if he decided to throw it at me.
Talk about a sore loser. Yeah, okay. Maybe I pushed him a little too far.
I don’t regret it, though. The guy’s a dick who deserves to have his ass handed to him.
Again. And I’m tired of playing his game.
But the worst part? Is knowing, even now, he has the upper hand.
My body itches to throw down, my fingers threatening to curl into fists, but I keep the tension at bay.
If he’s dumb enough to make a move, I’m more than ready to go again, but I refuse to show it.
Morgan looks toward the kitchen, probably checking in with Pete, his backup.
You nervous, Morgan?
Mechanically, he settles back into the couch. “Take it or leave it, Jag Off. Your girl’s house? Or your pride? You pick.”
Fuck.
Fuck!
The ultimatum lands as he intends, twisting like a knife in my gut as I fight to find a solution.
I keep my expression impassive, but my mind is a frenzied carousel.
I need a solution. An option that doesn’t ruin me or my brothers or Violet.
The problem is, I can’t find one. “Saturday,” I grit out. “Look for a text.”
His mouth tugs into a grin. “Can’t wait.”