Chapter 53 Violet
VIOLET
As soon the bell rings, Morgan cocks his arm back, landing a solid right hook to Jagger’s jaw.
I swear it penetrates straight through me.
Clutching my chest, I lean into Roman’s side, caught between the urge to run the hell out of here and dive onto the mat so I can protect Jagger.
Not that it would do either of us any good, but still.
“He’ll be fine,” Roman grunts. “Last time was a fluke.”
It better have been.
Slowly, the two move in a circle, sizing each other up.
I can’t decide if I’m grateful for the slight reprieve or if I’d prefer they dive right into the brawl so my nerves can have a break.
This whole sitting on pins and needles thing is a bit much for my taste.
In a flash, Jagger throws a short, one-two punch but neither of them land the way they should.
Ethan bats them away like they’re nothing but a slight annoyance rather than solid attempts.
Jagger must be warming up. It makes sense, doesn’t it?
“Come on, Jag!” I call.
Jagger’s body crumples forward as Ethan nails his right side, combining it with a brutal uppercut causing his head to snap back. My stomach lurches on contact, and I bounce on the balls of my feet, unsure what the hell I’m supposed to do.
“Hit him back!” I yell. “Come on, Jagger!”
Arms raised, Jagger does another quick, one-two combo I remember from when we were in the gym together.
“There he is,” Roman mumbles.
Ethan stumbles back, almost surprised, but he recovers quickly. Jab, cross, jab, hook. The first three barely graze Jagger’s forearms, but the last hits its mark, and a wave of, “Oh,” rolls through the crowd.
“What the hell is he doing?” Roman grumbles under his breath. “He knows better.” He cups his hands around his mouth. “Fucking move, Jag!”
Jagger retreats from the center, dancing around the perimeter of the mat as Ethan pounds his chest like a gorilla.
Feeding off his energy, the crowd roars with him, and Ethan grins.
He strikes forward, using his long arms to try and pull Jagger to the ground until they’re head-to-head, though it seems Ethan’s arm is wrapped around Jagger’s neck.
This can't be good.
Ethan raises his leg and knees Jagger in the stomach as Jagger tries to wiggle out of Ethan’s hold.
His fist connects with Ethan’s side in one, two, three quick jabs, and Ethan winces on contact but doesn’t let him go.
Instead, he squeezes even tighter, turning Jagger’s face a nasty shade of purple.
Yeah. Definitely not good.
“Tell me there’s a break, Roman,” I demand. “Tell me there’s a stop clock or—”
Palming the top of my head like it’s a basketball, a distracted Roman points my line of sight toward the red clock on the wall.
Okay, so it’s real. It’s like a legit fight.
If both fighters are still standing by the time the bell sounds, they each have some time to catch their breaths and get cleaned up. Right? Right?
That is, if Jagger can last five more seconds without passing out or having his head ripped off.
I think I’m going to be sick.
“Hold on!” Roman bellows.
Jagger throws another sluggish punch at Ethan’s side, his ropes of muscle bulging while the timer counts down, signifying we’re close to the end of the round and Jagger can have a minute to get his head on straight. Clearly, he needs it.
Three. Two. Jagger slips out of Ethan’s hold. One. The bell sounds.
Rushing forward, the ref steps between Ethan and Jagger as Roman grabs a folding chair and places it in the corner closest to us. Sweat already clings to Jagger’s skin, and he wipes his forehead as he collapses onto the seat. He looks exhausted. Defeated, even. And they’ve only just begun.
Helpless, I stand on the edge of the mat as Roman talks to Jagger.
I don’t know what he’s saying, but it’s clear he’s unhappy with how the first round played out.
He isn’t the only one. I scan the crowd.
Some are shaking their heads. Others are scrubbing their hands over their faces as they replay what happened with their friends, trying to make predictions on how the rest of the fight will go.
It’ll be fine. Roman will help him clear his head, and he’ll go into round two in the right headspace. It’ll be fine. It’ll be…fine.
“Hey, you good?” Lexie asks.
I force a smile. “I’ve been better.”
“He’s going to be okay,” June promises me. “And to be fair, he got a few good hits in, too. I’m sure he’s just warming up.”
Nibbling on my thumb nail, I murmur, “That’s what I’ve been telling myself.”
If only I believed it.
“Can I get you a drink?” Lexie offers. “Maybe the alcohol will calm your nerves.”
She’s probably right, but I shake my head. “I’m okay.”
We all know it’s a lie, though they don’t call me out for it.
Roman squeezes Jagger’s shoulder before stepping away, and Jagger stands, moving to the center of the mat in time for the bell to ring out again. The break must be over. The realization doesn’t give me any warm fuzzies.
With a sigh, Roman meets me on the edge of the mat. “He'll be fine.”
Pretty sure it’s a lie, too, but I won’t call him out for it, either.
Instead, I turn back to the fight, ignoring my racing heart and sweaty palms. “Come on, come on, come on,” I mumble.
Jagger’s foot connects with the outside of Ethan’s thigh, but he recovers quickly.
Like a snake striking, he jabs at Jagger’s face.
One, two, three. Jagger blocks the first, then misses the second and third.
His head snaps back from the force, and I cover my mouth.
This isn’t how I wanted the fight to go.
Not even close. His movements are almost sluggish as he cocks his arm back for another strike, only hitting air.
How? How is this happening? It can’t…it can’t be because of last night. Right?
Jagger swings again, but it looks like he’s running on empty.
Is this my fault? I know we weren’t supposed to have sex last night, but I gave in anyway.
Is it messing with him? The change in his routine?
It can’t be possible. Can it? A golf ball lodges in my throat at the possibility, my eyes clouding with the memory of last night.
The way he moved inside me. The way his voice turned gravelly as he said he loved me.
The way I felt whole and so…at peace. Now, here I am, freaking crumbling.
This is all my fault.
Ethan charges forward, but Jagger squats at the last second, turning the table and letting Ethan’s fists scrape nothing but air while he lands a quick jab to Ethan’s side. The crowd groans in response.
Okay. Okay, maybe it’s going to be okay. He’s going to be okay. He’s got this.
It’s okay, it’s okay, it’s okay.
A hand finds my arm, though I can’t tear my attention from the fight. “Vi, you all right?”
“Lex, not now,” I murmur as Jagger reels back and Ethan lurches forward in an attack. Jumping into the air, his arm cocked back, Ethan slams his fist against Jagger, and I gasp again, my eyes blurring with tears.
How is this happening?
I should’ve never given in and had sex with Jagger. I should’ve told him to wait until tonight. When we could fly high from the win instead of testing fate. One more night. Why didn’t we wait one more night?
“It’s like the asshole doesn’t even know how to fight,” Roman grumbles. “What the hell is wrong with him?”
I slept with him, that’s what’s wrong.
Guilt slices through me like a wicked machete, leaving me raw and vulnerable and…I seriously might puke.
It’s only a stupid superstition. I know this. But I can’t deny what’s unfolding in front of me.
Jagger’s losing. He’s putting up a fight, sure, and to the random spectator, it might even appear he’s giving it his all, but I know him better than this. And whatever he’s doing is nothing compared to what I know he’s capable of. Not even close.
It doesn’t make any sense. Because I’ve seen Jagger fight Ethan.
Not only during the first fight night, but at the coffee shop, too.
And that fight? It looked nothing like the one playing out right now.
At the coffee shop, Jagger was quick. Determined.
His hits landed, and they landed hard. Right now?
His knuckles are barely grazing Ethan. It’s like he’s swimming in molasses.
So what the hell changed? I cringe as Jagger’s head jerks to the side, giving me a glimpse of the blood draining from his nose like a broken faucet.
“Jagger, fight!” I scream. Panic claws its way into my throat, making it hard to breathe as I watch helplessly from the sideline.
Raising his fists, Jagger blocks Ethan’s combo, then drops his forearms at the last second, letting Ethan slip past his defenses for a deadly blow, drawing another groan from the crowd.
“That one had to hurt,” one of Ethan’s friends yells. He throws his head back, laughing. “Fuck, we’re gonna make so much money from this. I knew Ethan had this. Woo-hoo!”
Jagger shakes his head. I don’t know if it’s an attempt to shake off Ethan’s hit, or if it’s to clear his mind and block out everything happening around him.
Not that it matters. Sweeping his leg, Ethan kicks the outside of Jagger’s thigh in three quick hits until Jagger staggers toward the edge of the mat instead of delivering retribution.
He’s holding back. Jagger Harden is holding back. But why? There’s so much on the line. His brothers’ money. His money. Not mine, though.
“Keep it.” He grabs my cash and folds it back into my pocket then kisses my nose.
I didn’t think much of it then. Maybe I should’ve, but I didn't. Now, it all makes sense.
He’s throwing the bet.
He’s losing on purpose.
But why?
Why would he lose on purpose?
My lungs stall as the truth hits me harder than any hit being thrown in the ring.
Because Ethan Morgan owns my childhood home, and this is the only way Jagger can win it back.
His head pivots to the side as Ethan deals another ruthless blow. Spittle flies from his mouth, flicking onto the mat in a spray of red. His pride, his business, it’s all on the line, and he’s losing…for me.
“Roman,” I whisper.
“Come on, Jag!” Roman yells. “Move your feet, man!”
“Roman!” I repeat.
“Watch your boyfriend,” he grumbles to me. “Come on, Jag!”
I stare at the stop clock on the wall, willing it to move faster. To give Jagger another break. To give me a chance to shake some sense into him, no matter the cost.
Another loud thump shakes me to my core. My eyes snap back to the ring as Ethan lands another string of jabs to Jagger’s ribs. My gut lurches.
“Five, four, three, two—” Bam, bam! “One!”
The clock buzzes, signifying the end of the round.
Jagger limps back to us. His right eye is swollen from a cut above it, and his bottom lip is split across the center. Rushing onto the mat, I force myself in front of him and grab his face, demanding his full attention. “Jagger, you okay?”
He blinks, forcing himself to focus on me before recognition sparks. “Violet—”
I push him closer to the edge where Roman has a folding chair waiting. Jagger collapses into it. His chest heaves with every labored breath.
“Jag, what are you doing?” Roman starts.
“I need to talk to him,” I interrupt.
Roman’s expression twists with frustration. “Now’s not the time, Violet.”
“I don’t care if you think it’s the time,” I snap. “I need to talk to him. Alone.”
I’ve never seen Roman pissed, and honestly, I don’t blame him for looking like he’s two seconds from losing his shit on me, but I don’t back down. I can’t. Not now. “Please,” I add, softening my tone in hopes of getting through to him.
Roman only shakes his head. “Violet—”
“Roman, give us a sec.” Jagger’s words are a mumbled mess. It triggers my fear even more. Does he have a concussion? It’s definitely possible. The realization doesn’t exactly ease my anxiety. This needs to end. Now.
Lifting his hands in the air, Roman backs up a foot or two, giving us some space while also using himself as a shield between us and the rest of the crowd.
Satisfied, I turn back to my battered boyfriend while attempting to block out the timer on the wall and what it means if I can’t snap Jagger out of his funk.
Pushing his sweaty hair away from his forehead, I demand, “Jagger, look at me.”
His cold gaze turns hot as embers.
“Whatever you’re doing, I need you to stop,” I whisper.
“Vi—”
“I’m serious, Jagger,” I push. “Whatever it is, however you think you’re helping, you aren’t. Do you understand?"
“I’m taking care of—”
I shake my head, refusing to let him voice his twisted logic. “I can’t watch you get hurt. Not like this.”
“Vi—”
“It’s ruining me.” I hold both sides of his face, staring at the bead of crimson as it bleeds into his sweat.
“I know you, Jagger.” Gently, I brush the droplet away with the pad of my thumb and flick my attention to his dark gaze, determined to stay strong no matter how much I want to cry.
“Stop holding back. Do you understand me? I won’t let you sacrifice this for me. ”
“Little Thief…”
I kiss him softly, careful not to hurt him.
My lips tremble at the gentle contact. “The only thing I care about is you. You and only you.” I leave the rest unspoken, well-aware he knows me enough to fill in the blanks.
To piece together my meaning even if I’m not saying it out loud.
Whatever deal he made with Ethan Morgan for me or my house can go to hell.
Raising his taped knuckles, I kiss them, too, holding his cold gaze with every brush of my lips.
“No more holding back, okay?” I wipe the tear from my cheek that somehow managed to slip past my defenses despite my best attempt to keep it at bay.
“No more holding back. I love you. We clear?”
With a slow nod, he murmurs, “Love you, too.”
“Then prove it.” I kiss him again, careful not to touch the split in the middle. “Go and kick this douchebag’s ass.”
He nods again, more sure this time. More determined and, let’s be real, a little pissed off, too.
Finally.