Chapter 25
Bea
I grip the steering wheel of my old, beat-up Fiat, which has served me faithfully on those rare occasions I take it out for trips, as I trail behind Noah’s sleek black car. Thank goodness there’s heavy traffic, or I wouldn’t be able to keep up with him.
I bought this beauty when I still had money and could afford gas, but the last couple of months have eaten all my savings, so I had to switch to the bus and subway.
That brought me to the question of where I would store my Betty because even such an old vehicle would get stolen in my neighborhood.
So I batted my lashes at the security guards and made a deal to keep her in the building garage.
Which is coming in handy right about now.
My heart pounds with a cocktail of determination and anger.
The engine sputters and groans, clearly begging me to stop this reckless chase because Betty, apparently, has more common sense than I do, but I’m not giving up.
Not now. Not after everything I’ve seen.
I just know I’m about to uncover something scandalous—something that makes Noah so relaxed while my insides turn with jealousy.
Noah’s car takes a sharp turn up ahead, and I barely manage to yank the wheel in time to follow.
Tires screech, and Betty swerves dangerously close to the curb.
A quick curse escapes my lips as I narrowly avoid hitting a fire hydrant.
I know I’m a terrible driver on a good day, and today is definitely not one of those, but I’m not letting him get away.
I’m going to discover where Noah snuck out from work and came back with that annoying satisfied smile.
If that man goes to some sex club, I’ll make sure to buy a membership there too so I can look just as satisfied after my lunch break.
As the neon lights of a rundown warehouse district come into view, I slam my foot on the brake—maybe a bit too hard—and Betty lurches to a stop, nearly sending my face into the steering wheel.
Noah’s car parks ahead, sleek and intimidating next to the ramshackle building. My heart pounds in my ears, but I’m not backing down now. Instead, I park Betty between two SUVs, trying to be discreet, which is hard because my loyal vehicle sounds like a dying lawnmower.
In the meantime, Noah steps out of his car, completely oblivious that I’ve been tailing him for the past half hour.
I watch him through the cracked windshield as he pulls the collar of his jacket up, glancing around like he’s a spy in an action movie.
I stifle a laugh. There’s no way he knows I’m here.
He thinks I’m too busy handling his paperwork back at the office and waiting with puppy eyes for him to come back from the place where his anatomical inadequacies get satisfaction.
I wait until he’s inside the building before slipping out from Betty.
The door creaks loudly—because of course it does—and I freeze, hoping no one heard.
For a second, I imagine Noah whipping around, spotting me in the parking lot and demanding to know what the hell I’m doing here.
Oh, hey, just, you know, casually stalking my boss because I’m jealous of his free time.
Yeah, that’d go over great.
I scurry toward the entrance, trying to act normal while checking around to make sure no one’s watching.
The area around the warehouse is vast and grungy, like something out of a bad movie, and I feel completely out of place in my work clothes—a white blouse and my ever-present black skirt. Not exactly undercover gear.
I carefully tiptoe toward the only tiny window I’ve spotted, which is entirely too high for me to reach. Then I hear the door opening—the same door Noah just entered.
Terrified of being caught too soon, I thrash around like a fish out of water, desperately searching for cover.
The only thing nearby is a row of trash cans farther down the wall.
I sprint toward them and dive behind one just as the door swings open.
A tall man steps out and lights a cigarette. Another follows him.
“Are you betting today?” the second man asks.
Betting? Are they betting on which one of them will last longer?
“No,” the smoking man replies.
“Why?”
“Have you seen King?” He chuckles.
“Yeah.”
“That’s why.”
They’re clearly talking about Noah. What the hell is going on? Is he some kind of high roller? Ten hours of nonstop action?
Their voices drop lower, and I can’t make out what they’re saying, so naturally, I lean forward. Big mistake. I accidentally knock over the trash can, which crashes into the next one, and the next, until all four are on the ground. I scramble to get away, sprawled atop the first one.
When I finally pull myself together and look up, two pairs of narrowed eyes are glaring at me with open hostility.
“Who are you?” the cigarette man demands.
“No one,” I reply instantly.
“Yeah, you are,” he confirms harshly.
He takes one last drag, the cigarette glowing briefly, before tossing it to the ground. The next thing I know, his hand grabs my elbow and yanks me up.
“You’re coming with me, ‘No One.’”
“What? No, I’m not!”
“Dante,” the other man interjects. “Maybe she really doesn’t know anything.”
“Yeah, and she just randomly wandered up here looking like that.” He tugs my arm, turning his attention to me. “Let’s go, No One.”
I try to pull free, but it’s useless—he’s built like a brick wall. The other guy follows with a loud sigh.
I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t terrified, but I’m also insanely curious.
What the hell is happening inside, and how is Noah connected to it?
I didn’t know sex clubs were so secretive.
I mean, I don’t know any sex clubs, but I read.
Either way, I feel like I’m about to get answers, even if I might not like them.
When the man dragging me pushes open the door, a nauseating wave of smells hits me—sweat mixed with blood, alcohol, and too many bodies packed together. I try breathing through my mouth as I take in the scene: a crowd of people, mostly men in various stages of undress.
A sudden sound of flesh hitting flesh makes me jump in my captor’s grip, and his hold on me tightens. Another hit—this one sounding like it could’ve broken a bone. Or two.
Someone grunts loudly. Another hit, and something heavy crashes to the floor.
Is this a freaking fight club? Like, Brad Pitt fight club with all the rules?
My mind races with questions. Noah? At a fight club? This can’t be real. Maybe this is what the guy meant by betting. Yes! Noah must be betting here, and that’s his dirty secret. But then I remember the scars on his knuckles, and I feel sick.
The man drags me forward through the crowd of overly excited men yelling toward the punching noises.
When we push through to a less dense area, the scene unfolds in all its gruesome glory, making my stomach churn.
A shirtless man lies on the floor, his face covered in blood.
The floor is stained too—some blood fresh, some dried.
Another guy circles the human-made ring, arms raised, chanting something to the bloodthirsty crowd.
Holy cow. I’m in my worst nightmare.
And then the nightmare deepens.
Noah steps into the center of the makeshift ring.
It’s like the crowd parts for him as a ripple of recognition and breathless anticipation moving through the mob.
He’s still sporting his signature work pants—tailored, charcoal, definitely too good for this hellhole—but the upper half of him is stripped down to nothing.
My heart skips, and I have to blink to make sure it’s really him. His suit jacket, his tie, his carefully buttoned shirts—all gone, replaced by a dense, broad chest glistening with a sheen of sweat. He looks totally different. Like a complete stranger wearing Noah’s smile.
I’m not sure what I expected under all those layers, but not a linebacker trapped in a Calvin Klein ad.
Shoulders thick and sculpted, arms corded and tense, which is not a big surprise considering his thick forearms he likes to bear at work that drive me bonkers.
The line of his back forms a perfect V tapering down to that ass I secretly ogle every time he passes my desk.
My mouth goes dry, tongue sticking to the roof, and I’m gaping like a beached fish.
And the rest of the cave people in this fight club—because let’s be honest, that’s what they are—eat it up.
There’s this electricity, raw and ugly, as every set of eyes home in on Noah.
A few guys catcall, others just holler his name—King, King, King—and I realize with sinking horror that Noah is not an observer or a bidder here. He’s the main event.
He paces the ring, rolling his shoulders, stretching his neck, looking loose and easy and like he belongs here way more than he does in his glass-walled office.
He grins at someone in the crowd, and for a millisecond he’s the Noah I know—the one who brings me lunch and talks about his passion project—but then his face hardens again.
He puts in a mouthguard, and the switch flips: predator mode activated.
I can’t process it. My brain refuses to reconcile the two versions, but my body is quickly, disturbingly on board.
“No way,” I whisper. “Noah?”
“You know him?” comes the rough voice behind me.
I nod in response because my whole being is too focused on the man in front of me to form a sentence. Noah cracks his neck from side to side, making me cringe—not because I’ve always hated that habit, but because right now, it looks unsettlingly sexy.
My boss is gearing up to fight someone twice his size. I cover my mouth with my free hand, trying to stifle a nervous laugh. If this scary guy wasn’t holding me, I’d probably double over in hysterics.
The sheer absurdity of it all makes me dizzy. I thought Noah might have a gambling problem or some hardcore BDSM addiction, but no—he’s a member of a dang fight club.
Go figure.