Chapter 4
FROST
“’Bout time you showed your face. I was afraid I set all this up for nothing.”
I jerk my chin and follow Vegas into the underground warehouse that belongs to Saint’s Outlaws MC.
I usually don’t skirt this side of the law, but after Mom died, my soul was ripped open, and all the good she instilled in me fell out and rotted on the ground.
Now, I’m itching to feel something besides numbness.
Could’ve felt something with a chestnut beauty, but your dumb ass ran away.
Rolling my shoulders, I push Hope out of my mind.
The yells and screams of the audience get louder the deeper we go.
Typically, a fight would fire me up, but tonight, all I can think about is her.
I’ll never forget how Hope looked at me over the rim of her coffee cup, or the way her cheeks flushed when she told me she writes romance novels for a living.
Those hypnotic hazel eyes snared me right from the start.
I didn’t want to leave her. Weird, considering I barely know her. But the connection between us was… instant. Then she smiled at me, soft, and grateful. A piece of my frozen heart thawed slightly. I should’ve known then I was done for.
Now I’m here, hands wrapped, gloves half-laced, trying to push her out of my mind before the fight.
Thud.
I’m so out of it, I didn’t even see Vegas lift his arm to whack the back of my head.
“What the fuck, Vegas?” I growl.
“Frost,” he drawls, leaning a shoulder against the cinderblock wall. “You’re staring off into space. Your head isn’t in this fight. You sure you’re good?”
“I’m fine,” I say, which is the universal code for back the fuck off.
Vegas narrows his eyes. “You’re off. Wanna tell me why?”
“No.”
“Then I’ll guess.” He smirks. “Woman?”
I freeze for half a second, and that’s all the confirmation he needs.
His grin spreads wide. “I fucking knew it. You’re looking at me like a man who had a five-minute conversation and lost his damn soul over it.”
I glare. “Wasn’t like that.”
“Sure,” he says, clearly entertained. “She got a name?”
“Hope. Didn’t get her last one.” Hell, I barely know anything about her. I don’t even know if she made it home okay after I walked out of that cafe. The idea of something happening to her makes my pulse spike and my breathing quicken.
Vegas lifts a brow. “You don’t know her last name, and you’re this distracted? How’d ya meet her?”
“At a coffee shop on my way here. Some asshole was hassling her, wouldn’t leave her alone. I intervened.” I shrug like it’s no big deal. “She offered me a cup of coffee and a seat. We chatted for a bit.”
“Must’ve been some conversation. What does she do?”
“Do?” I ask, confused.
“For work, dumbass.” Vegas shakes his head. “Or didn’t you exchange the bare minimum information?”
I hesitate. “Writes romance novels.”
Vegas barks out a laugh. “Oh, that’s rich. The coldest bastard in New Mexico taken down by a woman who writes lovey, dovey, happily-ever-after shit.” I glare daggers at him, which only makes him laugh harder. “Damn, she must be something to have you this distracted,” he wheezes.
Is she?
She is. Way more than I realized, but I shove that thought down, focusing on the cage. Right now, I need to worry about dropping the guy inside who is waiting for me. I’ve got no business thinking about some romance writer whose smile keeps messing with my brain.
Vegas claps me on the shoulder. “Look, whoever she is, she’ll still be there after the fight, if she’s meant to be. Right now, you give me your head in that cage. Understood?”
I nod, but even as I walk toward the entrance, her face lingers in my mind.
The cage door slams behind me, and the familiar clang snaps me back to the present.
All the noise from the crowd, bets being shouted, and Vegas barking orders fades behind me.
My opponent is already in the center of the mat, bouncing lightly on the balls of his feet.
He’s a big bastard, easily six-four with a thick neck, massive shoulders, and tree-trunk arms. He’s the type of guy who thinks his size will intimidate his opponent and send him running instead of being ready to trade punches.
He grins when he sees me, like he’s being handed an easy victory.
Poor asshole has no idea who he just stepped into the ring with.
Speakers buzz in the corner of the warehouse. “Ladies and gentlemen, the moment you’ve all been waiting for, the main event… In this corner, we have Tank.”
I bite my tongue to keep from laughing.
Tank… Really? How fucking original.
Tank narrows his eyes. I guess I didn’t hide my amusement as well as I thought. I snicker, and the vein in Tank’s head pulsates.
The announcer continues. “And in this corner we have Frost.”
The ref steps in between us. “I want a clean fight, understand?”
I smirk. “Sure.”
The ref gives the signal, and the crowd surges to their feet.
I can tell from the sluggish rhythm of his footwork that Tank’s slow.
He’s built like, well, a tank, and should easily be able to bulldoze over his enemy, but he has no finesse.
Me? I’m a fucking shark. I stalk my prey.
They’ll see me coming but never know when I’ll strike.
As we begin to circle each other, Tank throws the first punch. It’s wide, but the force of wind from behind it is meant to knock me into next week. I duck, feeling the air shift past my cheek, and his momentum sends him stumbling half a step.
I decide to play with my food for a while. Throwing a quick jab to the ribs, I follow it up with another, then a sharp left hook directly into his jaw. Tank swings again, angrier this time. His movements become more frantic, like he’s trying to swat a fly.
I slip left, pivot, and drive a kick into his thigh hard enough for it to buckle.
He staggers backward. “You little shit,” he growls.
I give him nothing in return. No expression, no words. Just exact precision with the blows I deliver. He charges, trying to use his weight to pin me to the cage. Wrong move on his part. Right before impact, I drop low and slide out from under him. He crashes into the chain-link wall with a grunt.
The crowd roars in appreciation. When Tank turns, he’s panting.
Sweat beads down his temple, and blood drips from the corner of his mouth.
He throws a desperate combo, left, right, left.
The last one’s got some heat behind it as my head snaps back before another blow grazes my right cheek.
Something wet trickles down my face. I know what it is and don’t bother to wipe it off.
I give him a toothy grin instead. All he managed to do was piss me off.
Game on mother fucker!
Time to stop playing and end this. A quick feint to his right draws his guard up.
He lifts his arms to block the imaginary strike, exposing that soft spot on his abs, which is precisely what I want.
I drive a hook straight into his liver. He freezes, his eyes wide, and his mouth drops open in shock.
This is it, the moment every fighter waits for, the last strike before the end.
Before he can recover, I follow with a vicious uppercut to his chin.
His head snaps back. Tank’s legs give out from underneath him, and he drops like a dead fish.
The crowd erupts, shaking the rafters. I stand over him as the ref counts down.
After ten seconds, the ref grabs my arm and raises it above my head.
The announcer’s voice booms over the loudspeakers. “And the winner is… Frost by a knockout!”
Vegas yells what I assume is something congratulatory from outside the cage. The Saint’s Outlaws slam their fists against the metal in celebration.
Does my mind focus on the win? Nope, not even a little bit.
Instead, it flickers back to a quiet coffee shop, and the beautiful brunette with hazel eyes.
Lifting my arms in victory, I shake off the memory and let the noise wash over me.
The fight’s over, but I don’t feel any satisfaction.
Only one thing on this planet can give me that, and she’s not here.