Chapter Twenty-Nine
Adrian
T he bass thundered through my ribcage as we descended into Apex , an underground club that required either a seven-figure bank account or a reputation for violence to get through the door. Maybe both.
The bouncer, a mountain of scar tissue who probably bench-pressed motorcycles for fun, took one look at my face and stepped aside without a word.
There was nothing like fresh fight bruises to open doors.
Neon lights sliced through artificial fog and cologne, casting everything in electric blues and violent reds that reminded me of another night, another club, and a blonde angel who'd caught my eye across a crowded dance floor.
The memory sent heat spiraling through my chest. Isla in that dress, looking like sin wrapped in innocence, completely unaware she was about to become mine.
Tonight felt like a celebration of how far we'd come since then.
The main floor was ours—no civilians, just fighters, coaches, promoters, and the kind of people who bet millions on blood for sport.
"Shots!" Jax bellowed, his voice carrying over the music as he made a beeline for the bar, that golden-boy swagger making women melt in his wake despite the fact that his arm was clasped firmly around Estelle’s waist.
"We're celebrating a fucking massacre!”
Connor followed, all brooding intensity, Sierra tucked against his side. Even in celebration, he moved like he was expecting an attack from every shadow.
I wrapped my arm around Isla, pulling her against me as we navigated through the crowd.
She fit perfectly against my side with her soft curves and vanilla-scented hair, the perfect contrast to the crazy that was me.
The bartender, a tattooed ex-heavyweight who knew us well, lined up premium liquor without being asked.
Top-shelf liquid that costs more per shot than imaginable.
"Gentlemen," I said, raising my glass with theatrical flourish, "to making it look easy."
"To putting that prick in his place," Connor added, his version of eloquent praise.
"To Adrian not getting his pretty face messed up," Jax chimed in with a grin that was teeth and mischief.
We downed the shots in unison, the burn familiar and welcome. But as the glasses hit the bar, I caught the bartender's eye and slipped him a few crisp hundreds.
"Water," I murmured, quiet enough that only he could hear. "Same glass, same color. Keep them coming when I do my thing.”
He nodded once, understanding the game.
While the guys ordered another round, I watched the girls migrate to a corner, a plush seating area with perfect sight lines to the bar and enough shadows to feel intimate.
They moved with the easy grace of women who'd learned to navigate rooms full of predators, secure in the knowledge that their particular monsters would destroy anyone who looked at them wrong.
Bee curled into the velvet cushions with a drink that looked like liquid sunset, something fruity and tropical.
Star chose something sharp and sweet, a citrusy one that sparkled under the lights like liquid diamonds.
But it was my angel who made my adrenaline flare. She'd ordered a chocolate martini, the rim dusted with cocoa, the liquid dark and rich as sin.
She sipped it slowly, her pink tongue darting out to catch a drop of sweetness from her lower lip, and I had to adjust myself through my jeans.
Fuck, she was hot.
"Another round!" Jax demanded, already three shots deep and showing no signs of slowing down.
His tolerance matched Daddy Easton’s, that pampered rich-boy metabolism processing alcohol like it was water.
Connor matched him drink for drink with stoic determination, barely blinking as the liquor went down.
He’d built himself a liver that could probably process antifreeze without complaint.
Meanwhile, I was also on my third shot of actual alcohol. I drank with my brothers, but not for my game.
The crowd around us got louder, more animated. Fighters from both camps mingled with varying degrees of hostility, the kind of tension that could explode into violence at any moment.
It was intoxicating with all that barely leashed aggression crackling through the air like electricity before a storm.
“Catalyst!” The voice cut through the music like a rusty blade. "Heard you can handle more than just pretty boys with glass jaws."
I turned to find my K.O. victim’s head coach swaggering toward our group, flanked by three of his fighters and reeking of wounded pride.
His face was still red from watching his boy get dismantled in front of a sold-out crowd.
Oh, this is going to be fun.
“Coach,” I replied with a grin that looked more feral than friendly in the club's strobing lights.
"Shouldn't you be consoling your fighter? I hear he's still trying to remember his name."
The insult hit home, his face darkening as his entourage shifted restlessly. "Big words from someone who fights tomato cans for easy money."
"Easy money?" I laughed, the sound echoing through our section of the club. "Your boy lasted longer than I expected. We actually made it to round three before I put him to sleep."
Connor and Jax flanked me automatically, their presence alone enough to make his crew take a step back.
We might be celebrating, but we were still apex predators in a room full of wounded prey.
"Drinking contest," The man announced suddenly, loud enough for half the club to hear. "Shot for shot, last man standing. Unless the feral puppy can't handle his liquor."
The crowd began to gather, sensing blood in the water. Money started changing hands as bets were placed, the energy shifting from celebration to gladiatorial anticipation.
I glanced over at the girls, catching Isla's eye. She was watching with rapt attention, her chocolate martini forgotten as she leaned forward in her seat.
The trust in her gaze, the absolute confidence that I would dominate whatever challenge came my way, sent fire racing through my veins.
Time to put on a show for my angel.
"Boys," I called out to Connor and Jax, "keep an eye on the girls. I’m having some fun here.”
From the corner of my eye, I caught movement— Elliott, our coach's twenty-year-old son, practically bouncing on his toes with excitement.
The kid's baby face was flushed with hero worship, his copper hair catching the strobe lights as he pushed through the crowd toward the bar.
Toned build aside, he looked like he belonged in a library more than a fight club, but his dedication to us was absolute.
"I got this, Adrian!" He called out, his voice pitched with shy enthusiasm as he flagged down the bartender.
The kid had been helping at the gym lately, always eager to fetch water bottles, hold pads, or just watch us train and try to copy us.
I studied the opposing coach’s flushed face, the slight tremor in his hands, the way his eyes were already slightly unfocused.
This would take five minutes. Maybe less.
The bartender began lining up shots, clear liquid that gleamed under the lights.
Elliott hovered nearby, practically vibrating with energy as he coordinated with the bartender. Twenty glasses in total, enough to put a normal man in the hospital.
Good thing I wasn’t normal.
"Rules," I announced, loud enough for the growing crowd to hear.
"Shot for shot until one of us taps out or hits the floor. Loser buys everyone's drinks for the night."
"Hope you brought your credit card,” The coach sneered, grabbing the first glass with unnecessary force.
What followed was pure theater. He threw back shot after shot with desperate determination, his face growing redder, his movements more erratic with each glass.
The crowd cheered and jeered, placing side bets on how many drinks it would take to drop each of us.
Meanwhile, I matched him drink for drink, my “shots” tasting suspiciously like premium water that Elliott handed me with each round .
The kid's timing was perfect, giving me enough time to fake the burn so that no one in the crowd caught on.
The real alcohol I'd consumed earlier gave me a pleasant buzz, but my head remained crystal clear.
"Yeah, Adrian!" Elliott whispered-shouted from beside me, his face bright with pride as I knocked back another fake shot. "You got this!"
His unwavering faith was almost endearing. Almost made me want to ruffle his hair like a ginger golden retriever.
Eventually, the opposing coach pitched forward face-first into the bar, unconscious before he hit the wood.
The crowd erupted in cheers from our side, groans from his. Money changed hands faster than the drinks had gone down, and I raised my arms in victory, not even slightly winded.
"Lightweight," I declared, stepping over his unconscious form to accept congratulations from the crowd.
Elliott beamed at me like I'd just conquered Rome, practically glowing with reflected glory as he helped clear away the empty glasses.
The kid didn't say much, never did around crowds since women tended to corner him and therefore terrify him, but his admiration was written all over his baby face.
But I wasn't paying attention to anyone else anymore.
My eyes were locked on Isla, who was staring at me with undisguised awe and amusement.
Her lips were parted slightly, her cheeks flushed pink, and she was gripping her glass like it was the only thing keeping her anchored to reality.
There's my girl. My beautiful, dirty-minded angel. My cock immediately twitched in my pants.
I made my way through the crowd toward the girls' corner, accepting back-slaps and praise while keeping my eyes fixed on my prize.
Isla's gaze never wavered, tracking my movement with a focus that matched my own .
"You're so hot," she said when I reached her, her voice slightly slurred from the chocolate martinis. "Like, stupidly, unfairly hot. It's not even legal."
Sierra giggled. "She's been saying that for the last ten minutes."
"Among other things," Estelle added with a knowing grin, her glass nearly empty.
I felt my grin turn wicked. "Is that so, angel? What other things?"
Isla's cheeks went from pink to scarlet, but she didn't back down.