Chapter 33
CHAPTER
THIRTY-THREE
ZIGGY
Ishould be watching the match. They move so quickly, but especially when it’s Wilde and Foley fighting. These two are like lightning strikes colliding, and somehow, they take the hits and stay standing. They’re fast and all strength. The type of fight that has you on the edge of your seat.
But my gaze is fixed on Kennedy. On his expressions. Trying to read how he really feels about Wilde’s End.
He’s been here months now, but all he knows is the isolation of Old End. The quiet of my mine. The labyrinth of the trees, and the casual warmth of the Cutty.
He doesn’t know how deep Wilde’s End goes. This is my world, my community, the people I’ve given a huge part of my life to. Like with my home, I want Kennedy to feel the same attachment I do. I want him to appreciate it for what it is.
Because Wilde’s End isn’t anything like the places we’re from.
“Oh, shit.” He winces at whatever just happened.
I don’t understand the problem. They’re both up there because they want to be, and they both know what they’re risking.
I’ve seen people walk away bleeding, broken, and even one guy who couldn’t stop throwing up on himself.
It’s a brutal sport, and no one who competes is interested in taking it easy.
Kennedy groans and turns to me. “I’m not sure I can watch. I keep waiting for Wilde to break something.”
“He might. He might not. They’re as close to evenly matched as it gets. Foley might even be slightly better.”
He flicks a look back toward where they’re fighting. “Is it always like this?”
Yes.
“How do you keep up? They’re moving too fast for me.”
There’s a special skill in surviving these matches but also making them watchable.
And entertaining. Foley and Wilde have perfected how to do it all.
It’s why theirs always draw the biggest wagers.
Wilde earns enough from one fight to get the town through the next month, and it’s thanks to him that we never go without what we need.
Well, and Rooney, Lynx, and everyone else who chips in. But he lubricates that bridge between what the outside world has and what we need.
Kennedy flinches again.
“Don’t like it?” I murmur, voice softer than before. I’m braced for him to tell me how much he hates it, but bewildered lines fill his forehead.
“It’s interesting. I just … it’s very violent.”
It is, but it’s an important part of our lives out here. “Living a life like we do out here isn’t easy.”
“Yeah, but they’re purposely making it harder.”
“I know you won’t understand this, Kenny,” Hart says from my other side, “but sometimes people just need to beat the shit out of something.”
The buzzer sounds, and we all turn back to the ring in the center of the room. Wilde’s standing on the top platform, panting hard and looking down at where Foley is lying on his back on the padded floor. When Foley lifts his arm above himself, the angle of it looks … wrong.
“Urg …” Kennedy says, cringing away. “Wilde actually did it.”
“Not like it was on purpose,” Hart replies, and he sounds disappointed.
Hudson slumps in his seat. “I’ve never been more turned on.”
I’m still not comfortable enough to talk properly around them, so I don’t correct Hart’s assumption. I didn’t see it, but it was definitely on purpose. A hit hard enough with Wilde’s post could smash bone easily enough, and Wilde wouldn’t have made a promise he didn’t intend to follow through with.
They’ve both had more broken bones from this than I can count.
I watch as Foley pushes to his feet, arm cradled to his front as he cackles deeply. His normally smooth hair is the mess it always is once they finish fighting, and he stumbles immediately for Booker, his hangers-on following at a distance.
“Good thing you have a doctor here,” Kennedy mutters.
It sounds like a coincidence, but I’m sure the only reason Booker settled here was thanks to Peril. Every month after the fights, he pulls an all-nighter tending to people, and he’s in his element while he does it.
A few of the people around us stand and start moving down the row.
“Was that the last one?” Kennedy asks.
Looks like it.
We’ve been here for hours, but it passed quickly. It always does. I’ve stopped coming to Peril matches recently because it’s a lot of people, and sitting alone while Wilde fights always makes me self-conscious.
I can’t remember the last time I sat with a group of people.
“I can’t believe it’s over already,” Hart says, following us from the row of seats.
Hudson disappears, I’m assuming to find Wilde, and the twins follow me out of the building.
Most people head to their cars, but a small line cuts off toward the chop shop.
Booker’s home is within view of the Lair, all the lights on giving it an illusion of warmth. Like an angler fish attracting prey.
My gaze moves from the line of people to the one lone form leaning against the side of the Lair.
Foley’s watching the chop shop, arm held protectively against his torso, but he makes no move to join the others. In the shadows, his tattoos look more menacing than ever.
Kennedy’s hand on my back steers me away.
“I don’t like him,” he murmurs by my ear.
He’s not the only one. As the mayor of Dale, he’s enemy number one in Wilde’s End.
We reach my old truck, and I unlock the passenger-side door. Kennedy pulls it open, then pauses.
“Ah … so, is this … night over?”
I glance at where Hart was following us, but he’s not there. “Your brother?”
Kennedy shrugs. “Said he was going to look at something and not to wait for him.”
“Will he find his way back?”
I don’t want to leave without Hart because I can tell how conflicted Kennedy is. One part of him wants to act like he doesn’t care, the same way they do, but he’s made of better stuff. He can’t not worry about the people he loves.
“He’s a grown man, and he said to go. So let’s go.”
I’m nervous as I kick at the dirt. “Will you stay the night?”
“With you? Always.”
My eyes clash with his. There’s nothing like spending the night wrapped around him, but I also remember what he asked for last time. He wants to fuck me. And remembering that has nerves flooding into my gut.
Very.
Happy.
Nerves.
“We need to go,” he rasps.
My cock pumping full of blood agrees with him. I round the truck to climb in, and he’s already inside waiting. Most of the cars have already left, heading for Wayward, where they gather after Peril matches, and I pull away without issue.
Kennedy mustn’t be wearing his seat belt because the second we reach a narrow road, trees pressing tight on both sides, he slides across the bench seat and buries his face into my neck.
My gasp sounds louder in the quiet cab, and Kennedy presses a line of kisses up my throat to just below my ear. My skin is tingling, pulse chasing itself faster, and I arch to the side to give him more room.
With one eye on the road ahead, I sink into how Kennedy’s making me feel.
“Ziggy,” he breathes, voice gruff. “Need you. Fuck, I need you.”
His hand rests on my thigh, and the way I almost immediately come is ridiculous. But his heavy, warm palm is only inches from where my cock is stuffed in my pants, and all I want is for him to touch it. To slide his hand higher and take me in his grip.
“Pull over,” he tells me.
I almost run the truck off the road trying to find somewhere to stop. We’re off the main route, so I don’t think anyone will come this way, but I’m too horny to care.
“Turn the car off.”
Right. That. I fumble the key in the ignition, but a moment later, the truck falls silent.
Kennedy reaches under my shirt, links his fingers over the waistband of my jeans, and then pulls me across the seat into the middle. He straddles my waist, head bowed over to stop from hitting the roof, and he takes my face in his hands as he brings his mouth to mine.
Like every other time, I’m Jell-O. Destined to bow to every whim, like trees ravaged by wind gusts in a storm.
There’s nothing calm and settling about the way he kisses me.
Not when he grips my hair in fists or forces our mouths wider, his tongue deeper, teeth clashing together like coming up for air will ruin us.
Kennedy grinds down onto my lap, hard, thick shaft dragging along the length of mine, and my hands bunch his shirt in my tight grip as I try to stay anchored.
This giant, heavy, sweet man towering over me is too much.
My face is getting hot from the lack of air, my brain spotty from lust, and I scramble to push his open shirt from his shoulders before I shove his T-shirt up to his chest. I’m torn between leaving it there and breaking our kiss, but parting even for a second feels unbearable.
Kennedy doesn’t give me a choice. He pulls away, dragging my T-shirt up over my head before he gets rid of his own. Then I have the mouthwatering view of his bare torso right in front of my face.
He takes my chin gently and angles it up so I meet his gaze.
“Yeah …” he says in a rush. “I’m going to need you to ride me now.”