Chapter 6 #2
I could tell there were active bookies in the club, working their magic.
And just like that, the fight began.
The moment the first round was over, I was certain I’d pass out. But I made it through, albeit my motions were barely perfunctory. Yet I was able to use my practiced smile to my advantage.
“Come here, honey. You are one hot babe.” I moved with grace or at least tried to keep from falling flat on my face. The speaker dragged his tongue across his bottom lip while shoving a twenty in my garter.
A little bird reminded me what Patrick had said about spunk. What did I have to lose?
“Is that all you got? Trust me. I’m worth so… much… more.”
“Whoa,” a couple of guys said at the same time.
I batted my eyelashes for their benefit and like that, the hundred-dollar bills popped out.
At least that allowed me to experience more confidence. The first fight lasted a full five rounds and both men were bloody.
But I had to admit, a tiny thrill had kept me from fainting, both fighters very skilled even if they were beating the crap out of each other. I’d lost count of how much money I’d earned, but when the fight was over, Mark even gave me a thumbs up.
I could do this. What shocked me almost as much was the rush of adrenaline I was experiencing, now completely replacing the fear. Even the knot in my stomach was gone.
When the second fight started, I was able to breathe a little easier. Being on stage no longer had the effect of making me long to vomit in my mouth. The makeup was the key. I could be anyone I wanted hiding behind gold and silver, reds and blues. I even blew a couple of kisses to the crowd.
This fight lasted four rounds and I hadn’t noticed until the last just how bloody it had gotten.
The mat was slickened, stained from one corner to another.
The last punch was the worst, blood flying over the ropes, landing right in front of me.
Along with two teeth and the loud cracking that indicated broken bones.
He was carried off the stage while the other man reveled in being the winner.
The crowd cheered, pushing against the ropes. When the fighters left the area, a crew came in to wash down the ring.
A bottle of water was suddenly placed in my hand, Mark standing over me, also offering a towel. He was huge, a large, jagged scar on one side of his face. “Mind yourself with the last fight,” he said in a deep voice, his warning clear.
“Why?”
He snorted. “Because the Born Killer was called to duty.”
“The born killer?” I wiped my face and neck, grimacing when noticing the blood staining the material.
His nods were slow and deliberate. “He’s a real piece of work. Stay out of his way. He doesn’t like interference.” He grabbed the towel from my hand, grinning at the sight of blood.
As Mark walked away, I glanced across the corner of the ring to the guys on the other side. They were completely revved, money already exchanging hands. Why did I have a terrible feeling this was more than just a fight until a man was unconscious?
I had a strong feeling this was a fight to the death.
The crowd of men was on their feet, several chanting ‘Born Killer’ as if the man was a legend.
I had no idea what to expect, completely overwhelmed by the intense level of energy.
Fists were in the air, faces bright red.
The dudes who weren’t screaming his moniker were shouting something just as powerful.
And horrible.
Kill! Kill! Kill!
While holding my breath, I turned in a full circle, allowing myself the full vibe of the club.
This was a situation where if the owner decided to pull the fight, there would be mass casualties.
I could feel the pressure building, the hunger and the longing to see and taste blood already cracking the surface.
Blinking, I tried to concentrate on the stage, my thudding heart so loud the sound managed to drown out some of the worst exclamations.
“Kill the bastard!”
“Send him to his maker!”
“Slice and dice, Born Killer.”
Jesus. Beads of sweat ran down the back of my neck, my upper lip covered in wetness. While I should wish I was anywhere else but here, an unwanted level of excitement was churning in my system. How was that even possible? This was crazy.
The announcer was some big burly guy, also dressed in a suit, but his massive body created strain on the seams. He had the kind of voice that should keep him employed in Hollywood, the unseen announcer behind every movie trailer.
Only I could tell by his beady little eyes he got off on the blood and violence.
My hands were clammy as he announced the contestant who would go up against the favored home boy.
“And in this corner, our latest contestant, a man who dared defy the Irish. And you know what happens when someone attempts to defy our leprechauns,” the announcer growled, his lips practically stuck to the microphone.
The roar was tremendous, so loud I clapped my hands over my ears. But only briefly. I was eager to hear the rest of the introduction.
“Betrayal means face the beast. You know what is necessary. You know the punishment he should face. You know exactly what is required.” The man with the microphone allowed the announcement to sink in.
Within seconds, the crowd was bidding, money flying through the air, the odds increased.
When the announcer pulled the microphone to his lips again, I was shocked that in a split second, all was quiet.
The silence was unnerving. I dared glance around the room, noticing almost every man was leaning forward, almost frothing at the mouth like famished wolves.
“He. Must. Die.” With that, the announcer stepped into the corner while the crowd’s thunderous response was completely deafening.
“Behold the traitor.”
It didn’t matter the opponent’s name or what he’d done to betray the Irish. The fact he was being brought out in shackles was enough of both the story and the reason the club was underground.
Someone was going to die tonight.
I was sick to my stomach, ready to claw my way out of here. However, I was no dummy. If I dared try to leave now, I might just find myself on center stage.
The chiseled young man tried to show no fear, but the glint of the powerful light over the stage allowed no lies.
Still, as the shackles were removed, he stretched and shadow boxed in a way that showed this wasn’t his first rodeo.
I was torn between trying to find a way of calling for help and escaping, never to return.
But I stood my ground, reminding myself I was just one girl in a sea of powerful men.
And that I was going to kill Tawny. How could she put me in this position? How could she not warn me about the outcome?
“And in this corner, the one… the only… Born… Killer.”
With that, the announcer disappeared into the shadows and a man took his place, a shimmering blue light popping down from above, like the dawning of a thunderous morning where black and blue were the favored colors.
He was wearing a silk robe, like in the boxing matches my father used to watch on television. The other two fights had no such pomp and circumstance, the men coming out in little more than tight gym shorts.
This guy, this Born Killer was playing the part. Which was why big bucks were being spent, expensive drinks consumed and the guests frothing at the mouth.
When the fighter didn’t move, merely keeping his stance under the swirling lights, the crowd chanted again. Finally, he lifted his head, but the angle prevented me from seeing his face.
And dear God, I wanted to.
My breath was labored, my rapid heartbeat already driven into my throat and the crazy sense of excitement remained. Tickling every inch of skin like prickles of electricity.
Another thirty seconds passed and I was certain the crowd was going to break down the stage and beat the opponent to death themselves. Thank God, the Born Killer moved to the center of the stage, his back now to me. He threw up his arms, still playing the part.
Then the light panned onto the opponent. He’d broken into a sweat, maybe from his preparation, but I suspected Born Killer had a reputation to fit his name. My God. This was crazy. What in the hell was I doing here?
When the Born Killer finally dropped his robe, another roar came from the audience before they began to stamp their feet in earnest. This was getting out of hand.
Born Killer did a little dance around the ring.
Movement in the crowd to my left grabbed my attention. Four of the same well-dressed huge men walked through the same door I’d come from, moving to the sides once they’d found a position at the corner of the ring. A special elevated seat. I hadn’t noticed.
But I certainly did now as a man with almost all white hair stepped onto the small platform, taking his seat as if some king. He was in a suit but with no tie, a drink already in one hand, a cigar in the other. This was the owner of the club. A man to be reckoned with.
Born Killer turned and I was given an exquisite view of his muscular back.
Oh, my goodness, the man was carved to utter perfection and I didn’t say that about most men.
There wasn’t an ounce of fat on him, his broad shoulders giving way to a thin waist and a perfectly rounded butt that screamed for him to wear tight, well-worn blue jeans.
What continued to capture my attention was the viper painted on his back, reddish orange in color. I was surprised he’d chosen an eyelash viper, yet I understood the meaning.
Danger. Treachery. Malice.