Chapter 2
Mila
“You really didn’t know?” Niko asks over the roar of everyone. “I thought for sure Brynn or Rachel would have run their mouths.”
“I don’t talk to them much,” I admit as I take it all in.
“Obviously. Well. Now you know why we’re called the Cockpit. Nice little play on words, isn’t it?” He walks to the bar, and I struggle to keep up.
“I thought it was because the bar has an aviation theme,” I say. “Based on Top Gun or something.”
“Nah. It’s all a cover-up.”
“Okay…” I nod, still trying to wrap my brain around it all.
The room is pulsing with energy, and while it’s a lot, it’s mesmerizing.
“I didn’t know bare-knuckle boxing was legal,” I say as we stop at the bar.
“It wasn’t until about three years ago. Of course, we’ve been around much longer than that. Which is why this is a bit of a secret,” Niko says, loading a tray with drinks and their respective tickets. “That and it’s only legal if it’s regulated.”
With that, he snaps his fingers, a signature Niko-move to get a waitress’s attention.
“See all the men at the tables down there? They are your priority. They’re CEOs, old money, new money…
a couple of them are fighters too. They drink a lot, bet a lot, and tip a lot.
Make sure you refill their glasses before they ever go dry, and learn their drinks by face and name, not by being told. ”
I blink. “You want me to wait on them?”
“Several of the girls at the Cockpit work doubles here. We call it ‘inventory’ if you didn’t catch on. Rachel, Amanda, and Brynn, just to name a few. Brynn isn’t here, so consider this an interview. Your trial run.”
“You’re offering me a job working here?” I ask.
“Unless you don’t want it. Which might be a little na?ve on your part. These girls cash around fifteen hundred a night.”
I nearly choke. “Fifteen hundred?”
“A night,” he enunciates. After that, he gives me a rundown of the who’s who on the drink orders and shoves me a tray.
The next thing I know, I am walking down towards the ring.
It’s a lot to take in.
Men in expensive suits suck down double shots of whiskey, shouting profanities at the men in the ring.
One man in the ring is wearing black shorts, and the other is wearing red shorts.
Other than shoes, there is nothing on either of them except for wraps of coordinating colors on their hands.
Sweat makes their ripped, hard backs and torsos shimmer.
With bloody hands, they circle each other like, well, like cocks.
How is this even a real thing?
“Hey little miss, I haven’t seen you before,” a guy with a shit-eating grin smiles up at me from one of the tables, and I look down at the drinks.
Despite the distraction of everything, I remember the orders Niko rattled off to me.
I have an affinity for memorizing orders and faces. It comes with being a waitress and bartender far longer than I’d ever planned to be.
“Old Fashioned,” I say and pick the glass up from my tray and set it in front of him before taking the empty one.
“Good girl,” he nods. “Hope I get to see more of you.”
I ignore the comment and keep walking, also ignoring the cat-call that comes shortly after. His eyes are on my ass, no doubt. My ass has gotten used to it.
As I make my way to the next table, my eyes wander back to the ring.
There is something fascinating about it.
The calculated movements.
The sharp jabs that are dodged half the time and make contact the other half.
From where I am standing, it’s not super easy to see faces, especially by the way they keep moving.
I stop in front of a table where two men and two women are seated. One man is busy making out with a woman, not concerned with the fight or the drinks.
The other man is staring up at me.
“You got something for me, sugar?” he asks, and something about his voice crawls over my skin like insects. He’s a good-looking man by stereotypical standards, but that doesn’t change the fact that he rubs me the wrong way.
“Yes,” I stutter.
It’s wild. I am typically a very confident waitress and bartender. But I’m not usually passing out drinks while two men beat the ever-loving shit out of each other either.
Suddenly, one of the guys in the ring hits the floor.
It’s the blonde one.
The crowd cheers.
The dark-haired one turns around, pacing the ring like a tiger in a cage, reveling in the attention.
Then he looks at me.
And when he does, my heart slams against my rib cage.
It can’t be.
Not here.
No.
But there’s no mistaking him.
It’s Dominic.
My boss.
My silver fox, grumpy CEO, long-time crush boss is in the ring.
I’d know him anywhere.
His hair is raven black and streaked with silver. His jawline is as sharp as his sense of style. And his gunmetal gray eyes have a way of holding contact a moment too long.
It’s long enough to make me squirm while he stands in perfect confidence.
He looks like the alpha male in an erotic novel.
Dominic Wolfe is tall, dark, and silent.
He’s rich, measured, precise, and controlled.
Every moment that I am in his presence, I unravel a little.
And he’s staring right at me.
For the first time. Ever.
Suddenly, the Old Fashioned in my hand feels slippery, and the next thing I know, it’s slipping from my grip. It splashes into the customer’s lap, spilling bourbon and bitters and ice all over his crotch.
“Hey!” he shouts, jumping from the barstool.
But not in time to miss the whoosh of his drink.
My mouth pops open in horror as I realize what I’ve done.
“I’m sorry,” I say, frantically looking for a towel or napkins, or anything to offer him. “I am so, so sorry.”
“I bet you are, bitch!” he snaps, and rage fills his eyes.
It suddenly occurs to me just how large this man is, and I wonder if he is a fighter too.
take a step back, but suddenly his arm jets out and his hand wraps around my arm. Hard.
Fear washes over me like a tidal wave in a storm, and I am paralyzed.
But just then, I feel a man behind me.
Heat radiates from his body to mine, touching me with a protective warmth.
I slowly turn my head and see that it’s Dominic.
He grabs me and pulls me against him, holding me out of the way as his anger bears down on the customer.
“Don’t you fucking touch her!” Dominic thunders.
And I can’t breathe.