Chapter 4 #3
Asher’s safety was never in the balance.
This whole time, Caleb was counting down the number of seconds that his sleeper hold could be applied without actually hurting Asher.
The hand on Asher’s head was for precision, subtle modifications to ensure Asher did not accidentally crush his windpipe during the struggle that ensued.
Each time he pulled Asher close, he had been checking on Asher’s pulse, silently making sure that he had, in fact, not passed out.
Had Asher shown any signs of genuine distress, Caleb would have stopped immediately.
But there’s something about working with Asher on a stunt like this.
Something about the way, despite all the animosity between them, Asher implicitly trusted Caleb to keep him safe when it matters most. He had let himself go soft and pliant in Caleb’s arms, put his well-being in Caleb’s hands, and chose to believe that Caleb wouldn’t actually hurt him or take advantage of it. That Caleb would protect him.
Ten.
Caleb releases Asher.
As Asher resurfaces, he blinks at Caleb, a breath’s space between them. Caleb can feel the soft pressure of Asher’s hand against his thigh, ready to warn him if he doesn’t feel anything but good.
Caleb can’t stop the gasp that escapes at his touch, thankful that it gets lost in the jeers that rattle through the stands.
He feels like he’s losing his mind.
He scrambles out of the ring, legs tripping over themselves as he backs up the ramp.
“Shit,” Caleb mutters into the arena. The ghost of the palm of Asher’s hand sears into his thigh.
“Fight me,” a voice from behind says.
Clinging to the ropes, Asher hauls himself to his feet. His chest heaves.
“Fight. Me,” he repeats. It comes out rough, thick with the grit of concrete.
Right. Caleb actually has a job to do. One that doesn’t involve being a touch-starved excuse of a human being. He wrenches his wits together and settles for “Get in line.”
Still hanging on the ropes, Asher scoffs. “Didn’t you hear? Back where I came from, I made the line.”
What a brat. Caleb’s lips twitch and he clamps down hard, ignoring the taste of iron that fills his mouth.
Instead, he pulls from threads that have slowly unspooled over the past week: Asher spilling beer all over him, Asher overhearing him on the phone, Asher ripping him to shreds, Asher firing flaming arrows past his walls like an archer. Asher. Asher. Asher.
He weaves them together until he slides back into the headspace he needs to draw from—the one that’s malicious and drenched in fury.
He lifts the mic to his lips. “When I get my hands on your pretty face, I’m going to do the world a favor by ripping off one of your ears, stuffing it into your mouth, and finally shutting you up. ”
Breathing heavily, Caleb tosses the mic aside. His eyes meet Asher’s and . . . and Asher Ross fucking smiles.
His face lights up like the sky on the Fourth of July, like a smirking shot of dopamine. He smiles like he’s never met a challenge he can’t overcome. Like Caleb is a fight he can’t wait to get his hands on. He smiles like he’s never been more delighted in his entire life.
“You think I’m pretty.” Asher says it like a statement, not a question. He looks thoroughly pleased with himself.
Before Caleb can hurl himself into the void, the growl of a bass guitar starts up low and deep.
When the first riff hits, Caleb watches as the chairman of Global Elite Wrestling strolls out to the beat of his entrance music.
There’s a smirk on his face and a swagger in his step.
After years at Prichard’s beck and call—a ringmaster and his blunt instrument—Caleb has learned to read the old man well.
“All right, settle down boys,” Prichard says. Here, a curl of his lip, a look that says they’re right where he wants them to be, puppets he can force to dance with a flick of his wrist.
To judge Kennedy Prichard based on appearance alone would be a fatal mistake.
A little over seventy and with an intense receding hairline, Prichard is easily dwarfed by the GEW roster.
What he lacks in stature and physique, however, he makes up for with deep pockets and personality.
Anyone who says money can’t buy happiness has clearly never met Kennedy Prichard and his sporting empire.
He knows how to command the attention of a room, holding everyone in the palm of his hand.
“Asher Ross,” Prichard says. He stretches an arm toward the ring, exuding a confidence that only comes with knowing all eyes are on him.
“Welcome to the grandest stage of them all. Let’s see you put your money where your mouth is.
Next week we’re going to have a triple threat match—you, Riley Holland, and Apollo Wilder.
The winner of the match will determine the number one contender for Caleb Knight’s GEW World Championship title. ”
“Jesus lord,” Caleb mutters.
Kennedy Prichard smiles, all lips and no teeth. “One stipulation: no disqualifications. No holds barred. Let’s see what you’ve got.”