2. Sabrina
2
Sabrina
“You can at least pretend as if you’re having a good time!” My friend Angie shouts in my ear over the roar of the crowd.
“I am pretending!” I shout back, teasing her with a smile. But the truth is that I have no idea what I’m doing here or why I agreed to come to a fight club. I’m not the kind of girl who watches boxing or mixed martial arts for the fun of it, I wouldn’t even do it to impress a guy. “It’s rough to watch,” I explain because I don’t want to seem ungrateful that she brought me along when she could’ve brought anyone.
“I know, right?” Her green eyes sparkle almost maniacally and I realize she’s truly enjoying herself.
“You’re insane, you know that?”
Angie grins like it’s a compliment. “The hot bodies, the blood and teeth flying around. What’s not to like?”
“The bodies are hot.” At least we can agree on one thing here. Their figures aren’t just beautiful art, they’re functional and it’s mesmerizing to see how much power the human body can generate. What isn’t cool? The metallic scent of blood in the air. The cigar smoke thick enough to create a layer of fog between us and the octagon. It’s all overwhelming but Angie seems right at home, which is why I’m guessing one of her customers left her tickets to this fight as a tip. I didn’t ask questions. “I’m not having a terrible time,” I say in all honesty.
“ Suuuure you aren’t. If you can’t drool over the muscles in front of us, drool over the suits outside the ring.” She wiggles her brows before turning back to the fight and cheering the men on.
It’s not like I want a quick hookup…but I take Angie’s advice and glance around the room—or rather the arena. There’s a mix of respected businessmen and women mingling with members of Queen’s City underworld figures. It’s fascinating to watch. I don’t feel bad about being here, just feel out of place as if I don’t belong.
What’s a part-time college student and full-time line cook doing with this crowd?
I look to the upper level, which isn’t really a level so much as a solitary row where the king can watch his loyal subjects. Except the king in this instance is a kingpin known as Braxton “Merciless” Mercy, and many of his subjects aren’t loyal at all. I know of him purely by reputation but holy hell the man is even more gorgeous from a hundred feet away than he is on the internet.
“Ah, I see someone has caught your eye. Merciless,” Angie sighs his name like he’s a movie star.
He’s not a movie star, but he’s a celebrity in his own right. Heartthrob, cutthroat businessman, criminal mastermind, just to name a few. “Shit,” I mutter to myself when I realize I’ve been staring for a long time, so long that he’s now staring at me. A wave of heat pulses through me like ultraviolet rays and a blush is creeping up my body.
Stop , I tell myself each time my gaze attempts to wander over to Merciless. He’s not for me. Sure he’s gorgeous and the stuff fantasies are made of, but that’s all it is, a fantasy. This room is full of men who are out of my league and Braxton Mercy is like ten leagues above them all, which means he has no time or room for a twenty year old virgin who’s still trying to find her path in life.
I keep my focus on the fighters and as the night progresses, I find them more interesting. I can appreciate the demanding work these men and women put in to hone their craft. And once the fight is over, I work on my craft which is photography, snapping a few shots of blood mixed with dirt, discarded tape, a pair of hands untying laces.
“Excuse me,” a deep voice sounds behind me, startling me.
I gasp and turn, looking up and up and up until my eyes land on the giant bald man just as well-known as his boss, Merciless. “Oh, um. I didn’t take any photos of anyone. You can look if you want. I swear.”
The man doesn’t budge or reply. “Come with me.”
I scan the room for Angie and find her squeezing the biceps on a fighter and I know I’m on my own. “I’m sorry,” I whisper, suddenly terrified.
“Please,” he says, his tone holding a hint of annoyance.
This man is a foot taller than me and probably one hundred pounds of solid muscle so I know arguing or running isn’t an option. I nod and fall in step beside him, silently cursing myself for my need to take photos everywhere I go.
“This way,” he directs, pulling back a curtain that leads to a door that opens up to a dark tunnel.
I gasp but he gives me a gentle push forward. My heart starts racing wildly and I know I’m in trouble. “Look, I’ll delete them all, okay?”
“Mr. Mercy would like a word.” That’s all he tells me when the dark tunnel brightens to reveal an elevator.
Merciless would like a word? With me? I step inside the elevator and try to regulate my breathing. “Okay Rocco, tell me what to do.”
His eyes flash with surprise and then humor, but he says nothing. Damn the strong and silent types.
“Should I just apologize? Am I going to die? Do I need to beg forgiveness?”
His lips twitch but he says nothing until we reach the floor labeled Penthouse and the elevator doors slide open. It looks like a hotel but it can’t be since I was just inside a gladiator arena. Rocco opens a door and points to another door a few feet ahead. “He’s in there.”
In there .
It feels like I’m walking to my death and I can’t stop my palms from sweating or my heart from trying to karate kick its way out of my chest. I open the door and step inside the room with a golden glow and look around at the luxurious furnishings, the flat screen TV on the wall, the damask sofa, the heavy leather chairs in front of a large steel desk. “Hello?” I take a few hesitant steps forward past an open bedroom door and what looks like a sitting room. “Anyone here?”
“Hello.” The voice behind me is utterly masculine, deep and smooth like honey.
I whip around and gasp at the sight of Merciless. His jacket and shirt are gone, leaving him in nothing but a white undershirt that shows off smooth tan skin, muscles and tattoos. “Oh.”
As in oh shit.
I’m screwed.