Chapter 29
FORD
The cheap whiskey they’re slinging at this shithole warehouse tastes like gasoline, but I keep drinking it anyway. Some might call that alcoholism; I call it the makings of a damn good Saturday night.
The space around the bar is packed, heat and sweat thick as a blanket over the crowd.
I like it that way. You can do anything in a mob, and nobody gives a shit as long as you keep your elbows sharp and your hands to yourself.
Unless, of course, you look like me, in which case you can pretty much do whatever you want and get away with it.
Ava’s perched on the barstool next to me, drinking her second– or fourth– vodka cranberry of the night.
Her cheeks are already flushed, her dark hair falling loose around her shoulders.
She’s giggling at something, the wild sound of it slicing through the bass thumping through the warehouse speakers.
A few heads turn at the noise, including a couple of meathead townies at the far end of the bar, but I cut them off with a glare that promises violence if they look twice.
I don’t know if it’s the booze or the way Ava keeps crossing and uncrossing her legs, but my head’s a blur.
Every time she laughs or leans into me, I get a little harder.
Every time her hand lands on my arm, I forget what I was supposed to be doing.
It doesn’t help that she’s wearing that skirt– black leather and short enough to give a man a heart attack.
Paired with thigh-high boots and a shirt that barely contains her tits, she looks like a crime waiting to happen. Which is absolutely my vibe tonight.
We’re supposed to be watching for Wes, who disappeared to the locker room with Raf an hour ago to do their usual pre-fight bullshit.
Rituals, pep talks, whatever. I offered to take Ava back there to see them, but she vetoed that idea before I could finish the sentence, reminding me what happened last time.
I get it, but deep down, I think she just didn’t want to see Raf all jittery.
She likes him best when he’s dangerous, not when he’s nervous.
So, here we are: me, her, and a row of empty glasses, waiting for the main event.
“Ford,” she purrs, voice syrupy and sweet, like she’s barely holding onto her words. “How many shots have you had?”
I glance at the line of empties, squint, and try to count. “A gentleman never tells, babe.”
She rolls her eyes, a smirk curling her lips. “I think you’re drunk.”
“Good,” I reply, flashing her a grin. “I’d hate to be sober for this.”
She lets out another giggle, which just makes me want to fuck her senseless. She slides off her stool and crowds into my space. I like the way she looks at me when she’s tipsy– like she’s surprised I’m real, or like she’s daring herself to see how far I’ll go if she gives me an inch.
“Is it almost time?” she asks breathily, craning her neck to see over the crowd toward the makeshift ring at the center of the warehouse.
I check the time on my phone and nod. “Ten minutes till the main event, babe. We should probably stake out a spot near the mat before the rest of these dickheads realize they’re about to miss history.”
She bounces on the balls of her feet, hands gripping my arm. “Let’s go.”
We push through the mob, bodies pressing on every side.
It’s a good night– everyone’s too amped for violence to care about the price of beer, the music is so loud you can’t even think, and everywhere you look, there’s another beautiful disaster waiting to happen.
I shoulder us a path to the front of the ring, cutting death glares at anyone who dares to look at my girl.
Sometimes it’s the little flexes that count.
The ring itself is simple as hell, just a square of canvas set into the floor, steel posts, and plastic ropes marking the boundaries. Blood stains the corners, a faint haze of sweat and disinfectant clinging to the air. It smells like home.
Ava presses in close, her hand slipping into mine. She’s jittery, but not scared. I squeeze her fingers. “Ready to see a bloodbath?” I murmur, leaning down to brush my lips against her ear.
She shivers, but doesn’t pull away. “You really think he’s gonna win?”
“Raf always wins,” I say confidently. “It’s the only thing he’s good for.”
She laughs just as the lights dim, the crowd exploding. The announcer steps up to the mat, mic in hand, voice booming over the speakers.
“Are you ready for the main event?”
The responding roar is deafening. Ava jumps, startled, then laughs at herself. I can’t help but laugh, too. Her energy’s infectious.
The announcer goes into his spiel, talking up the history of the fighters and the massive gains to be made from the bets. I barely listen. Instead, I scan the crowd for Wes, searching for any sign of him in the darkness.
Finally, the announcer introduces the first fighter. “Standing six-foot-four, two hundred and sixty pounds, fighting out of Dyersville… Diesel!”
The crowd goes rabid as the guy comes strutting out, shirtless, veins bulging, arms raised like he’s already won. The fucker’s a tank, all muscle and tattoos and a mean-mug that would make a priest wilt. His walkout song is some stupid Linkin Park track, and I hate it immediately.
He climbs into the ring, pounding his chest, hyping up the crowd. A handful of groupies along the sidelines start chanting his name, and Diesel flips them off, smiling a jagged-toothed grin.
Ava bites her lip nervously. “He’s huge,” she murmurs.
“Size isn’t everything,” I tell her, eyeing her up and down.
She blushes, then elbows me in the ribs. “Shut up, Ford.”
I wink, then turn my attention back to the ring.
The lights drop again, and for a beat, the crowd falls eerily silent.
Then the opening of War Pigs by Black Sabbath rattles through the warehouse.
The first time I ever saw Raf fight, he walked out to this song, and I swear, the hair on my arms stands up every damn time.
The first few chords hit, and I can practically taste the adrenaline.
The spotlight finds him as he stalks out of the locker room, shirtless and taped up, eyes so dark they look bottomless.
For a split second, his gaze flicks out over the crowd, finds us, and lingers.
I give him a cocky nod and a middle finger.
He smiles, just barely, then drops his head and keeps moving.
He’s a fucking monster. You don’t realize it until you see him like this– head down, jaw clenched… a walking time bomb with a body count.
Ava screams for him, and he doesn’t even flinch. That’s how I know he’s locked in.
He slides into the ring, bouncing on his toes, eyes never leaving his opponent.
The announcer brings them both to the center and does the obligatory hype, the crowd getting even louder.
Wes pops up out of nowhere, finally joining us, and Ava throws her arms around him like he’s been away for a fucking year.
The asshole grins at me, squeezing her ass, then the ref starts to give his speech, drawing our attention back to the ring.
It’s just the usual rules– no biting, no groin shots, and keep fighting until one of them can’t.
Raf and Diesel bump fists, then the bell rings.
They circle each other, and for a minute, it’s nothing but footwork, both of them gauging distance, waiting for the other to make the first move. Then Diesel throws a jab, fast as fuck for a guy his size. Raf dodges, counters, and the crowd goes ballistic as blood sprays from Diesel’s nose.
“YES!” I bellow, clapping my hands together so hard my palms sting.
Ava clings to my arm, jumping up and down as they trade blows, each hit louder than the last. It’s like watching two gorillas go at it with sledgehammers. They’re both bleeding within a minute, but Raf’s still in control. His eyes are calm, movements calculated.
“He’s killing him,” Ava shouts, her voice breaking through the noise.
“Of course he is,” I snarl, loving every second.
Diesel gets a few good shots in, but nothing lands clean. Raf’s defense is too good. He dances out of range, then comes back with a left hook that almost takes Diesel off his feet.
The crowd goes berserk, beer flying, people screaming over each other. I lose my mind a little, too, and grab Ava, spinning her in a circle before planting a hard, possessive kiss on her mouth. She tastes like whiskey and sin, and it’s almost as good as the fight.
The first round ends with Diesel on the ropes, face a mess of blood and spit. Raf looks untouched by comparison. He turns to our corner, stalking over as the ref calls for the break.
Wes quickly moves toward him, a towel in hand, popping up a stool for Raf to rest. He leans in, murmuring something in Raf’s ear, while Ava climbs up on the lower rope, leaning in so she’s practically in the ring.
“You’re amazing!” she yells, and Raf glances at her.
For a split second, his face softens, then hardens again.
Poor guy’s a fucking goner. This is more than violence for him, more than an outlet for his rage. He’s doing it for her.
She drops back to the ground, chest heaving, and I drape my arm around her shoulders. “Told you,” I murmur in her ear. “King of the ring.”
She laughs, leaning into me, and we just stand there for a second, watching Raf as he gets patched up by Wes.
“How many rounds are there?” Ava asks, glancing up at me nervously.
“Three, unless one of them gets knocked out first,” I reply. “Don’t worry, you’ll get to watch Raf humiliate this asshole at least one more time.”
She nods, but she’s jittery now, shifting from foot to foot. “How long do we have before the next round?”
“Minute, tops,” I tell her, cocking a brow. “You got somewhere better to be?”
She glances out at the crowd, then back at me, leaning in close enough that I feel the heat of her breath on my neck. “I really need to pee.”
I burst out laughing. “Now? In the middle of the best fight of the year?”
She glares at me, lips pursed. “I’m serious, Ford. I gotta go.”
“Fine, fine.” I roll my eyes, then catch sight of Wes and Raf both staring at us from the corner.
Wes looks exasperated, Raf just pissed. I ignore them.
“Make it quick,” I snap, grabbing Ava’s hand and hauling her out of the press of bodies, toward the makeshift bathroom sign posted on the far wall.
We get there just as the bell rings for round two. I’m half-tempted to just leave her and go back, but I don’t trust the drunk townies not to try something. I hover outside the bathroom door, cracking my knuckles, squinting through the crowd to see what the hell’s going on in the ring.
Raf is getting hit harder this round, but he’s still landing the better punches.
Diesel’s bleeding from his mouth now, a steady drip staining the mat, and there’s something different in Raf’s face.
He’s angry, sure, but less focused. Like he’s looking past Diesel, thinking about something else entirely.
I shake it off, glancing at the bathroom door. Ava’s taking fucking forever.
I tap my foot, counting down the seconds. When she finally emerges, her eyes are glazed. She stumbles a little, catching herself on the wall.
“The fuck, you okay?” I ask.
She grins, still wobbly on her feet. “Never better.”
I grab her arm, steadying her. “Come on, you’re missing the good shit.”
I go to pull her back through the crowd, but she digs her heels in, tugging me back. “Wait,” she gasps, panting. “Just… wait a sec.”
I sigh, ready to drag her if I have to, but she’s already up against me, her hands sliding down my chest. “I want to feel you,” she whispers, voice gone all husky.
I glance at the fight, then back at her. “You can feel me when Raf’s done knocking this guy out.”
She shakes her head, then suddenly her lips are on mine, hungry and hard. Her tongue is hot, aggressive, and she tastes like whiskey and something sweeter. She pulls me against her, grinding her body into mine.
If I didn’t know any better, I’d say she wants to fuck. Right here, right now, in the middle of a warehouse full of degenerates.
Goddamn, I love her for it.
I forget all about the mayhem on the mat and push her against the wall, pinning her with my hips.
She wraps her arms around my neck, legs parting so I can wedge my thigh between them.
She’s panting, grinding on me like a cat in heat.
I cup her ass, squeezing to remind her of the toy there, then slide my hand up under her shirt, feeling the flush of her skin.
Somewhere behind us, a group of drunk frat bros start cheering, egging us on. One of them yells, “Get a room!” but another shouts back, “No, let ‘em fuck right here!”
Ava just laughs, biting down on my lower lip. “God, I want you,” she moans, her hand finding my cock through my jeans and stroking it until I’m half-blind with lust.
I glance over my shoulder, checking in on the fight. Raf is taking more hits than I’d like, but I can’t bring myself to care. Not when Ava is grinding her soaked pussy against my leg and begging for it. My world narrows to her– her mouth, her hands, her raw hunger.
I hoist her up by her ass, and she wraps her legs around my waist before I slam her back against the wall, kissing her hard. She likes it rough, and I’m nothing if not a giver.
“After the fight,” I growl against her mouth, “I’m gonna bend you over and–”
She cuts me off with another kiss, her tongue in my mouth, hands in my hair, nails raking my scalp. I can’t get enough of her. I’m tempted to fuck her right here, right now, but I’m not a complete animal.
The bell rings, signaling the end of the round, and suddenly there’s a commotion near the ring. The crowd surges, and I hear the announcer’s voice blaring over the speakers.
“Ladies and gentlemen, your winner by knockout… Diesel!”
My blood runs cold. I turn, squinting toward the ring, and see Raf on the mat, blood streaming from his mouth, barely conscious. Wes is kneeling over him, face white as chalk.
I drop Ava, and she stumbles, dazed. For a second, I just stand there, stunned. It takes a moment for my brain to catch up to what I’m seeing.
Raf lost.
The crowd is going insane, but all I can hear is the rush of blood in my ears. I look down at Ava, then back at the ring, where Wes is helping Raf to his feet, his eyes wild and unfocused. He spits a glob of blood on the mat, then turns, eyes locking on mine.
Even from across the warehouse, I feel the weight of his stare– and in that second, I know exactly how bad I fucked up.
I’ve seen that look before. I know what it means.
Next time, I’m the one who bleeds.