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When she parked, she noted a handful of men similar to Freddie strategically placed around the lot. They appeared to be providing the same courteous guidance and sharp-eyed new guest vetting that he had for her.
She guessed if the police came by, those responsible for that possibility would be armed with paperwork and answers to questions that would neatly skirt any probable cause to search the premises. She came to that conclusion because they didn't look ready to scramble like cockroaches at the first hint of trouble, the way members of a corner drug deal would. And from what she knew about illegal betting events, the key was making sure all the big money transactions happened elsewhere.
Who said working in a prison couldn't be educational?
She'd learned as much from that job as she had from the engineering classes the work had funded. Plus, the skills she'd acquired there had neatly dovetailed into her pursuits as a Mistress. She was a very well-rounded person. Glancing down at her curvaceous figure, she chuckled. "In more ways than one, hot lady."
She sobered. She was about to attend an underground, illegal fight. Well, if it was raided, she hoped the attendees faced less stringent consequences than the organizers. Regardless, she knew who to call for bail. While she'd rarely used Tyler's private cell number, she did have it, and since he was partly responsible for why she was here, she wouldn't hesitate to get his ass out of bed to come get her. He'd offered to watch her back, right?
&nbs
p; Based on the snazzy dress and enthusiasm of those converging on the nondescript door, it was as if she was entering an exclusive nightclub. Expensive cars, expensive people. They probably had thousands riding on tonight's fights. She wondered how much of that Marius got if he won. Probably not anywhere as much as the bookies and their bosses would.
Most of the attendees were probably carrying wads of cash to do some side betting with friends. She thought she had enough on hand to cover a two-drink minimum, because she was very certain they wouldn't be handling credit cards.
But Lord, she hoped they had some alcohol. She was going to need it. She wasn't squeamish, but as she approached the entrance, she picked up the tang of violence in the air. It had her pulse beating high in her throat, particularly as she thought of why Marius might be here. Yes, he'd engaged her interest, but she hadn't expected to feel this level of concern. A reaction clearly too precipitous for this stage of their non-relationship. A nice fiery drink to her gut might settle that down.
Her lip curled at her self-chiding. She nodded to the doorman, a wiry guy with a knit toboggan hat pulled low over what she suspected was his cue ball smooth head. He looked like a fisherman from a shrimp boat reality show, but he pulled open the graffiti-covered steel warehouse door with a flourish, like the bellhop at a pricey hotel. His dancing hazel eyes made her smile and relax a little more. She was used to handling men in a lot of volatile situations, both professionally and personally. Though she was obviously stepping into an illegal situation, these men weren't a threat to her. As Freddie had made clear, she was a commodity they wanted here for repeat business. Also like at an exclusive nightclub, a woman with the right looks and attitude was always welcomed and pampered.
Inside, tall panels had been put up to filter people past the security check, but behind the panels she could hear an excited crowd, a tidal roar of sound punctuated by shouts and cries, people watching a sporting event in progress. The air was saturated with heat.
A man with skin so dark he almost blended into the shadows, thanks to a matching black suit, shirt and shoes, scanned her with a device she expected was checking for electronics of any kind. She was patted down thoroughly by a female counterpart to him, though she was fair Irish, her red hair sparkling with glitter. The festive look didn't detract from her ice-cool eyes.
With this investment of manpower and security equipment, she wondered that they didn't have the event in more posh surroundings, perhaps at the mansion of a sympathetic mogul's estate. They probably did move the event around, but part of the allure was this kind of setting. A warehouse with a concrete floor, exposed metal rafters. Raw, unfinished surroundings to match the nature of the spectator sport.
After being searched, Regina was directed politely to a ticket window to hand over a fifty-dollar cover charge, something Freddie had neglected to mention. There went her drink money.
"Let me stamp your hand, love." That came from a man next to the cashier's booth. His broad Australian accent was complemented by spiky bleached hair, earth green eyes and a scar that ran across his nose and left cheekbone like a bold underscore to that eye. The cut had come close enough she suspected the bottom lid had needed suturing and his eyeball had been in danger of rolling right out. "You new to us?"
At her nod, he grinned. "I could tell. Welcome to the show."
He had cauliflower ears, she noticed, and big gnarled hands that would give him arthritis as he aged. Perhaps already, since he appeared to be in his forties.
"You look like a fighter yourself."
"Semi-retired," he confirmed. "Sometimes they'll match me up with someone in my condition, an old geezer opening workout to make all those aging Viagra blokes in the audience feel virile by association." He winked. "But I got myself a lovely girl, and she put an end to it the night this happened, the straw that tipped over this aging camel." He tapped the scar. "Bastard I was fighting put a razor blade between his knuckles." He made a fist and did a gentle pantomime of a swing before her nose. "He was trying to open up my forehead to get blood in my eyes, but he misjudged. Or I was too slow or too quick."
"Is that kind of thing allowed?" she asked, her heart kicking up into her throat.
"If I couldn't tell it's your first time, that would have proved it. Though it's also your scent and look. Fresh and lovely. A bit wide-eyed, which I expect isn't a look you have too often." He chuckled, eying her appreciatively. "Not too sure what it is you've stepped into, eh? But don't worry none. We're the upper scale of this type of independent enterprise. All the women who come here are safe. Good for business as well as just plain good. Men like to come with someone on their arm. If she's not comfortable, she's not coming back. We've got some female high rollers, but men are our staple."
"Like strip clubs."
"Just so. It's entertainment that gets their dicks hard. Some of them don't make it out of the parking lot before they're already all over their show pony of the night." He spoke matter-of-factly, not as if he were attempting to shock her with the crudity. It didn't offend her, though she didn't care for the image he'd conjured, of fight groupies crawling all over Marius in the parking lot, wanting to taste the sweat off his muscles.
"There aren't many rules," he continued. "You can't bring a knife, but the occasional razor blade? That's just initiative. We got all styles of fighting, but it can get down to brutal street brawls for any of them, if they want to win bad enough and their opponent is just as tough. That's really what most of this crowd pays to see. Like the ones who go to Daytona to see the race cars wreck."
She arched a brow. "Why are you telling me this? I could be one of the bloodthirsty ones."
He ran his gaze over her. Her sex appeal had never been assessed by so many in such a practical way. "No. You're not here for the fighting. You're here for someone. Which one?"
"I don't know if he's using his real name, so I don't want to betray his privacy." Hell, she didn't even know if Marius was his real name at The Zone, come to that. She wondered if Tyler would include that in his email. "He has short, dark hair, a bit spiked, and blue-gray eyes. He's not as tall as I am in these boots, but he's built solid so he looks bigger, like..." A fighter.
At the flicker of humor in her listener's craggy visage, she realized she was giving him nothing useful, unless he wanted to know how closely she'd studied Marius from head to toe and how often. She wasn't usually caught being sentimental. "He has a tattoo on his left shoulder that looks like there's battle armor under his skin," she said briskly.
"Just so." His gaze cleared as he repeated the phrase. "That's Rabid. He's my boy."
At her raised brow, he grinned. "No, not my son. Pretty sure he was spawned by wolves. I manage him, much as he'll let anyone. Set up his fights. I'm Tal. You've come on a good night. The bookies stopped taking straight bets on him winning or losing, because no money in it. He always wins. Unless they come up with a new twist to make it a bigger challenge, you can only bet on how far in he'll be when he'll take down his opponent, or what kind of blow will do it. When he's down and getting the shit kicked out of him? That's when he's the meanest and most dangerous. Hence, Rabid. A rabid animal backs down from no one."
