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The coach told them the same thing before every game. "You don't let yourself hear those cheers until you've earned them, and that won't be until that final scoreboard." Regina had often wondered if the woman meant life in general, not just the game of basketball.
The trophy wife was a little too pouty about her date having placed his bet against Marius, not only in Regina's sour opinion, but in the estimation of her Bill Gates sugar daddy too. Regina gave him points for being unaffected by the exaggerated heave of her augmented breasts.
"He'll win all three," she murmured, gazing down at Marius. Somehow, she just knew it.
"You sound pretty sure of that."
She'd caught the sharp ears of a young man sliding along the top row of bleacher seating just below the catwalk, his hand gripping the rail at her waist for balance he didn't really seem to need.
Despite his youth, he had the shrewd, pointed face of a ferret. His comfort in the environment showed he was a regular visitor, his sense of purpose suggesting he might work for the organizers, doing whatever running through the crowds was needed for this kind of event. His skinny body type was certainly a good choice to be squeezing fast through them, and he had the height to be seen above them. He wore a neon orange vest over a Saints purple T-shirt and stressed jeans.
"High stakes, pretty mama," he said in a deeper voice than she would have expected. "Hope that's money you can afford to lose."
"I'm not a bettor. But if I had placed one, I would bet on him for all three rounds. I can predict how fast he'll take down his first opponent."
"Really? How fast?" He leaned on the rail, jutting out a bony hip as if he had all the time in the world, though the way his eyes continued to scan the crowd said otherwise.
"He'll take him down with the first punch."
His eyes came back to her fast, slim brows rising to his buzz cut hairline. Her comment drew the attention of the people on either side of her. "Tank is his first fight," one of the rapper's entourage declared. "Tank don't go down like that for nobody."
"He does tonight," she retorted. Her heart was thumping wildly again. What the hell was she doing?
The runner checked a handheld device and pursed his lips. "I'd say there'd be twenty-to-one odds on that at least." With a grin, he pulled out five dollars. "Side bet, mama. My own personal money. Boss got a strict policy about any action happening ringside, but small stakes are just considered tips for low-paid ru
nners like me. You got a hundred dollars to lose on that? I also take other forms of currency."
He gave her an appraising look with a bump of his brows that had her considering whether to slap him upside the head to teach him manners. "Or we can lower the bet," he added, quickly picking up on her warning look. Fast learner.
"You're going to lose a hundred bucks. Sure you have that in your pockets?" she asked, passing her gaze over the voluminous pants held up only by a belt.
"I've got all sorts of things you'll like in these pockets, baby." But the quip was kneejerk now, since he said it absently as he put something down on the handheld. "Yeah, I've got it. If you're right, that'd be something to see. Even worth losing the hundred bucks. Maybe."
Tossing her a cheeky grin, he slipped away, though she noted he threw a speculative look over his shoulder, one reflected in the expressions of those around her.
Just hide and watch, babies. She didn't know how she was so sure, but she was thinking of Marius in the car, him hitting the steering wheel, the look in his eyes. Her whole body was taut as a wire, knowing her certainty was central to her reasons for staying here, for why she was digging herself deeper into this.
Marius had climbed into the ring. He was barefoot, unlike his opponent, who wore laced up boxing shoes and traditional gold shorts with a white stripe. Tank was predictably built like his name. He had a tattoo across his back, a detailed Sherman, to add to his brand. Nothing like good marketing. Comparing body mass, Marius looked like his kid brother. But when the eyes of the two fighters locked, the size seemed less significant. She kept her attention on Marius, realizing she was cataloging everything as if they were in a session together, just the two of them.
Whereas he'd been in constant motion since she'd seen him outside the ring, now he stilled. Arms loose at his sides, eyes so fixed they were eerily like a dead man's. The only betraying movement was a slight flexing of his shoulder beneath his tattoo.
The movement of the muscles guided her gaze to his hand. Loose, but two fingers double tapping each other, forefinger and thumb. One-two, three-four...
The bell rang and he was in motion. A blast of speed took him across the ring in one stride, two strides, and then he was in the air, his foot connecting hard with the midriff of his opponent, driving Tank's breath out before he could deflect Marius's swift frontal attack.
Marius landed in a spread stance, but his upper body kept twisting, one continuous flow of motion. He punched Tank squarely in the jaw, a hard ripple along his back and arm muscles showing the force behind the blow.
Tank swayed, his eyes glazed and spinning, his mouth tight on a curse, half muttered and lost as he crashed to his knees. One indrawn breath from the crowd, and he toppled to meet the concrete, his head rocking back and forth like a clock that had been overwound.
The crowd erupted, screaming its appreciation. Even the booing losers were jeering with enthusiastic gusto. There was no way to call it a dive. Marius's punch was so decisively powerful she'd felt the concussion vibrate through her own body.
Marius had moved to his corner, not pursuing a vicious follow up attack like previous fighters. By deliberately giving his opponent space, and time to get up if he could, he emphasized his total mastery of the moment. He had two more fighters pending and watching. No harm in a little psychological warfare.
It was when he was pressed against the wire cage that he saw her. She wasn't sure how, because the fierce gaze he swept over the crowd seemed more for effect than to notice who was watching. Yet his gaze came to a full stop upon her.
Did he realize he had his teeth bared like a wild dog? His chest rose and fell, an eye-catching bellows. It was only getting hotter in the crowded warehouse, and he'd already been warmed up enough to be coated with a gleam of perspiration. His cock was temptingly hard against the hold of the shorts.
Fucking hell. Aroused and agitated. He was like a tornado. He didn't want to defuse what had started with Siren. He'd come here for more fuel to keep the deadly twister within him going.
