I try to pull free, but it’s useless—he’s built like a brick wall. The other guy follows with a loud sigh.
I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t terrified, but I’m also insanely curious. What the hell is happening inside, and how is Noah connected to it? I didn’t know sex clubs were so secretive. I mean, I don’t know any sex clubs, but I read. Either way, I feel like I’m about to get answers, even if I might not like them.
When the man dragging me pushes open the door, a nauseating wave of smells hits me—sweat mixed with blood, alcohol, and too many bodies packed together. I try breathing through my mouth as I take in the scene: a crowd of people, mostly men in various stages of undress.
A sudden sound of flesh hitting flesh makes me jump in my captor’s grip, and his hold on me tightens. Another hit—this one sounding like it could’ve broken a bone. Or two.
Someone grunts loudly. Another hit, and something heavy crashes to the floor.
Is this a freakingfight club? Like, Brad Pitt fight club with all the rules?
My mind races with questions. Noah? At a fight club? This can’t be real. Maybe this is what the guy meant by betting. Yes!Noah must be betting here, and that’s his dirty secret. But then I remember the scars on his knuckles, and I feel sick.
The man drags me forward through the crowd of overly excited men yelling toward the punching noises. When we push through to a less dense area, the scene unfolds in all its gruesome glory, making my stomach churn. A shirtless man lies on the floor, his face covered in blood. The floor is stained too—some blood fresh, some dried. Another guy circles the human-made ring, arms raised, chanting something to the bloodthirsty crowd.
Holy cow. I’m in my worst nightmare.
And then the nightmare deepens.
Noah steps into the center of the makeshift ring. It’s like the crowd parts for him as a ripple of recognition and breathless anticipation moving through the mob. He’s still sporting his signature work pants—tailored, charcoal, definitely too good for this hellhole—but the upper half of him is stripped down to nothing.
My heart skips, and I have to blink to make sure it’s really him. His suit jacket, his tie, his carefully buttoned shirts—all gone, replaced by a dense, broad chest glistening with a sheen of sweat. He looks totally different. Like a complete stranger wearing Noah’s smile.
I’m not sure what I expected under all those layers, but not a linebacker trapped in a Calvin Klein ad. Shoulders thick and sculpted, arms corded and tense, which is not a big surprise considering his thick forearms he likes to bear at work that drive me bonkers. The line of his back forms a perfect V tapering down to that ass I secretly ogle every time he passes my desk.
My mouth goes dry, tongue sticking to the roof, and I’m gaping like a beached fish.
And the rest of the cave people in this fight club—because let’s be honest, that’s what they are—eat it up. There’s thiselectricity, raw and ugly, as every set of eyes home in on Noah. A few guys catcall, others just holler his name—King, King, King—and I realize with sinking horror that Noah is not an observer or a bidder here. He’s the main event.
He paces the ring, rolling his shoulders, stretching his neck, looking loose and easy and like he belongs here way more than he does in his glass-walled office. He grins at someone in the crowd, and for a millisecond he’s the Noah I know—the one who brings me lunch and talks about his passion project—but then his face hardens again. He puts in a mouthguard, and the switch flips: predator mode activated.
I can’t process it. My brain refuses to reconcile the two versions, but my body is quickly, disturbingly on board.
“No way,” I whisper. “Noah?”
“You know him?” comes the rough voice behind me.
I nod in response because my whole being is too focused on the man in front of me to form a sentence. Noah cracks his neck from side to side, making me cringe—not because I’ve always hated that habit, but because right now, it looks unsettlingly sexy.
My boss is gearing up to fight someone twice his size. I cover my mouth with my free hand, trying to stifle a nervous laugh. If this scary guy wasn’t holding me, I’d probably double over in hysterics.
The sheer absurdity of it all makes me dizzy. I thought Noah might have a gambling problem or some hardcore BDSM addiction, but no—he’s a member of a dang fight club.
Go figure.
26
Bea
The crowd pressestighter around us, the air thick with the metallic tang of blood and sweat. Like an idiot, I press myself against the very guy who dragged me in here. It’s pure instinct—he’s the only pillar in this ocean of sweaty, overstimulated bodies.
My eyes are glued to Noah, tracking his every move, his every breath. His face is nonchalant, but his shoulders are hunched forward, giving him a vicious edge.
Someone bumps into me, yanking my attention from Noah.
That’s when I see George—Ezra’s occasional driver, but clearly much more than that. He strides to the center of the ring, wearing a three-piece suit and commanding the room with a single look. The gruff, stoic man who barely speaks during car rides is running this show? I shouldn’t be surprised. Ezra once hinted George had a mysterious past, but I pictured an ex-con, not… whatever this is.
Noah steps into the middle of the ring just as the other fighter walks up to him. This guy looks like a brick wall with legs, yet Noah acts like he’s about to take a casual jog.
