Red showed up to the room about an hour later to take me to the fight.
I was sitting on the cot, waiting and plotting my moves, when the door opened. He lurched inside, grabbing my arm and pulling me to my feet. Red’s grip on my arm trembled, fingers twitching like they weren’t entirely his anymore.
His skin burned hot against mine.
“This isn’t necessary. I have no intention of escaping without Beck. How could I?” I fluttered my eyelashes for good measure.
With my hair in a ponytail and my cheer uniform on, I’m sure I was the picture of a damsel in distress.
He blinked slowly, pupils unfocused. “Shut up.”
That really wasn’t a good sign. When I’d first met him yesterday, he’d obviously loved the sound of his own voice. Now he struggled to say two words.
We crossed a gravel lot toward a building set a distance back behind the clubhouse—a squat metal building with one roll-up door half raised and light spilling out in harsh white stripes.
The noise inside flowed out to meet us.
Men shouting.
Money slapping tables.
Boots scraping concrete.
Red stumbled once, and I steadied him.
He stared at me in confusion.
“You’re burning up,” I said quietly.
“I’m fine,” he glared at me in denial.
He wasn’t, and we both knew it.
The warehouse was smaller than I expected once we stepped inside. Not cavernous—just wide enough to pack men shoulder to shoulder around a makeshift ring in the center. Floodlights hung from steel beams overhead. A generator hummed near the back wall. Folding chairs circled the ring, and betting tables stood near the west side. There was one main roll-up door and a smaller side exit. I also noticed a half-blocked loading dock nearby.
Three exits.
Good.
George dragged a folding chair close to the ring and planted it there like he was staking a claim. “Sit.”
There was a guy already in the ring. I believe I’d remember hearing that Beck was going to fight a guy named Parker.
He was younger than I expected. Leaner than Beck. Built for speed instead of force. Dark hair cropped short, hands already taped, his shoulders loose like he’d rehearsed this moment in his head.
He wasn’t smiling, but he wasn’t posturing either.
He was watching.
His eyes tracked me when George dropped the folding chair beside the ring.
Red hovered behind me, swaying faintly. Sweat rolled down his temple under the lights.
“You’re the girl,” he said, not loud enough for the crowd.
I didn’t answer.
His gaze flicked to Red swaying behind me, then to Bubba near the ropes.
