Morning, my ass.
“I’ll give you a hundred grand,” I offer. “That’s five times what it’s worth and almost ten times what Virgil owed you.”
“You talked to Virgil, huh?” Morgan’s attention slides to my busted up knuckles. “He look worse than me?”
“Depends on the lighting,” I volley. And it’s the truth. I don’t often lose control, and even last night, it only lasted a few hits before I came back and got a grip on myself, but still. By the time Roman scraped him up off my floor and drove him to the bus station, he was nothing but a worthless sack of flesh with a price on his head if he’s ever stupid enough to come back to town. “So, what do you say?” I shove aside the memory of Virgil’s mangled face. “Hundred grand, and you pack up your shit and go.”
Take it. Take the offer.
Morgan takes another sip of his drink, eyeing me over the bottle. Again, he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, hisstare never wavering. I’m not stupid. It’s a bartering tactic. He wants to make me wait for it. To make me sweat. To see if I’ll up my offer. Being on this side of shit? He’s lucky I came here at all. “It’s a good deal, Jag Off,” he finally concedes. “It really is. But the thing is, the location’s right next to my baby sister’s place, and I’m an overprotective sonofabitch, you know what I mean?” He chuckles. “I like keeping an eye on her. Making sure she’s safe and looked after. I’m sure you understand.”
I know what he’s doing. The way he’s dangling this shithole like it’s a carrot in front of a horse. He knows he has all the cards, and I’m being forced to play his game despite my hands being tied. If it were any other situation, I’d walk away with a middle finger pointed in Ethan’s direction, and maybe some bloodied knuckles to go with it after teaching the bastard another lesson. But it isn’t an option right now. Not if I want to get Violet’s childhood home back.
So, how the hell should I play this?
“Cut the bullshit, Morgan,” I tell him. My expression and tone are as cool as a fucking cucumber. “Tell me what you want for it, or tell me you aren’t interested and I walk out the door.”
“Fine.” Shifting forward, he rests his elbows on his knees. “I want a rematch.”
A rematch? I pull back, surprised. He wants a rematch? I replayed a solid number of scenarios on my drive over and none of them included a rematch. Not. One. “You mean, outside of this morning’s brawl?” I ask, my tone thick with sarcasm as if to say, Exhibit A. Why the hell would he want a rematch where spectators can watch me beat the shit out of him?
“An official one,” he clarifies.
“Why?” My eyes narrow in suspicion. “You already won, remember?”
“True.” He tosses the half-full bottle across the room, letting it crash against the wall. The alcohol and shards of glass poolon the floor and slowly seep toward my feet. It’s another unnecessary mess. One he’s using to prove a point. The irony isn’t lost on me. “But you see, this time, I can put more money on it,” Morgan explains. “I was a little strapped for cash before our first fight, but things have been looking up for me.”
I fight to rein in my disdain. Looking up for him? Yeah, because he started taking bets he has no right taking. The man’s been stealing business from right under our noses and instead of addressing it like I’d love to, I’m stuck playing his game in hopes of winning back Violet’s home and the last memory she has of her mom.
“I fight you, and I get the house?” I ask.
With a subtle shake of his head, he laces his fingers in his lap. “You fight me andlose, you get the house.”
What’s this bastard playing at?
“I already offered you cash for the house,” I remind him. “Why fight?”
“My fans have been begging for a rematch since the moment you tapped out.”
My molars threaten to crack as I stare at the cocky motherfucker on the couch. Is he serious? He wants to talk about his fans? Who? His little posse of pussies who’ve been following him around? The sentiment is laughable at best.
“It doesn’t hurt that I cleaned up, either,” he continues. “And with a fight, I get the added bonus of humiliating you again.”
Humiliating me if I lose. If I win, the asshole has to walk away with his tail between his legs, but it’s a bigif, if I understand what the man’s insinuating. “Are you asking me to throw a bet because you’re afraid you can’t beat me fair and square?”
“I beat you fine the first time.”
“Pretty sure I covered for your ass after you almost took my eye out,” I remind him.
I can’t help it. I’m curious. Whether or not he’ll deny it. Whether he’ll lie or surprise me by owning up to it. How he cheated. How he shouldn’t have won. How we both know I had him until he broke the rules.
Staring at me, his expression heavy yet disinterested, Ethan says, “You know, I’ve been curious. Why’d you lie to the ref?”
A muscle beneath my eye jumps. “Because when I win shit, I win it fair and square.”
“Not this time,” he murmurs. “Because if you throw the bet and someone finds out, your business goes down with it. Am I right?”
He is. And damn, does it piss me off. If I agree to this ludicrous plan, and someone finds out, knowing I rigged a bet, our entire business goes up in flames. My brothers would never forgive me. Hell, I would never forgive me. But it doesn’t make this right, either. The fact that an asshole like Morgan gets to sit on Violet’s couch with his muddy boots on her coffee table and his beer bottle shattered on the ground all because of a decision her father made. The whole thing makes me sick.
