He gestures to one of his guys, motioning him to make it happen. And just like that—I’m in. I turn around, heading back toward Jax, who hasn’t moved from where I left him.
“Good news,” I say, breezing up to him. “You’re up next.”
He doesn’t blink. “Up for what?”
“The ring. One fight.”
His eyes narrow. “Si—” He cuts himself off, his jaw tight. “Lola.”
I smile, all innocence. “What?”
“What did you just sign me up for?” His voice is dangerously low.
“I signed us up,” I say sweetly. “Fifty-fifty split if you win.”
He stares, his expression turning to ice. “And if I lose?”
I let the pause hang. “Then we cover the full fee.”
“You didn’t.”
I tilt my head. “It’s only a problem if you lose. Which you won’t.”
“You didn’t think to ask me? Un-fucking-believable.”
I roll my eyes, like this is exhausting. Like he’s overreacting. “Unless you’ve got—” I glance toward the guy in the chair “—about ten grand tucked in your boot, yeah, you’re gonna want to win.”
He steps closer. “Are you out of your mind?”
“Probably,” I say, shrugging. “I saw the guy you’re fighting. He’s big. Not smart.”
“This isn’t funny.”
“I’m not laughing.” He’s being such a baby. We both know he’s not capable of losing.
He studies me. “What’s this really about?”
I hold his stare. “You wanted to play my game,” I say. “This is it.” I brush my fingers lightly down the front of his shirt. “Good luck,” I whisper.
Thirty-Seven
THEN | JAX
The bikes are still moving when the crowd closes in, hands slapping the leather seats, everyone shouting at once—half of them screaming my name, the other half booing and yelling for a rematch.
Grayson pushes through the crowd first. “That was suicide! The ramp? The dip?” He shakes his head, but there’s something like respect in it.
I rip the helmet off, sweat dripping into my eyes. “Did we win?”
Grayson’s lip twitches. “Almost.”
That’s when Whistle appears. “That was fun,” he says, looking directly at Sisk. He reaches for her hand like it’s owed to him.
She doesn’t move, but I do. I step between them, shove him back hard enough to make him stumble. Not enough to start a real fight, although enough to say “back the fuck off.”
Whistle recovers fast. He lifts the edge of his jacket to flash the grip of the gun tucked against his ribs again. “You really want to do this?”
Sisk sees it and she’s already moving before I can decide. She places a hand on my arm, pulling me back. “It’s fine,” she says. “I’ve got it.”
