He chuckles. “Who the fuck knows. Some kind of gin. Girls love this shit.”
“Do they?” I say, staring down at the obsidian teardrop.
“Next fight’s up!” Someone shouts.
Cheers rise. A guy scrambles up the rusted scaffolding with a piece of chalk, scrawling the matchup for everyone to see: RIOT vs. TRENCH.
People push toward the ring. Someone near me whispers, “Who the fuck is Riot?”
I flick my gaze back to Vic. “So how does this work, exactly? You find the girls, they get addicted, and then what?—?”
His fingers press lightly against my thigh. “Now, now,” he grunts out. “Why ruin the fun with questions that don’t concern you?” His hand moves again to test the edge, but I don’t flinch. I lift the glass and take a slow sip and swallow.
Vic leans back, clearly pleased with himself. “I can tell. You’re the fun kind of trouble,” he says.
I glance toward the ring where Jax—Riot—is stepping into the ring.Please, win quickly.
The black teardrop lollipop is starting to melt now, bleeding streaks through the clear liquid. I turn to Vic. “Seems like a lot to handle. Fights, bets, the bar. Keeping all these guys in line…”
He hums, eyes flicking toward the ring. “Takes discipline. Fear helps.”
“Yeah?” I glance at the guy barking odds from the corner, then at a group of kids barely old enough to be out of high school talking trash. “You do it all alone?”
“Can’t trust most people.” He taps the rim of his glass. “If you want something to run smooth, you have to run it dirty.”
I raise a brow. “So what’s the dirtiest part?”
He chuckles. “Depends who you ask. The ring’s loud, but the real weight’s upstairs. Counting rooms, deliveries, favors owed. Paper trails that aren’t on paper.”
“Sounds exhausting.” I lean in slightly, just enough to keep his attention. “You ever think about letting someone else handle one side of it?”
His eyes narrow. “Why? You offering?”
“Maybe. I could make your recruitment process a lot cleaner. No more chasing down strays. I have influence at St. Clair High. I know which girls are already looking for an escape, which ones are ripe for it. I can get them hooked and in your pocket before they even realize they have a choice. For the right price.”
He watches me too long, a calculating look that makes my skin crawl. “We’ve got a shipment coming in Tuesday. Salt Wharf. Back hangar by the oil tanks. No paperwork, no questions. Why don’t you stop by and we can talk business?” He gestures with his chin toward Jax, a dismissive smirk on his face. “Bring your bodyguard. Things get ugly down by the docks.”
My stomach twists, but I don’t let it show. I smile, tilt the glass, and pull the melting black teardrop from its stem. I drag the tip slowly along my bottom lip. “I’ll be there.” I lick it slowly, like I’m savoring it.
Jax is already stepping over the low metal barrier and onto the concrete platform. No ref. No rules. Just blood and whoever’s still standing at the end. His shirt’s gone now—discarded somewhere—and I forget to breathe.Pitfire, he’s beautiful.His shoulders are broad, slabs of muscle that taperto a lean, tight waist. The intricate black ink of his tattoos coils around his entire body, the lines stark against skin already dusted with a sheen of sweat. Every muscle in his torso is etched and defined.
Across from Jax, with his skin like granite and a tall black mohawk, it’s his opponent, Trench. His knuckles are already red and split open, wrapped in tape. He grins as he watches Jax, who looks raw by comparison.
A flicker of unease surges in my stomach. I thought I’d feel smug. In control. Confident.He’s going to use the magic, of course he’s going to use the magic. I don’t need to worry.I tell myself twice for reassurance.
The first punch lands hard. Jax stumbles back, catching himself too late. Another, his shoulder takes it. He doesn’t fall, but his body folds with the hit. I wince.Shit.He’s just making it believable,I tell myself. That’s all this is. He’s drawing it out.
Another blow connects. His ribs this time. Vic whispers. “You sure about him?”
My nails dig into the sugar-stained rim of my glass. The lollipop’s halfway melted now, bleeding black through the drink. “You are gonna thank me when he’s done.”
In the ring, Trench lifts both arms, turning to the crowd like a prize bull. They roar. Stomp their boots on the concrete. Chant his name. He grins, soaking it in, teeth chipped like they’ve bitten through more than just food.
That’s when Jax moves. A blur of fury and precision. He drives his shoulder into Trench’s spine. One, two, three hits to the ribs. The crowd explodes. Jax doesn’t wait—he pivots, fist slamming into Trench’s jaw so hard the man stumbles. The chanting turns to shouting.
Vic laughs, low and delighted, eyes locked on the ring. “Oh, he’s better than I thought,” he says, voice dark with appetite. “I smell money.”
My pulse kicks harder. He’s fighting hard—but suddenly I’m not sure it’s going to be enough.
