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It’s not until they get a little bit closer that I realize I know one of them. Rich brown eyes, dark hair, cheekbones for days, and a jaw that looks like it was handcrafted to break hearts and fists. I have to stop myself from staring.
Oh, shit.
A hand wraps around my wrist, yanking me out of my momentary daze, and Scarlett tugs me over to her, reclaiming the spot she vacated before anyone else can snag it. She shoots me a curious look, obviously reading the expression on my face, then turns her head to follow my line of sight.
Her eyebrows raise when she catches a glimpse of the guys, who are farther away in the crowd now. “Oh, hey, isn’t that the dude you hooked up with?”
“Yeah,” I murmur, my gaze still locked on him. “Levi.”
About a year ago, Levi Hendrix and I hooked up once. It was hot and intense in the best way; his hands all over me, pinning me down to the wall, the bed, the floor. Even thinking about it now has me flushing with heat, and I rip my focus away from him and his friends, not wanting to catch their eyes.
Levi is a member of the Black Roses gang, and I can only assume his two buddies are as well. I knew it was probably stupid to hook up with him, but when I met him at a house party last year, he caught my eye immediately. We eye-fucked and flirted for about half an hour before we ended up in a bedroom upstairs, tearing at each other’s clothes. We stayed in that room until dawn, and it was hands down one of the best nights of my life.
“God, they’re hot as hell,” Scarlett says, still eyeing them up as they move a bit further away. “The things I’d do to go a few rounds with them in the ring, if you know what I mean.” She grins
at me, elbowing me in the side.
“Yeah, I think everyone in a four foot radius knows what you mean, Scar; you’re practically drooling all over yourself. Stop staring.”
I have to reach up and physically turn her head around to face the ring to get her to stop looking in the direction the three of them walked in.
“You can’t blame a girl for having eyes,” she shoots back, still grinning. Luckily the lights lower, indicating that the fight is about to start, so I don’t have to answer her.
My focus is immediately on the ring. Whenever my dad fights, I can’t look at anything else. I watch his movements, the way he carries himself and flows from punches to blocks to ducks, almost like I’m right there in the ring with him.
The announcer riles the crowd up, whipping them into a frenzy. He calls out Dad’s name—Oscar DeLeon—drawing out each syllable. My dad walks out, looking calm and collected as always, and I grin. When I was younger, I used to wave, even though he couldn’t really see me in the crowd. It’s enough that he knows I’m here rooting for him though.
His opponent comes out from the other side, a big dude with tattoos and wild eyes, and I size him up. If I’m being honest, he looks a bit like the Hulk. Thickly muscled and kind of stocky, even with the three or four inches he has on Dad. Pound for pound, he looks like he could take Dad, but weight and size aren’t everything.
Still, when the fight starts, it starts with a bang. The guy is aggressive right out of the gate, aiming a punch that Dad barely blocks. When Dad strikes back out, going for the dude’s nose, it’s blocked, and he’s pushed back.
The intensity is immediate and so captivating I can’t look away. Usually it’s pretty easy to tell who’s going to have the upper hand once a couple minutes have passed, but it’s not that easy here. It’s close from the get-go, the two of them trading blows with savage intensity.
Whenever Dad lashes out, his opponent is right there, ready to block, and the hits each of them do manage to land ring out through the warehouse, the sound of fists on faces, the crunch and crack of calluses and bones.
Neither of them are fragile, but by the five minute mark, they’re both banged up. Blood drips from the guy’s nose—Milo Guzman, the announcer said his name was—and my dad is already sporting a bruise around his eye that’s going to turn into a hell of a shiner. The crowd around us shouts and jeers, calling out encouragement to both of them, depending on who they’re pulling for.
“Kick his ass!” I practically scream, joining in the chaos. I like to imagine my dad can hear me, my voice cutting through the din of a thousand other screaming fight fans, but I know that’s mostly just wishful thinking.
“The bigger they are, the harder they fall!” Scarlett yells, stomping her feet, and I grin at her for a second before turning my attention right back to the ring.
Maybe it’s the energy of the crowd, or maybe a few solid punches to the face have made the big guy wake up, but he starts circling Dad, eyes narrowed. He inhales with a wet sound and then spits a glob of blood and phlegm off to the side, ruining someone’s night for sure.
Dad doesn’t back down, cracking his knuckles and dropping into a defensive stance right when the Hulk wannabe launches at him, raining blow after blow down on him.
My chest goes tight as I watch him take those hits. Each one sends him staggering back, and I reach down to grip Scarlett’s hand. It’s almost like I can feel each punch landing, shock and anger jolting through me.
“Come on,” I hiss through my teeth, tightening my grip on Scarlett. “Come on. Get him the fuck off you.”
Dad goes down to one knee for a second, and it’s like time stops. The rip-off Hulk grins, teeth bloody and red, and stalks forward confidently. He looks like he’s going to go in for the KO.
But before Milo can raise his fist for the final blow, Dad surges up to his feet, getting his bearings back.
He gives back every hit he took twice over, aiming for the most sensitive spots on the guy’s body, making him double over in pain. With one last right hook, he lays the guy out at the last second.
Milo Guzman’s head whips to the side, his eyes already rolling back in their sockets as his body goes down like a sack of bricks. He hits the heavy mats inside the ring with a thud, and a roar goes up from the crowd.
The announcer slips into the ring, raising my dad’s hand in the air. “Winner! Oscar DeLeon!”
