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Yeah, well, we’d see about that.
My first blow was aimed right for Fox’s eyesocket, also known as the one I’d blown out in January. Or it would have been, if the jackoff hadn’t anticipated me and bum-rushed me right across the octagon, driving me into the ropes, then tangling me up while he rained punches over my face.
Jesus, at this rate he was going to blow out my eye socket from the amount of hits he was landing.
I kicked out and twisted him around, bending him forward and repeatedly plowing my knee into his ribs. Then when he was in a weakened position, trying to guard his unprotected core, I snatched a handful of his hair and sent him flying across the ring.
He didn’t get up right away, so that round was mine.
“Fucker,” I said the minute I pulled out the mouthguard.
He sat up and pulled out his own mouthguard, flashing me a grin with red-stained teeth.
We were a pair of insane bastards.
The bell rang again, and he resorted to his prior tactic of drawing first blood. He hammered an elbow into my throbbing jaw, following it up with a kick and punch combo to my stomach that knocked the breath right out of me. I maintained my feet, but I was winded and he knew it. Madness gleamed in his eyes, the kind that any opponent knew to fear. He sensed he could win.
Like hell.
I drove him back into the ropes, grabbing his hair again to slam his head into the post. It was as dirty of a move as they came, but he made me pay for it by kicking back and dropping me backward to the mat. I wasn’t even fully sure how he did it. One minute, I was on top of him, crushing his head into the post, the next he was on top of me, swinging so hard and fast that I couldn’t protect my face. Then he grabbed my leg, twisting it away from my body, and used it for leverage to plow his elbow straight into my solar plexus.
The howl I heard was mine.
I didn’t even realize I’d tapped out until the ref was calling the match.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
The crowd was stomping and screaming. Everyone was going nuts. And I was too stunned and sore to move.
Fox hauled me to my feet. “Great fight, man.” He tapped my glove and grinned. Just grinned.
I shoved him away. He threw back his head and laughed.
Vindication tasted sweet, I knew. I was hoping I’d get some of my own soon, and not inside the ring.
I spit out my mouthguard and glared at him through squinty eyes. “You know this means best two out of three, right?”
He kept walking to his corner. “I’m retired,” he said over his shoulder as he walked into Mia’s arms.
Some stupid yearning inside me made me do a quick scan of the crowd. She wouldn’t be here. She was dancing. Then she would be with Dante, far away from here. Safe.
But for this moment, when my entire body ached like a rotten tooth, I really wanted to walk into her arms and have her kiss me, bloody lips and all.
Not in this lifetime, pal.
I looked up and saw Marco and Lorenzo near the edges of the crowd. There was always space around them, as if they generated an invisible forcefield that others responded to. Unshockingly, they didn’t looked pleased I’d lost.
Yeah, well, join the club.
They weren’t only hanging around to show me their displeasure. They were watching to see how I’d take care of the Z situation. I was to call Marco once he’d been “handled”—their word, not mine—and then we could talk about my insistence on getting a meeting with the man in charge.
Z and some of the other associates were milling around, slapping hands, talking about the bets they’d placed. From Z’s rowdy laughter, I was pretty sure he’d bet against me.
Maybe I should rethink not killing the bastard.
I made my way back to the locker room and cleaned my ass up. I dressed in record time, deciding I’d worry about a shower later. Depending how the night went, it might not be an issue.
I half expected Fox and his crew to parade through the locker room, but they didn’t show. It was just as well. I didn’t want to look him in the eye before I slipped my .45 into the back of my waistband and pulled down my shirt.
