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Rylie
No one ever accused me of being shy. In fact, at twenty-one years old, I was more likely to be arrested formorethan simple mischief than anyone else in my life. What could I say? I was a sucker for all things dangerous—and bloody. A junky, really. A moth to a bloody flame.
That, and likely a mild case of insanity, were the only reasons I could find to explain why I’d grabbed my roommate Emma and dragged her out of our dorm instead of going to dinner. Just so I could watch the underground fight I’d heard about in my Ethics class, of all places. And it was so much better than I could have imagined.
Overhead lights directed at the ring washed out the crowd across from me, but I didn’t give a shit about them. I was mesmerized by the action, by the tangy, coppery scent of sweat and the bald guy’s blood.
The ring was way better than what I expected of an underground fight club, too. The ropes were taught and springy, the mat mostly white except for the spatter of crimson-red blood and the sweat stains soaking in from this fight. A giant “H” was stamped in the center of a circle, located in the middle of the ring. Apparently, “underground” didn’t mean second class.
Next to me a buxom blonde draped in a fur—too warm to wear in here—buried her face behind over-jeweled fingers at the crack of fists against skin.
“This is insane,” Emma shouted next to me, but I could barely hear her over the roar of the crowd.
If my mother were here, she’d probably say the same thing. In fact, I could practically hear it:Rylie Nichole Keller, one day your insanity and need to know why everything ticks is going to get you into trouble. Curiosity killed the cat, don’t you know?
If she could only see me now. It was definitely a good thing I’d decided to go to college over five hours away from home.
We were standing right on the edge of the ring where two men were engaged in war. There was no other word for it—not one I could summon from the depths of my mind at that moment. After all, the way they moved and danced around the ring brought forth images of wolves or lions about to decimate their opponent. Even though I wanted to tear my gaze away from the scene in front of me to reassure my roommate and friend, I couldn’t. She’d be fine hiding behind her hand for a few minutes.
The blood fascinated me. But there was something more than that, too. Something feral, deep in my soul, calling out to the brutality happening in that ring. It made my heart race, and my thighs began to quake with a need that I wasn’t even sure had existed earlier that day.
“You’re doing that psych thing again, aren’t you?” This time, Emma’s voice rang out right next to my ear, and I shifted to face the gorgeous woman I shared a dorm with and smiled.
If there was an award for the most Southern of Southern belles, Emma would Scarlett O’Hara herself into taking the prize. Her long, brown hair was pulled up in a ponytail that still managed to reach the middle of her back, swaying like a pendulum. I was surprised it hadn’t ended up in some drunk asshole’s cup. Her dark gaze surveyed the crowd, like she expected a monster was about to jump out and attack at any second. One day, one day I’d get her to completely relax around me. Standing in the middle of an underground fight might not be the best time to start, though. After all, we didn’t belong. We stood out—in a bad way.
I should have worn something else besides my Muck boots with jeans, but they were warm, and I had no idea the fight would take place in an actual building, and not in the middle of the woods. I guessed I really wasn’t in Maine anymore. Absently, I shoved my hands in the pocket of my hoodie to keep from fiddling with my long, brown hair, which I’d pulled into a messy bun on top of my head. I didn’t want to miss a second of the fight—even if only to flip my mop out of my face.
All around us were women and men dressed like they were about to eat in a fancy restaurant, not watch someone get the shit beat out of him. By comparison, I was dressed like I was headed out for a ten-piece box of McNuggets.
“I should have known that was why you wanted to do this.” Emma sighed and turned away, but I couldn’t blame her. I majored in psych. Studying people, the way they interacted with one another, “why” they interacted the way they did, gave my life purpose.
When my gaze slid over to Emma again, I decided to take back my assessment that she was out of place. In fact, Emma seemed like she fit right in. Her sweater looked immaculate, and her jeans folded right into her heeled boots. Very bougie. It appeared I was the only one out of my element.
“Certainly not in Savannah anymore,” Emma muttered.
I’d read it on her lips more than heard it, and as I snorted in answer, she turned to glance at me. “I heard that,” I over-mouthed to her.
“Of course you did. Selective hearing and all.” Emma smiled, but before I could say anything else to her, people started yelling, some cheering, and others booing at the top of their lungs.
In the ring, the larger of the two men took an intense hit to the jaw. Blood spewed from his mouth like he’d been holding it in, just waiting for the right time. Mixed with spit, it dripped down his chin and onto the floor of the ring as he fell to his side. His chin skidded against the mat and his legs folded him into the fetal position.
More than a few curses and groans erupted around us, but the roar of those rooting for the victor quickly drowned them out.
When I finally tore my gaze away from the slumped-over bald man to see the victor, my breath caught in my throat.
Hiscrystal-blue eyes were locked on mine, and I watched as he raised a bloody knuckle to his full lips, only to then wipe away sweat from the scruff on his face. His chest heaved while he tried to catch his breath, but his piercing gaze didn’t leave mine. I bit my lip, completely absorbed by the feral attraction I held for him. It was primal. A need inside of me. More than a moment. Less than a promise. But damn. It was potent. And real.
When he slapped a hand on a turnbuckle at the corner of the ring—where the ropes connected to form the sides—he made it sound like a hard smack to the ass, then moved forward, and my heart skipped a beat.
I wanted that hand onmyass.
Holy shit. Where the fuck did that come from?
He stared openly, with jet-black hair dripping sweat down his face, while the crowd around us shifted. Several of the onlookers started to shove at each other, but neither of us turned away.
Emma said something, but I couldn’t make it out. My heart raced, beating wildly, and thudding in my ears. Everything else—allother sound—was nothing more than a buzzing background noise. I could only focus onhim. Those blue eyes, short black hair, the blood, and his tall, powerful,muscularbody. Fuck. I was lost in a trance—where only the two of us existed. It was exhilarating and dangerous—and all the deliciously dirty thoughts flitting through my mind? Yeah, I wanted that shit to become reality.
My own survival instincts caused me to break away from my lust-crazed haze, and the noise from the club filtered in again, and through the full-volume cacophony, something sharp broke through. Some big shit was going down. I could feel it—the tension rising in the air—sense it in my bones. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed the big guy starting to rise to his feet, sputtering, hands still fisted, veins throbbing in his temples. This guy was all kinds of pissed that he’d gotten taken down.
