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CHAPTERFOURTEEN
Hands to Myself
“Morning Carter, Dom said you wanted a word,” I say the following morning as I step into his office at Tales.
Carter stabs out his cigarette, blowing a plume of blue-grey smoke up into the air. “Where’s Grim?”
“Dropped her back home. Why?”
Carter narrows his eyes at me. “Where did you take her last night?”
“To my place.”
“Youwhat?!” he snaps, eyes narrowing at me as he shifts forward in his seat.
“It was either that or let her get blind drunk at Macey’s with that fucker Hudson Freed. She slept on the sofa.”
“The sofa?”
“Better that than my bed, right?”
“Beast, you’re pushing your fucking luck!” Carter exclaims running his hands through his salt and pepper hair.
“She’s like my kid sister. You don’t have to worry about me,” I say, knowing full well that’s a damn lie.
When I clapped eyes on her in that red dress last night, I wanted her. When the King fucking undressed her with his eyes, I wanted to fucking kill him for daring to look at what’s mine, and when she’d pulled off my t-shirt flashing me her perfect tits… Fuck, Ineededher.
Despite all of that I didn’t touch her. So he really ain’t got shit to worry about.
I’m a fuckingsaint.
Carter nods, his shoulders relaxing. “Good. Take a seat, I want to discuss a few things with you.”
“This about the King?” I ask, folding myself into the chair on the opposite side of his desk.
“Partly.”
“Okay, I’m all ears.”
Carter pulls another cigarette from his packet and lights it up, taking a deep drag. “The King wants a slice of the pie.”
“I figured as much.”
“He thinks we can expand the business by drawing in fighters from across Europe. He’s got contacts all over the world. His reach is far. He wants to help this club get a reputation as the number one fight club in Europe, and wants a cut of the profits for helping to drive business and talent our way.”
“Not being funny, Boss, but we can do that ourselves without his help.”
“Perhaps, but it would take a lot more time, and I’m not a patient man. Tales has been open almost a year and we’re not seeing the kind of traffic through our doors as I’d hoped, despite my best efforts. We need a wider variety of fighters. I want the best of the best fighting in my club. I want fucking bloodshed. Nothing gets punters going like the possibility of a death in the ring.”
“And I’m not the best of the best?” I ask, fucking insulted.
“You’re a good fighter, sure, but you’ve done the rounds. I need fresh meat, and so do our punters. There’s only so many times they can watch you fight and win. Gets boring.”
“So find me some fucker who’s actually a challenge and maybe it wouldn’t be.”
“Which is why I’ve enlisted the King.”
“What does Ransom think about this, given he was the one who bankrolled Tales in the first place?”
