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If they hadn’t been in the Cranes’ kitchen last night, he probably would have done exactly that, and Dex would have let him.
Now, he considered giving Mav what he wanted, letting him put him on the ground. But the rules of engagement were different here. Mav would have to earn that ground and pound.
Dex countered Mav’s charge, got him around the waist, and flipped them both. With the crowd going wild, Dex and Mav grappled. Dex could tell by the shifts of Mav’s body that he was right: he didn’t want to submit him with a hold, he didn’t want to trade blows with him in a spar. He wanted Dex on his back.
Until he could get that, he rained blows wherever he could. Fists and elbows landed on Dex’s head and back every time their grapple slowed. He answered each one in kind until they were both bleeding freely and their bodies were slick and red.
The slick of the blood gave Dex an opening, and, now just fighting, no longer worried about what he deserved or what price he was willing to pay, he pushed himself free of Mav’s hold and kipped up to his feet.
His sweats were twisted again, and soaked in blood. He’d chosen wrong and should have put compression pants on, but he’d expected Mav to want to stay on his feet.
Now, he trotted backward, got clear for a second, and pushed the sweats off. He was finishing this fight in a strap and a cup.
He just barely managed to kick the sweats away when Mav came back in, swinging this time. Dex blocked the blow and used the momentum for a spin kick. He landed it square in Mav’s chest.
Mav went down, and the crowd lost its collective shit—but the old asshole rolled to his knees and jumped up. He wasn’t steady on his feet yet, and Dex could see the opening—if he went in again now, he could end this fight in the first round. But he held back and let Mav steady.
The bell rang before he could pay for that choice.
Dex had dropped his hands and begun to turn toward his corner when Mav grabbed him by the neck. Expecting Mav to be pulling some kind of out-of-bounds bullshit, the crowd reacted. So did Dex, throwing his fists back up. But Mav only leaned in close, his furious eyes blazing through his blood-drenched face, and snarled, “She’s mydaughter, you psycho bastard.”
That was the hardest blow Mav had landed.
Dex had been called ‘psycho’ plenty of times, in plenty of tones—from Mav’s furious condemnation to a kind of disquieted awe. He absolutely despised it.
He wasn’t a fucking psycho. The things he’d done, the things he still did, he wasaskedto do.Orderedto do. He’d beentrainedto do them by his fucking country.
He was a bad man, he knew that. A good man would have refused the work. Dex hadn’t. Instead, he’d mastered it. He even took some ambivalent pride in his skill. But if that made him a psycho, what were the people who gave him the work?
In the face of Mav’s snarled words, Dex used the hurt they caused and settled his guilt. Maybe he’d deserved a beating, but he didn’t deserve to be called psycho.
He knew what psycho was. From his earliest days, he’d known.
If anybody was behaving like a fucking psycho right now, it was not Dex. But if Mav wanted a fight, now he was going to get a fucking fight. Screw the rules of engagement.
He snarled right back at Mav. “She’s a grown woman. If she wants me to bone her, I’m gonna fucking bone her.”
With that, Dex got exactly what he knew he’d get. All light of sanity blinked out in Mav’s eyes. Roaring with such force it was a banshee wail, he grabbed Dex by the neck with both hands and flung him to the mat.
Dex heard everybody yelling—they were between rounds, this was out-of-bounds, Mav had lost his shit—but he didn’t care. As soon as Mav dropped down on him, he bucked his hips and flipped them, putting Mav on the mat.
He got two solid elbows in the older man’s face, made blood spray from a new cut across his forehead, before Mav grabbed Dex’s leg and flipped them again.
People were coming into the ring, trying to break them up, but Dex wanted to win this fucker now, and Mav wanted him in pieces. They fought like bitter enemies, exchanging top position over and over, beating unholy hell out of each other.
Icy water slammed over their grappling, bloody bodies and stopped them cold. Dex was on top, and he jumped back, getting clear of Mav before he looked around, shivering and sputtering.
The crowd had gone silent, and the ring was full of Bulls. Simon held a now-empty steel bucket. Eight stood beside him, looking like murder. The whole club was looking down on them like they were dog shit in the middle of the clubhouse.
“You fucking assholes,” Eight snarled. “Get inside. Get cleaned up and dressed. Then get your asses in my office. And I swear to fuck, either of you touches the other again right now, I will break your goddamn hands.”
