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Hawk snorted. “We all know that means skirting the lines of legality.”
He whipped his gaze to Hawk. “You got an issue with the way Macha handles dickheads?”
Hawk flipped to a page in the folder. “No, but if you’ve got a personal stake in this, the club deserves to know.”
This got Reaper’s attention. He sat up in his chair and motioned for the folder before putting on his glasses and reviewing the documents the FBI gathered. Not one club member uttered a word while he read for a solid five minutes. Sweat lined Rubble’s brow. He’d never been on this side of the table before. Never asked the club for help. He was the sergeant at arms for God’s sake! He didn’t ask for help. He gave it.
Finally, Reaper shut the folder. “He’s a jackarse, that’s for damn certain, but Hawk’s right. Do you have selfish intentions with bringing justice to this man?”
Gripping the edge of the table, Rubble looked him square in the eye. “Hell yes.”
“Then let’s vote.” Reaper grabbed his small gavel. “Macha, you’ve heard the plea before our table. What say you?”
“Aye.” Kevlar said, standing. He nodded to Rubble. “No man loves this club more than Rubble. If he’s asking, it’s serious.”
The rest of the room joined in, and theayesechoed in Rubble’s ears. He looked to the president at the head of the table. Reaper offered him a small nod and slammed down the gavel.
“It appears Jupiter Quinn is officially under Macha protection. What’s the plan?”
Relief coursed through Rubble but so did adrenaline. They had a job to do. He leaned over the table and laid out his simple yet foolproof strategy. He’d keep Jupiter safe. Macha would do the rest.
CHAPTER25
RUBBLE
“You sure you’reready for this?”
Rubble took in the splendor of Hard Hitter jammed packed with tourists and Snowshoe residents. The familiar thrill of fight night filtered through him. It’d been way too long since he’d smelled the scent of sweat and blood blended together inside of a tight fighting ring.
He met Brewer’s blue eyes. They were bright with excitement. “Yeah, I’m ready.” He looked the other man over from head to toe. “What about you? You have the first fight.”
Brewer bounced on his toes, blue shorts and sneakers his only apparel other than boxing gloves. “I’m gonna smear this guy.”
Slapping his back, Rubble hoped his old friend was right. He led Brewer to the ring and held up the ropes so he could enter. While Brewer hopped around with a local MMA enthusiast on the other side, Rubble stayed on the outskirts.
A voice over the loudspeaker announced the first competitors and the rules. He didn’t need to listen. His mind was elsewhere anyhow. The knowledge that Jupiter would eventually show up made him sweat for a whole new reason. The last-minute club vote on hosting the fight tournament made her cute little nose wrinkle with uncertainty when she found out.
The bell rang and he stopped searching the noisy crowd for Jupiter.She may not even come.He shrugged aside that possibility and focused on the fight. Brewer was holding his own in the ring. A few of his jabs and kicks had the other man on the defensive.
Noticing the fighter favor his left leg after Brewer’s last kick, Rubble gripped one of the rings and yelled, “Lean port!”
Brewer didn’t acknowledge him but jabbed his fist in the man’s face, laying him out flat. They’d developed shorthand queues over the years fighting together. Rubble slowly paced the small space between the ring and crowd. His muscles itched to jump in and pummel until the other man tapped out.
Using an elbow strike, Brewer managed to get the other man off-balance before going in for the knockout. He kicked the man’s left thigh, and the sickening sound made Rubble shiver. It’d been way too long. Brewer kept up his jabs even as the man struggled from the floor. Finally, Brewer tucked him into a choke and wrapped his legs around the man’s waist until he submitted.
The onlookers cheered and jeered, but Brewer didn’t seem to mind the hecklers. He stood and pounded his gloves on his chest, yelling his first-round victory. The referee called the first win and the fighters retreated to their corners for a small break.
“You’re doing great,” Rubble praised, offering Brewer a bottle of water.
Sitting on the folding chair in the corner, Brewer took out his mouthguard and squirted water in his mouth and on his face. “Thanks for the tip.”
Rubble hopped up and assessed his brother’s wounds. The bruises couldn’t be treated, but he could help with the few cuts. Making quick work of the flowing blood, Rubble smeared petroleum jelly on the rest of Brewer’s exposed skin. That simple trick had helped him more than once over the years.
“All right, you’re good to go.” The bell clanged for the next round and Rubble slid under the ropes to the safety outside.
For the next two rounds, Rubble offered encouragement and advice. He didn’t have time to wonder about Jupiter. Instead, he maintained his trainer role and hooted with pride when Brewer was announced the overall winner of the match.
He hooked an arm around Brewer’s neck. “You were kickass.”
