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I’ve kept it to a minimum since I started Summit. Once or twice a month. I was here, what, nine days ago?
I should be fine.
And I will be, once I’ve had a chance to fight.
It’s Bristol, that’s all. Bristol and her concern and her sweetness and her two-week contract. It’s Bristol and my goddamn brothers and how Emerson of all people is going to end up with everything while I end up with a superyacht and stock options. Makes my blood feel sharp and out of place.
I push open the corrugated-metal door and shoulder my way into a restless crowd.
“—the rest of the crew out of this hellhole,” a guy says. Blond. Scar on his face. “Jason’s two minutes from making a challenge.”
A dark-haired man laughs. It’s the biggest laugh I’ve ever heard. It sounds like deep water and forty-foot waves. “I’m wounded, Nicholas. You think I’ve gone too soft to drag that kid out of here myself?”
“I think your wife will murder you if you let Jason go up against him.”
I work my way closer to the ring, and—ha. That’s what they’re talking about.
A mountain of a man leans against the ropes, looking amused as hell. He’s up there because he won the last match. He’ll stay up there until he quits, or until someone beats him.
Perfect.
Nobody else came here prepared for what this is. You can prepare for your opponent. Can’t trust some fancy bracket to keep you safe. There are no weight classes at these events. There’s only win or lose.
I shove some people out of my way. Their faces are red with impatience. Everybody’s crowded together, shouting. They want action. If nobody gets into the ring and gives it to them, they’ll make their own entertainment.
The guys who take a cut from this won’t be happy if it gets out of control. Cops won’t be happy, either.
There’s a folding table at the side of the ring, and that’s where I go. Kid named Charles sits on the table, eyeing the crowd. Old Max is next to him. They’re in charge of the bets and entries. A few other people hang close, ready with tape and ice packs and bandages.
“I want in,” I tell Charles.
“Name?” he says. He knows my name by now, the little prick.
“No.” Hank, the guy who’s in charge of the ring, puts a hand on my shoulder. “Wait until he leaves.”
I take another look at the guy in the ring. He’s massive. A Mack Truck.
I work out. I surf. He’s easily three times my size. “Is there a waiting list I don’t know about?”
“He’s beat three guys in a row. Won’t get out of the ring.”
I want to fight. Need it. It’s the only thing that will beat the savagery out of me. The only thing that will keep Bristol Anderson safe from me.
“You’re going to have a riot on your hands if you don’t get somebody up there. Put me in.”
Charles pipes up from the table. “You could die, White Collar. Your odds are that bad. And if you die, that means a police inquiry. We can’t jeopardize the fights, even for you.”
What is he, twelve? I don’t care if there’s a police inquiry. I don’t care if I die.
“Put me in the ring.”
Hank rubs a hand over the back of his neck, then sighs. “Fine. But if the bones in your hand shatter into a thousand pieces and you can’t click your mouse for the rest of your life, don’t come crying to me.”
I turn back to Charles, who’s surprised but trying to hide it. “Name,” he says again.
“Will Leblanc.”
Will, if you fucking breathe wrong, you’re never coming outside again.
