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“Fuck.” Cage jumped back, barely missing a face full of jizz as he pushed the two girls toward the door.
Mamba smirked up at him. “She warned you.”
“Fuckin’ wiseass. You know the rules. Bitches out before daybreak.”
“I didn’t even know they were still here until about ten minutes ago.”
Cage rolled his eyes. “Get dressed. Boss wants to see you.”
Razor, the boss Cage referred to, ran the cage fights for the Savages, which were held in the main room of the tumbledown roadhouse. He also made the rules for its occupants namely, Mamba, and four other cage fighters sponsored by the Savages. The rules consisted of no fighting outside the cage, no women staying over in the roadhouse, and no leaving the roadhouse. Rule number three spoke for itself since Mamba and the others had no access to wheels of any kind. His beloved Harley was stored a half hour away at the Savages’ clubhouse.
Mamba wasn’t fooled. His stay here reeked of being in lockup. It was probably why he had so many goddamn flashbacks of his time spent behind bars. Other than a few perks thrown in, like food, booze, a room of his own, and willing women to fuck, he was a prisoner, complete with daily workouts in the yard behind the roadhouse.
Mamba made his way down the long hall, through the main room, to the other side of the one-story building where Razor kept his office. He rapped his knuckles against the scarred wooden door and was greeted by Razor’s growl.
“Come in.” He entered the shoebox of an office, smoothed a hand over his shaved head, and waited. Razor loved to drag shit out for effect as if he were on some Hollywood stage.
He glared at Mamba but didn’t offer the straight-back chair in front of his desk, so he remained standing. Yep, just like facing the prison warden.
“Big fight, Saturday night.” Razor snatched up the chomped-on cigar resting in the overflowing ashtray, lit the tip, and sucked on it until it ignited. “Lots of important people coming,” he said around the billowing smoke. “Most of them coming to see you.”
“Everybody likes a winner.” In the last three weeks, Mamba had won every bout he fought.
“You really are an arrogant asshole.”
“Just spitting the truth.” Mamba learned early on ain’t nobody gonna help you if you don’t help yourself, and that included taking before asking and not backing down.
Razor narrowed his eyes like he was seeing him for the first time. Word was, he’d fought some of the biggest names back in the day—Mayweather, Pacquiao, and De La Hoya until he got his bell rung and the doctor said to stop fighting or start digging his own grave.
“The Savages are trying to hook up with a crew from New York looking to expand out west.”
“And they’re scoping out Laughlin instead of Vegas?” Sure, the Savages made big bucks and profits off the fights held at the roadhouse, enough to be their main moneymaker, but small change compared to what the underground fights in Vegas hauled in. No comparison.
“I don’t ask questions, and neither should you.”
“Just wondering, is all.”
Razor threw him a smirk. “Getting in other people’s business was what put you here in the first place.”
The old man had him there. Sticking his neck out trying to help a woman he barely knew almost stripped him of his patch and most definitely fucked up his immediate future.
He’s spent most of the last three weeks pushing Mandy out of his mind. Fighting, drinking, and fucking his brains out served as some relief, but times like this, when he was reminded of her big brown eyes and soft voice, were a killer. Worse than a fist to the face or an elbow to the ribs, this was crazy shit since he hadn’t even fucked her, yet the impression Mandy left was real. Too real.
* * *
Three weeks later, and Mandy’s mind still tortured her with unanswered questions. She’d gone over the last time she’d seen Mamba at the nail salon a hundred times. Such a short encounter that sometimes she wondered if she hadn’t imagined the whole scenario.
He’d come back to see her after closing, and she’d told him about Achilles. Mamba had seemed genuinely shaken, then made promises to see her again, claiming there was something between them and wanted to get to know her better and pursue what they were feeling. He received a text from his club, and two seconds later, he was gone. She waited that night and heard nothing, then the next day, and now three weeks later, she had no idea where he was or what had happened.
The logical side of her brain said she should move on, that he’d said those things out of guilt for Achilles, but her heart told her differently, which was the part that hurt the most.
“He’s a man. What do you expect?” Mitzi, her best friend said, like it explained a mystery.
Mandy held up the two bottles of nail polish. One bright blue, the other bright green. “Which will it be?”
They were the only two in the closed salon, and Mandy had promised Mitzi a manicure. Staying occupied kept her traitorous mind off Mamba and delayed the inevitable of going home.
“That one.” Mitzi pointed to the bright blue shade. “If you want my opinion, it worked out for the best. Ajax never would’ve let you go anywhere near a Serpent, especially after what he did, and now you can get back with Blaze.”
