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“Hey, Mamba.” Razor’s heavy hand gripped his shoulder. “I want you to meet someone.”
“I gotta do something.” Mamba shrugged off Razor’s hand.
“Yeah.” Razor’s bulk blocked his way. “You gotta meet somebody.”
The edge in Razor’s voice reminded him of his place and that he had very few choices in making his own decisions. He sure didn’t need Razor reminding him of how he ended up in this desolate desert town at the ass-end of nowhere.
“This is Samson, the guy I was telling you about from New York.”
The same guy who checked him out earlier in the locker room.
“You dominated the cage.”
“You know about fighting?” If the guy didn’t know what he was talking about, the compliment didn’t mean shit.
“I know enough.” The two men eyeballed each other.
Mamba shuffled his feet. This conversation was going nowhere, and by now, he’d probably lost all chances of catching up with Mandy—if it even was her.
“Samson and his partner are in the nightclub business in New York, and they're looking to expand to Vegas.”
“And what the fuck does that have to do with me?” Mamba was a shot-and-beer guy, and the only thing close to a nightclub he’d ever been to was the Serpents-owned strip club Ecstasy. Even when he lived in Vegas, he never went up on the Strip to those glitzy clubs. It wasn’t his style.
Razor and Samson exchanged a look. “I told you he was a smartass.”
“But he fights like a crazy motherfucker.”
Great. Now they were talking about him like he wasn’t standing right next to them.
The shifting crowd jostled them a few times, and Razor motioned to the back of the room. “Let’s take this into my office.”
Shit, he was screwed. “I gotta take a piss first.”
The two men exchanged another look, and Razor ordered, “Go to the shitter, then my office. Nowhere else.”
“Where the hell am I gonna go? I’m a fuckin’ prisoner.”
Razor shook his head, and the two headed for his office while Mamba hot-footed it around the cage toward the locker room. When he was out of their sight, he bypassed the bathrooms and slipped out the side door. The security lights in the parking lot cast weird shadows over the crowd, making it almost impossible to see anyone.
A few more guys congratulated him, but he was on a mission. He walked deeper into the parking lot, but it was no use. He shot one last look into the lot, then turned and headed back to the roadhouse.
Fuckin’ bullshit. They’d taken his phone and shipped him down here. Even his bike was a half hour away in Laughlin. He was a fuckin’ fighting machine they fed, housed, and used in the cage like a goddamn animal. Then, by chance, the one girl he ever felt something for was in the roadhouse, and he’d missed her. Crazy, but she was all he thought about—day and night.
Anger made him walk faster as he slammed back into the roadhouse and past the bathrooms.
“Mamba?” The soft voice called from behind him. He paused at the familiar sound, then fought off the disappointment of knowing it was probably just another groupie.
CHAPTERNINE
“Mamba?” The voice grew louder. He slowly turned, then froze in place.
“Mandy?”
She crossed the concrete floor, closing the distance between them. Her hand reached up to touch his cheek. “You were amazing tonight.”
Her simple words rocked him. There was so much he wanted to tell her, explain to her, but it all caught in his throat.
“I had no idea you were fighting here. I had no idea where you were, I—”
