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Hawk nodded. “Agreed, before he gets too in his own head.”
As I’d been paying more attention the past couple of weeks, I’d begun to notice Rafe had a few triggers—things that set off his anger or just had him second-guessing his place in the world.
Sometimes, they were physical, like someone surprising him.
Other times, they were more mental or emotional, like people talking down to him or treating him a certain way. He was always ready to argue or fight back with people like that as if he had something to prove. What he needed to learn was how important actions were over words.
Punching someone in the face because they called you weak won’t solve any problems.
But working your ass off every day and proving just how strong you are, let them argue with that.
“Bishop, you want to come down and take a look?”
I glanced over to see Callan, our builder, standing at the end of the hallway, a hard hat on his head. I was already walking toward him, not even bothering to answer.
Of course, I wanted to look.
I needed to know when we could start moving forward.
I followed him down, instantly hit with the sound of power tools and banging. The sounds going on in this small space were enough to make me want to put my head through the fucking wall, but the past few weeks had been so fucking chaotic that I hadn’t had time to come and check in on the progress.
We wandered for about ten minutes, checking materials and finishings and questioning anything that didn’t look right. His attention to detail was amazing. He made notes of little things I would have blown off, making sure they’d be fixed the next time I came by.
“We’ve reinforced the ceiling like you wanted and pushed these walls out a few feet,” Callan practically yelled, even though we were only standing three feet apart. “The ring is being custom made so that won’t be installed for about a month.”
I nodded toward the stairs, and Callan followed me back up into Brawlers.
“But everything else is on track?” I questioned when we found a much quieter corner.
He nodded, scratching at his short beard and leaning into the brick wall. “Everything’s running smooth. This place is going to be epic.”
Callan Scott owned Scott Brothers Construction, a family business that had been passed down through two generations, with Callan taking it on a few years ago as the eldest of his four brothers. My road captain, Cain, was also his cousin, which was why Callan was the only man I trusted to get this shit done to the standard I wanted while also keeping his mouth shut.
“That’s the plan. Our Las Vegas chapter does security for a place like this. I sat in on a few fights when I was down there last year and couldn’t help but see the benefits. I’m just gonna run it a little different.”
The basement, when finished, would be able to house a hundred people comfortably with the ring in the center. While it would have legitimate purposes, the underground fights would bring in the heavy hitters.
Politicians, police chiefs, lawyers, city council members—the squeaky clean on the outside but completely fucked up on the inside types. They all had deep pockets but didn’t like to be seen promoting the violence of boxing or MMA. Instead, they wanted somewhere to go where they could get that fix, that taste for blood, with no judgment.
And while that kind of fucked-up shit came at a cost, it was one I already knew they’d be willing to pay.
“Sounds expensive,” Callan said with a laugh. “You think I could get a discount to borrow it every once in a while? Throw my brothers in there for a few hours and let them sort out their problems.”
“Only if I can take bets on who throws the first punch,” I joked, patting him on the back. “My money would be on River. Middle-child syndrome is strong in that one.”
The Scott brothers were known for chaos.
They came from a small town not too far outside the city limits.
Cain said he and his sister couldn’t get out of the place fast enough, obviously not made for that small-town lifestyle filled with people you’ve known since you were in diapers and a gossip mill to rival reality television shows. But all five of the Scott brothers had stuck around. Somehow, I think, finding it their mission to stir the pot of that gossip mill for their own entertainment.
“I might take you up on that one day,” Callan joked.
The club had plenty of business ventures, but if Brawlers worked out the way I wanted, we could put more time and effort into this and have the return be much bigger than some of the other little side things we had going on.
Not only that, but it had the opportunity to expand in the future, which was also the plan for Backroad in a year or two because the sports bar business was booming and would never get old.
Neither was the thrill people got from watching two people they didn’t know get in a ring and beat each other bloody.
