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“Who do you think?” I ask Eva, pulling her close.
“I don’t even know who’s fighting.”
I show her a picture on my phone, which shows two snarling, muscled fighters facing off. Matthew Thorn is the incumbent. Roth Wagner is the newcomer. “Come on, Eva. I have ten thousand dollars riding on your decision.”
“This doesn’t tell me anything,” she cries. “They both look scary.”
“What are the odds?” I ask Charles, who rattles them off without glancing at the screen.
“Seven point five to one, favoring Thorn.”
“What’ll it be, beautiful?”
“Are they really going to hurt each other?”
“It’s a fight to the death, Eva. And the clock is ticking.”
“Wagner,” she says on a hard exhale.
Of course. It’s very much like Eva Morelli to go for the underdog.
Does she even realize how rare that is? Especially for people from our sphere. We understand the privilege of money, how having some leads to having more. We understand the power of the incumbent. Eva knows it, too, but she has something else. She has hope.
Charles enters the bet and turns to the next person in line.
With a light touch at the small of her back, I point Eva toward the seats.
“I still have your quarter,” she says. “From before.”
“Keep it,” I tell her, rubbing my hand over the small of her back. Even this small touch feels important to me, almost vital. “Double or nothing.”
“They aren’t really going to hurt each other, are they?”
“Maybe.” Our relationship is fake, but when it’s just the two of us? I’m going to be real with her. Honest with her. “Maybe not. But either way they chose to be in that ring. You don’t stumble into it. You work your way there for years.”
“Why?” she asks, sounding genuinely curious.
I shrug. “Some of them like to fight. Anger in physical form. Some of them are focused on power. A few look at it like an art form. Technique and form and even elegance.”
“Is that why you come here? For the elegance?”
There’s an open spot on the steel bleachers, and I guide her there. We’re definitely well dressed for the event, but we’re not the only ones in evening wear. We’re not the only ones who ditched comfort for excitement. “I come here to entertain beautiful women.”
“And that works for you, does it?”
“Absolutely. Something about watching two men beat each other into a pulp makes women hot. It’s positively bloodthirsty.”
“Don’t get your hopes up that it’ll work this time. I’m expecting to be horrified.”
A cry goes up from the crowd as Thorn is introduced. He enters the room with all the swagger and pride of a born performer. The fact that he performs with his fists is beside the point. Another roar as Wagner enters the building. He looks fierce and determined.
He knows he’s expected to lose tonight.
I don’t make my living by throwing punches, but I know something about facing long odds. I know about hurtling toward pain and humiliation with no way to stop. You face it with your head held high, because that’s all you have left.
“Thorn looks… mad.”
He does look mad. Even more than the usual posturing. I wonder if there’s some personal beef between them. That doesn’t bode well for that ten-thousand dollars. Thorn already has the advantage, and if he brings his A game, Wagner will go down.
