by Mj Fields
A Venmo request pops up.
“Venmo?” I ask as I hit the link.
“A hundred freaking dollars?” Brisa gasps. “I’m gonna go with what I said earlier on the beach—fuck them—and what Tricks just said, also—fuck them.”
“They mentioned something about a fight. Maybe we can watch one of those douchebags get their asses kicked by Manbun.”
“Mmmman bun.”
I smack her. “He’s old.”
She grins. “Still nice to look at.”
“You think we can get Patrick to—”
“He’s drunken, so yeah, I do.”
She starts the car while I send the money from the account that Sergeant Cyrus doesn’t have access to.
My messenger lights up again.
I read it out loud to Brisa, “2925 Industrial Boulevard, Lakewood. One hour.”
“So, what you’re telling me is Truth got drunk, you made friends with some bikers, and broke into a house?” Patrick asks.
I sigh. “First, there were no bikes; and second, the door was unlocked, so we didn’t break into it, just opened the door.”
“Yeah,” Brisa says then asks, “Now, let’s talk about the girl who didn’t want to come with us or drive your Jeep home. Savvy? What’s the deal with her?”
I watch his reaction in the mirror as I try to stretch out Brisa’s shirt that I slid on after Patrick asked why I was in a soaked sweatshirt. She’s got perfect Bs where I have a real full C.
“She’s cool as fuck, like you two.”
“Ew.” Brisa laughs as she slows to a stop.
“What’s ‘ew’ about that?” Patrick leans forward and ruffles her hair.
She bats his hand away. “You compared a girl you’re trying to bang to your cousins.”
“The fuck, Brisa!” He actually sounds offended. “Told you she’s cool. Not trying to tap it.”
I can’t help but laugh. “Right, because why bang a girl you actually like?”
“Exactly,” he replies as if it makes any sort of sense at all.
Brisa and I both laugh.
He leans forward between the seats. “Not trying to encourage either of you to lose the V-card, but—”
“Who says we haven’t?” Brisa huffs as I point left for her to turn.
He laughs. “No guy in their right mind is going to fuck any of you unless he plans to put a ring on it. Trust me.”
I point my finger in his face. “You know how wrong that is?”
He flops back and scrubs his hand up his face. “No different than your father letting you stay out later because I’m with you, T. Girls are different. You get in your feels, and then some stupid fuck would hurt you because controlling your dick as a young man is a serious problem. Like taking a shot of mental health issues followed by a chaser of physical need.”
“But instead of your brains being out of whack, it’s your balls.”
He smiles. “See? You get it.”
“No, you dumbass, I was mocking you.”
“Not dumb, T. Just a reality. You know how many women our fathers had before finding our moms?”
“Again, ew.” Brisa crinkles up her nose.
“You don’t fuck a girl who wants you to love them unless you want it, too. It’s that simple.”
“Well, maybe love a girl before you fuck her,” I suggest sarcastically.
“Wasted youth,” he sighs.
“So, if we’re still virgins, then we’re wasting our youth?” Brisa huffs as she pulls into a parking lot where a few cars are parked.
Patrick leans forward. “You stick to bean flicking and electronic toothbrushes.”
“What!” I gasp as Brisa puts the vehicle in park.
“Rather you waste batteries than some punk’s life.” He shrugs then pops a kiss to my cheek.
Turning off the Rover, Brisa looks back at him in disgust. “What does that even mean?”
“As blood, it is my responsibility to mess someone up if they fuck with your head or heart. As crew, I got a body to hide.” He leans back and opens his door. “Now, let’s roll.”
With my “golden ticket,” aka QR code and cash in hand, Brisa and I both hop out.
“You do know that any doubt that we can take care of ourselves should be washed away by tonight’s happenings,” I call from behind Patrick.
“Yeah, and we saved your drunk-ass tonight,” Brisa agrees.
He looks back. “And you will again, ’cause that’s how we do.”
“That’s how we do.” Brisa laughs at his choice of words.
“Damn right, it is.”
After hurrying to catch up to Patrick, I see he’s leading us to a guy who’s stepping out of a car.
“Sup, Tiggs,” Patrick says, giving him some bro handshake.
A guy in his twenties, covered in ink—Tiggs—asks him, “You in tonight or spectating?”
“Told you all, this face is too pretty to be used as a punching bag.”
Apparently, Patrick knows way more than he’s been letting on about The Sound announcements.
“JT ever gonna play?” he asks, referring to my freaking brother and I assume fighting.
Now I’m annoyed, very freaking annoyed.
I step toward Tiggs and show him my phone. He looks at me and shakes his head. “Newbie, huh?” I narrow my eyes at him, and he shrugs. “I don’t make the rules.”
“This is JT’s sister and our cousin; they’re cool,” Patrick tells him.
Tiggs raises a shoulder. “Still gotta do me, you know. One of you is paid for, only two of you have access.”
“She’s chill, man,” Patrick assures Tiggs about Brisa being here.
Tiggs looks him over. “She runs her mouth, it’s on you.”
“I don’t run my mouth,” Brisa huffs.
“Okay, okay.” Tiggs holds up his hands. “So, she’s got a receipt; you two gotta buck up.”
Patrick reaches in his pocket and pulls out a wad of cash. “How much?”
“A hundie each,” Tiggs answers.
Patrick peels two hundred bucks off his stack and hands it to him. “Those are Pay-Per-View professional fight prices, man.”
Tiggs shakes his head. “Bigger picture, Tricks.”
“Meaning?” Brisa asks.
Tiggs answers while tapping out a message, “Supporting local entrepreneurs that otherwise wouldn’t be able to support other locals. Both of which would never be seen in Hollywood or on Pay-Per-View, where big money makes shit shiny and lessens the sport and opportunity.” He looks up at Patrick. “I’ll personally hand you back your cash out of my cut if you’re disappointed.”
Following Tiggs’ directions, we make our way through some sketchy, darkened back alleys, passing several rundown, graffiti covered buildings and warehouses to where the “event” is to take place.
A new surge of energy courses through my body in a steady current of adrenaline, caused by a mix of three new experiences. Those three being the dangerous situation earlier, the thrill of this moment, and the excitement that I finally received the coveted notification. One look at Brisa, who is smiling from ear to ear, and I know I’m not alone. Then I look at Patrick, expecting the same. It’s … not so much. He looks like he’d rather be anywhere in the world but here. I’ll let it go for now, but I plan to chew him and Justice out, knowing they’ve already been informed of The Sound’s secret and not shared it with us.
When we turn a corner that spills into a parking lot filled with vehicles of all kinds, we all pause.
“Jesus,” Patrick says as he takes in the scene in front of us. “There’s gotta be fifty cars and at least that many bikes.” He shakes his head. “Who the hell rides bikes in March?”
“I’m guessing bikers,” I quip.
“It hasn’t snowed in weeks, and it was sixty-five today.”
I laugh at Brisa, who is obviously sticking up for her new crushes.
She looks at me, wide-eyed, and whispers, “I bet he’s here.”
We both start to hurry
toward the building.
“Hey, ladies, slow it down.” Patrick laughs as he jogs up to us, and then we all make our way to the large, double, steel door.
“Is there a secret knock?” Brisa jokes.
I point up. “There’s a surveillance camera.”
“So, we just stand here and wait?” As Brisa pulls her jacket around herself a bit tighter, I realize I am wearing one of her shirts that is extremely tight on me. Well, tighter than what I normally wear when I don’t have on my navy Seashore Academy blazer.
“You know what?” I say, trying to hide the hues of insecurity that threaten to surface. “This is lame. Let’s go get breakfast.”
The door swings open and the roar of the crowd gives my retreat pause. I turn around and look into the smiling face of one Harrison Reeves. He’s dressed in a dark gray tweed suit jacket, a black button-down, and black jeans.
“What’s the password?” he asks, lips pursing together in a smug yet playful smirk.
“Benjamin Franklin,” I retort snidely.
“Wrong answer, but I like your spunk, Miss Steel.” He steps back and waves his hand. “Welcome to fight night, newcomers, and remember, when you leave this building, this night never truly happened.”
I look at Patrick and roll my eyes.
“We already paid, T. Let’s see what all the hype’s about.”
I straighten to my full five-foot-three and grab Brisa’s hand. “Stay close.”
“As if I’m gonna stray in this crowd,” she says, looking around the crowded warehouse.
When I feel an arm wrap around my shoulders, I expect to see Patrick. Instead, it’s Harrison standing between Patrick and me.
He nods left to a row of empty tables. “Bets are closed for the night, but when you come again and are in the mood for a little gambling, look for tables set up like that.” He nods right. “Ladies and gentlemen’s rooms are over there. Going to have to suggest that, if you don’t want to catch a case of the clap, you avoid it. But if you must”—he looks at me directly—“don’t go alone.”
I shrug his arm off my shoulders. “In case you missed it, I’m nobody’s bitch.”
His eyes dance like they did earlier, and he smirks. “I’d never say that you were. However, that doesn’t mean I’m going to overlook that you’re here at my request, and I’m going to try to ensure you’re safe. Make sure you know not everyone here is like me and that you’re not disillusioned by my charm, kindness, and dashing good looks.”
I can’t help but laugh, and he smiles even bigger.
I force myself to look away, because I can see myself being drawn into that magnetic smile and completely forgiving his bullshit from earlier. When I look back, I arch a brow. “I did not forget our treatment earlier, so forgive me if I don’t buy what you’re selling.”
He slings his arm around me again, moving us toward the crowd. “Forgiveness is a gift. Like I forgave you for having a preconceived notion that you could in any way make me your bitch and extended an invitation to come here tonight.”
I allow myself to let my guard down when I ask, “Should I point out your so-called and unrequited forgiveness cost me a hundred bucks?”
“I didn’t ask you on a date; I extended an olive branch.” He winks and removes his arm from my shoulders.
I feel my face start to flush at the fact that he read into that as me thinking this was a date.
He steps in front of us and waves his hand in front of him. “Follow me.”
I look at Patrick as he puts his arm around my shoulders, occupying the vacancy that Harrison just left. “Let’s go.”
Around the perimeter of an empty, raised ring, a crowd of at least two hundred people, some standing and some sitting on bleachers, wait for the event to begin. Scattered around the crowd are men in red tees with bulging biceps. Security of sorts, I assume.
We follow Harrison behind them to an area roped off by velvet ropes, surrounding crushed velvet seating. I see Miles, Kai, and a few women scantily dressed in evening apparel and wearing heels almost as tall as me. One of them, I recognize, even clothed, as the woman in Tobias Easton’s bedroom just over an hour ago. His girlfriend … Dee.
“I think we’re underdressed,” Brisa says loud enough for Patrick and me to hear.
“Unless you’re planning on getting laid, which you’re not, you’re dressed perfectly.” Patrick laughs.
When Harrison turns around, lips pursed in a smirk, I realize we aren’t the only ones who heard him.
The bouncer by the rope unlatches it, holds it open, and nods to Harrison.
Patrick gives my neck a squeeze and waves his hand in front of him. “After you two.”
I walk ahead of Brisa, ensuring she stays between us once we cross the barrier between us and the rest of the crowd, the one that gives the illusion that we’re safe and of a higher echelon than everyone else around.
Arms crossed over my chest, I stand next to Brisa, looking over the crowd, and fail to see a single familiar face.
When Harrison walks back to us and invites us to sit, I shake my head. “I’m good here.”
He stands next to me. “A thousand for your thoughts?”
“You know this rope doesn’t make you any better than anyone else in here, right?”
He leans in and whispers, “Let’s keep that quiet, shall we?”
I turn and glare at him. He throws his head back and laughs. If he wasn’t laughing at me, I’d think he had a good laugh. But he is, so I don’t.
Smiling, and I think it’s a sincere smile, he nods toward the ring. “We sponsor our favorite fighters, and their opponents’ sponsors are beyond the ring, same set up as we have here. It’s a perk. Like front row seats.”
I lift a shoulder. “I suppose.”
He leans in again. “And don’t look now, but there’s a door behind us. If shit gets bad, or the police bust up the show, we can get out safely. And safety is important.”
“Isn’t it for all of us?” I ask with a scowl.
“I assume in a perfect utopian society, it would be. But look around; there isn’t such a thing.”
“Because greed and power-hungry people make it so.”
“Says the girl who lives in a modest five-bedroom beach house that costs four million dollars, attends one of the top private schools that costs sixty grand a year, which gives you a forty percent chance to get into an Ivy, drives a sixty-five thousand dollar vehicle, summers in Italy, and appears to be perfectly groomed and polished.” He lifts a finger in the air and, from out of nowhere, is handed a drink.
When he attempts to hand it to me, I hold up my hand and shake my head. “I’m good.”
He pulls some cash from his pocket and hands it to the woman who gave him the drink. “Thank you, Claire.”
“You’re very welcome, Mr. Reeves.”
When she walks away, I set out to correct his assumptions of me. “My parents work hard every day and own the house. I didn’t ask to go to Suckshore Academy. As a matter of fact, I’d rather go to public school with normal people who don’t look down on the rest of the world. The vehicle was my mom’s, and I worked to pay for it during the summer when we aren’t in Italy for the two weeks a year we go to visit family.”
He leans in and whispers, “And the grooming?”
When he leans back and takes a drink, I provide an answer, hoping he will choke on it. “Full natural bush.”
He quickly covers his mouth to stop from spitting all over me, swallows, and then laughs from down deep. A real laugh. I have to turn my face so he doesn’t see me smiling, too.
I feel his warm breath against my ear when he says, “Never experienced such a thing. Maybe I will ask you out on a date, after all.”
“Not a chance in hell I’d go.”
“A challenge, Miss Steel?”
I turn and look him dead in the eyes. “No, Reeves, a straight-up denial.”
He holds his free hand over his heart and sucks air in through his teeth as he shakes
his head. “You wound me, Miss Steel.”
“Oh, please, Reeves, as if there’s even a heart under that three-thousand-dollar jacket.”
He smirks, wipes his hand on his jeans, and extends his hand. “Then I’ll settle for friends.”
I shake my head, trying to force away the smile as I extend my hand. When our hands touch, the lights flicker and dim until complete darkness fills the room. His hand tightens, and he pulls me against him, causing me to gasp slightly. His breath hits my cheek as he says in a low timbre, “Are you ready to rumble, Miss Steel?”
It all happens in a split-second, and then his hand is gone, but I feel the challenge and the threat of his words course through me as music blasts from every corner of the building and the crowd roars.
A laser show of white and red lights brighten the center of the warehouse, illuminating the announcer in the middle of the ring. He looks familiar, but with the lights flickering, I’m not sure.
“One night. One fight. One winner. One prize. Ladies and gentlemen, are you ready to rummmmmmmble!”
The crowd grows even louder.
I look at Harrison. “How the hell are the cops not being notified?”
“Look around!” he yells into my ear so I can hear him. “How much did you pay to get in?”
“A hundred.”
“Multiply that by two hundred and fifty-three people.” He holds his hands up and rubs his fingers together. “Palms get greased, and even the good guys look away.”
“That’s over twenty-five thousand dollars,” I gasp.
“Fifty security officers, rental of the warehouse for the night. Movers for the equipment. Five Gs.”
“And the fighters split twenty grand?”
He laughs. “No, the coordinator gets that. Fighters get money from their sponsors and a cut from the bets. Winner gets an additional grand.”
“Jesus, and you guys do this every weekend?”
He laughs. “Hell no! This is four times a year. Sometimes less. Takes a lot to pull this shit off.”
The flashing lights separate from the chaotic flashes of red and white, making an X over the ring: one white line and one red. Two more beams of light illuminate off to the sides of the ring, and I watch as a shirtless, white short clad Tobias Easton appears, lit up in white.
