Laced Steel: An Enemies to Lovers Romance (Steel Crew Book 3)

by Mj Fields

  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 thre
at 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.

  He bounces up and down on his toes, rolling his neck. He flexes his hands at his sides, wrists wrapped in white tape, knuckles bare. He stretches one arm across his body, and then the next, as he continues to bounce to the beat of the music. His hair isn’t slicked back on the sides, and the top isn’t perfectly placed like it is at school. It’s a mess, like it was when he walked out of his bedroom and caught me red-handed having snuck into his house to get my phone.

  The lights must be hypnotic, because I can’t look away from him.

  I didn’t look at him then, afraid to, but right now, I literally have ringside seats and an invitation to look at his half-naked form.

  He is … exquisite.

  Chapter Five

  Idiom

  Don’t add fuel to the fire.

  Truth

  Why not? It doesn’t necessarily cause further destruction …

  Sometimes it just heats things up.

  “At six-foot-two, weighing in at one hundred and ninety pounds … Ranger the Wrecker!”

  I look to Brisa, and she pats the spot beside her as her knees bounce up and down excitedly.

  I look back at Harrison, and he nods toward her. “Go enjoy yourself.”

  I didn’t ask permission, but right now, I’m not half as pissed off at him as I was earlier.

  As I start to walk away, he grabs my elbow and stops me. “I’ve trusted you with a lot tonight; don’t make me regret it.”

  I shake my head. “I’m not the kind of girl to kiss and tell.”

  He flashes me a wicked grin.

  Shit.

  I roll my eyes and try to dig myself out of the hole I seem to continually be putting myself in. “Meaning, I can keep a secret. I’ve kissed and told plenty.”

  He winks. “I figured I could trust you when your cousin didn’t try to drag me into the ring. Go. Have fun.”

  I hurry past the other two horsemen without a glance. I’m not naïve enough to think any one of them has gotten over the earlier happenings. I’m not even sure I trust Harrison, either, but he did extend the mecca of olive branches and obviously wants to trust me. I don’t look at the woman, either. I’ve yet to get over the embarrassment of not only sort of breaking into Easton’s house but hearing then seeing them right after they had sex … naked.

  I sit on the other side of Brisa, look at both her and Patrick, and smile. “This is kind of cool, huh?”

  “It’s something to do, I suppose.” Patrick leans back and stretches his arm over the back of the couch.

  Brisa looks at me, grinning from ear to ear. Then she leans in and whispers, “He’s so fucking hot.” She grips my chin and turns my face toward the ring. “Look. At. That.”

  Lean, muscular arms covered in sleeves of gray and black tattoos dance up his arms and across his chiseled chest. His hair in a messy bun, and his face, admittedly very handsome, but when the music changes and the announcer begins, it morphs from playful to anger and rage.

  “At six-foot-one, weighing in at two hundred and one pounds … Easton the Experience!”

  The crowd cheers louder and louder as he makes his way ringside and slips through the ropes and into the ring. Unlike Ranger’s, Tobias’s face is completely void of emotion.

  “I hope he knocks the fucking chip off his shoulder!” Brisa yells in my ear so I can hear her over the crowd.

  My stomach turns at the idea and, for the first time since we got the invitation, I’m really not sure if I actually want to see a fight.

  “Yeah,” I say as I take in Tobias Easton who, until tonight, I didn’t even know the color of his eyes, and in seconds, they’re sure to be black, blue, and bloodied.

  Such a shame that the man with Persian blue eyes is about to get raged on by Manbun.

  I take him in as he stands in his corner, alone, no coach or companion unlike what Ranger has in his corner. He stretches his arms, swinging them in circular motions, making his muscles flex and his tattoos dance atop his skin. The work is exquisite.

  My father has stressed to me since I can remember that what someone puts on their body has to mean something deeper than the ink penetrates, something you want to carry with you for your entire life. I wonder if Tobias’s father taught him the same. And I wonder why exactly I wonder such a thing.

  With lights, distance, and movement, it is hard to see or read most of the art on his incredibly hard and muscular body that rivals the definition and size of my brother’s. How I didn’t get swept up in seeing him earlier is baffling at the moment, but being half terrified and fully guilty about doing something I knew to be wrong drowned out the remarkable physical form standing before me—I mean all of us—right now.

  Across his collarbone, the words Strength, Love, and Honor mark his body … his soul. If, by chance, he has depth to him, which I find doubtful, it is telling of what’s most important to him. I ponder for a moment why strength is before love and why honor is last.

  My scrutinization of his body lowers and falls upon his pecs, where birds fly free behind roses, stars dancing above them. Feeling a blush pinken my skin, I lower my eyes to his abs, then to the V. Swallowing back the saliva pooling in my mouth, I close my eyes, imagining they are the lenses to a camera, my eyelids the shutter, as I snap them shut, hoping to ingrain his form in my memory. When I open them, I see him standing, unmoving in the corner closest to us, glaring in my direction.

  What. The. Fuck.

  His blue eyes narrow, his jaw ticks, and his nostrils flare … at me.

  When the bell rings, his angry eyes shift to my left, and when I turn to trail them, I expect him to be looking at his girl. He’s not. He’s now shooting daggers at Harrison, who purses his lips in what I know now as his signature antagonistic smirk and raises his rocks glass.

  I look back at Tobias, who points at him, and read his lips over the roar of the crowd. “You’re next.”

  I slink down in the seat and see him look back at me, eyes narrowed as his lips twitch.

  Out of my peripheral, I see Patrick, the chill one of the bunch, lean forward, elbows on his knees. I look over and see he’s glaring at Tobias. He lifts his hand, points a finger into his chest, and says loudly, “How about me?”

  I can’t even look up to see Tobias’s reaction. All I can think is: what have I done?

  When the fight begins, I keep my eyes lowered as I try to figure
out how to fix the damage I may have just caused.

  I hear three loud, fast hits, and then a thud. The crowd roars, and I look up to see Ranger on one knee.

  “Get up!” Brisa screams as she jumps up from the couch. “Get up and kick his ass!”

  Both their heads swing toward us. I have no idea how they heard her over the crowd, but I assume it’s to do with proximity. We are closest to them.

  Tobias’s angry yet brilliant eyes are trained on me when, all of the sudden, Ranger pops up and undercuts him.

  “Nooooooo!” I yell as Tobias’s head snaps sideways, and he stumbles back.

  His unfocused eyes land on mine, and he shakes his head before charging toward Ranger.

  I watch as Ranger lands three jabs in a row before covering my eyes and waiting for the sound of a body hitting the mat. Peering through my fingers, I watch as the two men exchange violent blow after violent blow to the head, the ribs, the stomach. Both are bleeding and both unrelenting. Unable to stomach it anymore, I look down and watch their feet—one covered in white, one in red—as they dance around the ring, both awkward and heavy-footed.

  A bell rings, and I look up as the ref splits them apart and sends them to their corners.

  I see Tobias standing alone, watching Ranger’s people care for his wounds and squirt water into his mouth.

  Angry, I look toward Harrison. “Is anyone going to assist him?”

  He shrugs and shakes his head.

  I look at Dee and give her a questioning look. She rolls her eyes at me and looks away.

  Finally, I look at Patrick. “He needs somebody!”

  “This isn’t my thing, Truth, nor is it yours.”

  I jump up from my seat and walk to the ropes, staring at him, around him, searching for the missing people who surely stand in his corner. I look back and point toward his friends. “Why are you just sitting there?”

  No one answers.

  Fuckers.

  Patrick and Brisa stand at my sides when the bell rings. Hands gripping the velvet rope, I watch as Tobias comes out swinging. Strike after strike, blow after blow lands on Ranger’s face, head, ribs. Their bodies lock together in what I assume is Ranger’s desperate attempt to slow the assault. Ranger then locks a leg behind Tobias’s, tripping him up, and they fall to the ground. They fight for leverage, throwing painful punches, rolling on the ground.