by Shannyn Leah
“Try me. I may not own this joint anymore, but I didn’t just sell to anyone and we both know, I’m untouchable. You only made that deal with Reed because you prey on the weak, but he won’t always be weak. So when you’re finished with Stone, remember, one day, Reed will find you.”
Walker’s stare burned. He brushed his lips against her hair and his mouth settled by her ear. “One day, you and me, will finish what we started.” She stilled as his breath wafted across her skin sending goosebumps over her entire body.
“I would trade places with your bitch before that happened.”
He laughed. Of course he did. He’d never let on that she’d struck a nerve. “That could be arranged.” She inwardly flinched at his harsh whisper, but refused to give him an indication his words sent fear down her spine. “You’re a sad bitch in love with a bastard.”
“Do us both a favor and remember that.”
“I’m going to kill him in that ring,” he snickered, but kept his hands to himself as he rose to his feet. Even when he put on a suit and slicked his hair back he still looked like trash. As he walked away, a waitress stopped at their table for orders.
“You alright?” Emerie whispered.
Bowie smiled at her. “I’m fine. Are you alright?”
Emerie nodded, but the rubbing motion of her fingers resting on her lap said otherwise.
Three fights.
Chapter Seventeen
STONE STRIPPED OFF his suit, throwing the pieces over a chair. Unbuttoning his shirt, he caught a glance of the tight lines of his face.
Worry, anger ... regret.
He pressed his hand flat against the wall beside the mirror and lowered his head, closing his eyes as he inhaled long, slow, deep breaths.
He had this.
Blocking out the outside world he let the familiar rush of the upcoming fight liquefy and pump through his blood. Before the grueling hours of training, he’d been afraid that he’d lost his concentration from being out of the game for so long. But he could still sense a punch coming, calculate the speed it would move, and know where and when to lean. He could calculate it all.
Two fights until Walker. Playing in rings didn’t give him the same adrenaline rush as it once had. Sure, his adrenaline pulsed, but not the same wild, need it once had.
Two fights.
He finished undressing down to only his fighting shorts tied low around his waist. Standing in front of the full-length mirror hanging on the wall in the small, but clean room he’d been shuffled into, he stared at his reflection. He saw an old man staring back at him. It was comical since the scrawnier, thinner young version of himself didn’t compare to the powerfully thick upper body and he had now or the ridges of his now larger and more defined muscle. It wasn’t his physique that ridiculed him, although he’d have never stepped out of the house with his now overgrown hair and chin stubble. He’d matured but was now stepping into the ring with a young, careless, and cocky fool. The ridiculousness of it scratched at his conscious.
The poor kid wouldn’t have a chance. Stone would have him down in three hits tops, but he’d put his money on one hit. They didn’t call him Stone Cold for no reason.
He grabbed his wrap from his bag and sat on the chair. Hawk leaned against the doorframe scrolling and typing wildly on his cell phone.
“Stop fueling Dax.” The last thing Stone needed to fret about was worrying his best friend. The last thing he needed was Hawk’s presence reminding him of Dax’s disapproval. The last thing he needed was Hawk here at all.
Hawk grinned, but didn’t look up at Stone.
“This shit’s nothing like I envisioned. I expected a grungy warehouse with more rust then light, but this place?” His fingers continued pounding on his cell phone screen.
“It’s elite for a reason, dumbass.” Stone reached down to grab his bag and threw it at Hawk.
“What the hell—” Hawk straightened, raising his hands in question.
“Stop acting like a newbie.”
“I am a newbie.” His eyes looked back down at his cell phone. “Besides I’m texting your dad so chill.”
Chill? They couldn’t be parted for five seconds?
Stone grunted but Hawk ignored him, or whatever conversation he was having with Slate had him so engrossed he didn’t hear him.
Stone finished wrapping both of his hands. He flexed them a few times before stretching his arms out in front of him. He pulled on his sneakers, tied the laces, and stood.
For the next half hour he released the outside world from his thoughts and focused on stretching every muscle he could. He gave the punching bag hanging in the corner a few rounds, but saved his energy for the ring. To wipe out a boy who wouldn’t see it coming.
Two fights until Walker.
A rap on the door drew his attention. “You’re up in ten.”
He’d make it quick for the kid. Knock him out cold before he even knew what happened. Or maybe he could let him get a few sparing moves in so as not to embarrass him. But knocking him out with the first punch, with any luck, would send him packing from this world. It wasn’t a good world. No matter what he’d thought when he’d been young and stupid, coming here today had been an eye opener. One move, one word, one wrong look and you could end up dead. Those were the risks involved with coming here.
At the door, Hawk gripped his shoulders. “You got this. Deep breaths. Keep moving.”
Stone pulled away. “Dude, what are you doing?”
“Pep talk.” He gripped Stone’s forearms again. “There’s gonna be a lot of—”
Stone raised his arms and slammed down on Hawk’s grip, breaking them apart. “Stop. What possessed you to give me a pep talk?”
“Slate gave me some pointers to pass on to you before your match.”
“My old man had plenty of time to give his pointers to me at Bowie’s, but he was too busy having a drink with you.”
Hawk straightened, his lips curling with disgust. “What the hell is that?”
“What is what?”
“You gonna cry me a goddam river because your dad and I get along?” He folded his arms over his chest.
“Screw you. I don’t know what you’re doing here anyway.” Stone stalked by him but Hawk gripped his arm again.
“Making sure you don’t end up dead.” His cold tone brought Stone’s eyes to meet his. “Are you so blind you don’t see how much your dad wanted to be here? And you sent him to the bench. Like a time out. Punishment for some bullshit you two had years ago.”
Stone grabbed the front of Hawk’s shirt and shoved him back, pinning him against the door.
Hawk grinned up at Stone’s raised fist. “Do it. Give it your best shot and when you see your dad and me enjoying a drink by the pool tomorrow, why don’t you take a good look in the mirror. I didn’t stir any shit between you two. It was there long before me.”
Stupid ass was right.
“When you pull up your big boy pants I’ll meet you outside.” Hawk hiked up an eyebrow, daring him to throw the punch or let him go. Stone shoved him before stepping back and turning away. The door slammed shut and he let out a roar of frustration as his fist connected with the punching bag.
Shit.
After ten minutes that felt like a lifetime he opened the door. The crowd awaited him, bets already made, the anticipation rising.
He tracked Hawk without making eye contact and followed the long hallway to the curtained door where the announcer’s voice echoed through the speakers. “Ben the Blazer will be competing with a long-time champion who’s been out of the scene but is back, bigger and better, Stone Cold.”
He felt a hand on his shoulder. “Forget your dad. Forget me. Hell, forget Bowie and focus on not getting your ass whooped.”
Stone shrugged Hawk’s hand off, threw open the curtain, and walked into the cheering crowd.
Shouts and whistles welcomed him as he made his way up the platform. He’d once waved and bounced down the aisle way like an idiot. Today, he
walked.
With one hand, he gripped the ropes and climbed up the edge of the ring. Holding his hand up to the crowd, he enlightened their cheers before slipping between the ropes. The movement brought a round of resentment through him. These were the same men who’d cheered his opponent in his last fight.
As he straightened in the ring, he inhaled the intoxicating air of the fighting atmosphere. It curdled inside him.
A ring girl wearing a lacy bra and panties entertained the crowds, while the men prepped in their corners.
Stone searched the crowd for his people and when he found them in the second row, he wished he hadn’t. Bowie’s worried eyes locked on him and his old man’s stare was harder than anyone else’s in the room.
What was he thinking?
Stone could never make out his dad’s expressions. Was he as impressed with the elite fighting club as Hawk? Or did he still hold the grudge of disappointment in Stone choosing underground over MMA? His choice had been rebellion, a young man’s silent fight against his father. Resentment harboring in the pit of his stomach for as long as he could remember, surfaced.
What had being a professional fighter gotten his dad? A title? A trophy? A lineup of women he couldn’t keep his hands off of? A wife who’d left him and her son, destroying Stone’s childhood because of his dad’s indiscretions?
The bell sounded and Stone looked across at his opponent. Ben the Blazer bounced from side to side, punching his fist into the other palm, and then repeating with the other hand. He looked eighteen, maybe nineteen, but nothing over twenty. His movements were sloppy, his eyes too scurried, but he worked out. His body appeared to have the strength to send a good punch.
“Get your head in the game,” Hawk shouted at him as he took slow steps to the middle of the ring.
His father had tried to train him at a young age. Stone had retaliated. Slate had hired trainers to teach him, to prepare him for his future in fighting. Only, with each punch, each miss, each swing, Stone had grown to resent his father. Resent their life. His dad’s life. His choices. The career.
The bell sounded now to commence the match, a fight that would leave one of them bleeding on the floor—would leave Blazer out cold.
The sparring began a test for each opponent to feel the other out. Stone knew the drill, but as he prepared to dodge the first fist, he stilled. Blazer’s fist connected with his jaw, sending a sting through him and feeding a rage he’d ignored for so many years. One side of his mouth curled the slightest as a new feeling rolled over him.
They continued a short spar around the platform. He heard the crowd cheer and boo. Some thought he’d lose this fight. Others hollered for him to get in the game.
Stone was in the game. He blocked a punch, but didn’t swing himself. As Blazer’s fist headed to his stomach he anticipated the pain from the force of contact before it hit.
Each punch fed his anger.
Each contact was punishment and he waited. Waited for the right time. His opponent would weaken and lose his fight and Stone would be ready.
After the hits.
After the pain.
After the punishment.
He’d win this damn fight, there was no doubt about it, but he’d damn well feel the fight first.
Chapter Eighteen
BOWIE WINCED WHEN Blazer’s fist connected to Stone’s face and the crunch echoed in her ears.
What was happening? She raked her brain for an answer. The trainers had confidently informed her he’d be ready for today’s match. And the kid across from him looked like an average Joe in comparison to Stone.
Yet, blood dripped down Stone’s nose and over his swollen lips, mixing with blood oozing from another cut. The ends of his hair dripped in the red stain instead of the sweat from exerting himself.
He was off. Something wasn’t right. He didn’t shield the punches, and he lacked reflex, as if intentionally allowing Blazer to hit him.
She zoned out the music and the announcer giving a play-by-play that made her stomach turn.
Where was Stone Cold? Blazer should have been knocked out with one punch and they should have already been leaving. What was this game Stone was playing? Was it a game? Or had he lost his fight?
“Doesn’t appear that Stone has kept up his regime.” The announcer’s voice scaled across her nerves.
“What the hell is he doing?” Slate barked beside her as an uppercut sent his son stumbling backwards.
Stone smirked at his opponent and it hit Bowie. “He’s angry.”
“I’d be angry too if I let the guy get that many punches in.”
She shook her head, recalling fighters who had gotten a high off being on the receiving end of the punches for the beginning of the match. This wasn’t Stone’s style.
“He’s battling his emotions.” When Stone got to his end point, Blazer wouldn’t even know what had hit him. Stone would drill him to the ground, hard and fast, one hit and he’d be finished.
“I guess you should have kept your legs closed, girl.” She was so tired of this man disliking her, glaring at her, blaming and scolding her like a clueless child. At the same time, questions arose within her. Was this about her? About them? Or his discovery about Reed?
“What the hell did your father teach him?”
“My dad didn’t fight like this. But then again, my dad didn’t hold onto anger. He didn’t have any to hold.”
“Are you trying to say something, girl?”
Neither looked at each other through their conversation, they couldn’t pull their eyes away from what appeared to be Stone’s defeat. Another punch to the jaw and the crowd cheered and groaned.
“Maybe you’re pointing the finger at the wrong person. I’ve been to every one of Stone’s fights and this is the first time he’s used this method. It also just so happens, it’s the first time you’re here.”
Slate stopped drilling her and shouted at Stone.
Bowie had never been one to flinch at a punch thrown in a match. She’d cheered as men pummeled her father and he pummeled them. She remembered watching Stone fight and never felt the sick feeling turning in her stomach now, but then she hadn’t been back since her dad’s last fight.
Her breath caught in her chest, and she’d swear she could hear the loud throbbing of her worried heart. She stood paralyzed as punch after punch landed on Stone’s body, his sides, stomach, face. Each contact coiled inside her until she couldn’t hold back anymore, couldn’t keep quiet, refused to.
“Take him down!” The sound of her shattered voice shot through the crowd. Stone’s body turned taut, and slightly moved in her direction. So slight, no one but her—and maybe Slate—would notice.
Knock that mother sucker down.
The next hit came from Stone. The cocky fighter had been too distracted reveling in his foolish pipe-dream of thinking he was invincible to Stone Cold to see it coming. What had his coach taught him? He lacked awareness of his opponent’s physical and mental condition as much as the movements. He didn’t notice Stone regroup his stance, left foot forward, knee slightly bent or the concise way Stone pulled his elbow close to his body, clenching his fist. The uppercut to Blazer’s jaw sent the kid slumping onto the ring floor, motionless—knocked out cold. Half the crowd grew silent.
Bowie held her breath until the bell sounded twice, ending the fight, and the crowd exploded in response.
He wasn’t dead. He wasn’t dead ... yet.
The referee grabbed Stone’s arm and raised it above them, broadcasting the winner. In Stone’s corner, Hawk jumped up and down, throwing his arms in the air. Slate remained quiet at her side.
Bowie’s eyes fell closed, brushing aside Stone’s current victory. He’d been hit too many times. He’d likely sustained a concussion worse than the little twit lying on the ground. Would he survive the night? Was she doomed to watch another man in her life die, whether it be Stone or her brother?
The flush of emotions clouded her judgement, maybe even scared her to death. B
efore she even knew what had happened, she’d marched up the walkway, climbed through the ropes of the ring, and stood inside the bloody box staring at Stone.
He walked to her, a cut above his eye and more bruising on his body then she’d ever seen, aside from the night Walker had pummeled him. Even that night, she’d refused to attend the match, long before her brother had told her what he’d arranged.
Her hand shot up now, and without thinking she slapped the smug look on his face. A dash of surprise drew his battered eyebrows together, but not anger. Never anger with her. Tears collected along the rims of her eyes. He caught her hand as it fell away from his cheek and turned it over to kiss her trembling palm before pulling her against him.
Goddamn bastard should’ve been furious with her reaction in front of the crowd, but instead, he comforted her. Without standing in the glory of his victory or energizing the crowd like he once would have, he simply helped her out of the ring and led her to the back room.
He’d changed. So much had changed.
STONE’S EARS BUZZED. The room spun around him. If he hadn’t been sitting, he’d likely have fallen over his weak legs. He heard his dad talking, but his voice sounded like a mellowed background compared to his drumming head.
He hurt. Son of a bitch, he hurt.
The rush of the fight might have masked the punches as they’d landed on him, but as the adrenaline wore off, his sides ached each time he moved. The slash on his eyebrow stung and the pain radiated in his jaw spurring him to say as little as possible. He’d never been hit so many times in a ring. He’d never let anyone hit him during a match.
He knew that he’d have to unearth what the hell happened in that ring. He couldn’t fight this way again. He wasn’t as young as he’d once been, and his body wouldn’t just bounce back. He ached everywhere. Morning would be a bitch. And no amount of pain would fix whatever he’d mentally stumbled upon before the fight.
Walker. Bowie. His dad.
His head throbbed at the possibility of all of the above. He needed to escape three sets of watchful eyes in the room with him.
