by Nicole Snow
It's like half a dozen people are trying to talk at once amid the endless clatter of their phones going off.
“Shut the fuck up, guys! One at a time, and nobody speaks if it's not important,” I finally say, coming to a dead stop in the middle of the hall, ripping off my shirt and pants. I strip down to nothing but the trunks I'm wearing into the ring.
Nobody says shit. Yeah, that's what I thought. Just a bunch of overeager friends jockeying for my attention. I'm used to it by now, but it still gets grating before I head into the ring.
“I'm ready to go. Karl!” I point to the muscular Swede with blonde hair and baby blue eyes just slightly duller than mine. “You're telling me what's what. Is everything out there set, without any problems?”
“Sure is, boss. The turnout's looking fantastic. Fat Boy wanted to say a few words before you climbed in together, but it doesn't look like there'll be time for that.”
I nod, remembering my opponent's moniker. I don't study up on this shit beforehand because I like a surprise, a challenge. I don't use those silly fucking wrestling names either.
Maybe it's a good thing the guys on the receiving end of my fists do because it always seems to go over well with the crowd. As for me, I'm just Ty, undefeated owner who keeps bringing these hungry bastards in, trying to knock me out.
They always lose, and that's not changing tonight. I'm the one who wins, and so does my club and the charity we're raising cold hard cash for.
“What about the chick I texted you about?” He shakes his head like hasn't gotten the message. “Find her and make sure she's safe and sound in her VIP box. That's Claire Frost, my new step-sister. I gotta know she's safe and sound, without any hitches.”
“I'm on it.” He breaks and starts running down the hall.
A couple guys are at my side, and they walk with me toward the big door leading into the storage area behind the bar. It's the only place big enough to accommodate the ring and several hundred chairs. The back of the club's an old, heavily remodeled theater, and it could've seated twice the crowd in its prime.
My boys open up the big door and I walk through with my fists in the air. People flip the fuck out and come close to bursting their lungs, guys and their gals alike. There's lots of scanty clad sluts in low tops and even lower skirts lining my path. They all reach out and brush their drunken nails over my skin while I walk past. They must think I'm a lucky fucking charm, or else they've got some magic touch that'll make me climb into bed with 'em later tonight.
Most nights, they'd be right. Many times, I've simply gone down the ranks and chosen two or three girls for the night.
But if Claire's out there, just like she said, then...there's no fucking way. There's just one woman I'm interested in bedding tonight, and I'm focusing all my energy on her sweet ass like a goddamned laser.
I bound up the steps and swing through the ropes. Fat Boy's already in his corner.
He's about five years older than me and he's got a gut like a medicine ball. Chubby or not, the dude has arms and legs as big as mine with huge veins popping out. Reminds me of those gorilla-like Russians you used to see competing in weight lifting world championships.
The spotlights shine blinding bright. The crowd's screaming. Those lights are hot too, like miniature suns beating down on my skin in the desert. I start to sweat as I look around.
The referee comes out in an old timey striped shirt, shoving a microphone into my hand. He's more announcer than referee, but again, everything's about appearances here. Whatever it takes to rile up the crowd, keep the money flowing, and make damned sure the name Club Zing winds up burned in their frigging skulls is game.
“Yo, the air's humid as fuck up here,” I growl, letting the reverberations sweep over the crowd and bring them to silence. “I said – it's thick. Swampy. Suffocating. Ladies and gentleman, I'm gonna give you a fight that'll blow your hair back, and I need each and every one of you to make it rain tonight. Let's cool this motherfucker down.”
Laughter rings out. I've still got my money clip strategically placed on my trunks. I rip it off and walk over to an attendant, not far from the side that gives me a direct view of the VIP seating.
“You hear that shit?” I wait 'til he holds up the collection plate.
That's right. We use collection plates, just like in church, except ours are silver plated and managed by boys who'll start cracking the skulls of anybody who thinks about stealing one red cent.
“You hear that, ladies and gentleman?” I slam fifties and hundreds in, one after another. “That's the patter of rain, friends. Tink-tink-tink-tink-fucking-tink! But why the hell's it so lonely up here? Why the fuck am I the only bastard making noise? I'm not looking for a little sprinkle tonight. Fat Boy and I need a goddamned deluge! Stand up, open your wallets, crack your purses, and let it fucking pour!”
I scream the last line. The crowd goes wild. In the commotion of people standing up, milling around, and digging for their cash, I see her. My eyes lock.
Claire's there in her box, sitting next to Karl. She looks totally out of place in her professional blouse and skirt. She's dressed too smart for Club Zing, but just smart enough to set my dick on edge.
Fucking shit. Her soft pink lips pull up in a bashful smile. I wonder if she can see my dick springing to life, pressing against my trunks. Hell, if the crowd weren't going apeshit, they'd see it too.
I decide right then I don't give a fuck. Not one.
If the thousand people jammed in here want to see the hard-on I've got for my Sis, then they will. It only matters to Claire and me. We're the only ones who'll remember after the fight. The instant I get down to business with Fat Boy, they'll forget all about what's flexing below the belt.
“Keep it coming, you crazy motherfuckers!” I roar, listening to my voice break in the speakers. “I wanna hear your pockets turn inside out before this night's over! I wanna see moths flying outta your clothes!” They love the shit talk, so I pour it on.
Then I tear my eyes away from Claire. It's not easy because I can still feel her locked onto me, even when my back's turned. Unfortunately, business calls.
I walk up to Fat Boy and give him a shallow, respectful nod. He stares at me glumly.
Fine, jackoff. Be that way.
Some of these guys are like that. Charity events aren't supposed to be career builders, but some of these assholes treat it that way. Any man who punches out Ty Sterner, heir to daddy's billions, is guaranteed some wild media ass kissing.
“I hope you've brought your game, big ace. Club Zing doesn't quit rockin' 'til one us is flat and we've broken a few records with our money storm.” I spin around, facing the crowd again. “Don't stop! Keep it the fuck coming! We've got some sick kids out there tonight who need that shit way more than any sorry fucks here do.”
Tug at their conscience. Pluck their heartstrings. Bully them 'til I get the nod from Karl out in the boxes – the one that lets me know we've shattered our old record.
It's persuasion 101. And it's going to a good cause too. We're supporting the local children's hospitals tonight, and everything we raise gets split between research and boosting quality of life.
Fat Boy's still not talking. Usually, my rivals get in on the act and join me, but I don't think this fucker's here for charity. He's here to rumble for glory, and nothing else.
The referee crawls back in the center, waiting for me. I give everybody one more roar of thanks, push the mic into the ref's hands, and watch as Fat Boy lumbers up to the center.
“It's the moment you've all been waiting for!” The old man in the pinstripes shouts. “If you've been here before, folks, then you already know the rules – there aren't any 'til a man goes down! Anything, and I mean anything, can happen tonight! Will we see our boss pull out another big win, or is this the first night Club Zing gains a new reigning champion?”
More explosions from the crowd. It's so loud my eardrums are about to break. Good, because that means more money flowing in too. Ther
e's a direct, no shit correlation between decibels and dollars. Judging by the noise, tonight's gonna be a bank buster.
I take one last quick look at Claire, surrounded by all the chaos. Her eyes are big, excited, pleading. I can't tell if she's getting into the fight, or if it's the hunger she showed me the other morning on steroids.
“No more talk! Keep those dollars flowing, folks, and pop your last few cents when it's all over.” The ref pauses and looks at us carefully before he says the last important line. “Let's. Fucking. Go!”
Ref gives us both a nod and steps back, sinking toward the edge. He's really there for show, and to officially put an end to the fight when I've laid out another bastard.
There are no rules in this box short of killing a man.
Fat Boy looks like he wants to do exactly that. The big bastard lunges and swings, strong but slow. I dodge and get off a few good whacks at his side.
I can practically see the steam shooting out his ears. He hops up and charges me like a bull. This time, he's a little faster.
It's like a screaming meteor slamming into me. I hit the floor, and the next thing I feel are fists landing on my face. It's seriously like a three hundred pound bear squatting on my chest, holding me down, pounding me right in the fucking face, over and over and over.
Thinking about Claire all the time's put me off my game. I've left myself open.
I rock up with all my might, punch him right in his saggy gut. Fat Boy grunts and topples off. His weight works to my advantage while I'm struggling to get on my feet. The audience starts to scream when I stand up, and the whole damned world's spinning.
Something hot and thick trickles all the way down to my chest. I realize he's given me a bad nose bleed, something no other man in this ring has ever managed.
Fuck.
I can't let it stop me. I charge the asshole just as he's getting up, beaming his dark boar eyes at me. I should have a dead bullzeye on the back of his head.
I'm ready to pound him flat now if I have to, ending the fight early. It's not ideal for donations, but the crowd just cares about the excitement. They'll spend the rest of the night re-hashing a five minute fight and throwing down more money at the bar if it's exciting enough. Then I can throw a good portion at the children's fund.
The boulder in front of me moves. He rolls right into me when I'm coming at him, and I go crashing on the floor, one inch away from smashing my tender face.
Mother-fuck. I should've seen it coming.
I also should've known Fat Boy isn't moving an inch further than he needs to. Before I can force my bruised elbows to get my ass up, he's on me again, throwing his fists into my abs. He hits me so hard I choke, knocking my wind out, holding his ass on my legs so my desperate attempts to break out are total failures.
Christ. He's gonna fucking do it, I realize, as soon as the blows I'm trying to block start getting through, smashing me in the face.
There's a ringing sound like the end of the world. Everything goes black.
I'm drowning. Falling into an empty, desolate, bottomless pit. For some reason, I'm not that concerned about being beaten or even dying.
What really, really pisses me off is the idea that I'm about to leave this world without ever having Claire. I need to taste her. Need to feel her. Need to fuck her.
I can't let it end like this. I can't go down. I can't humiliate myself and leave before I've done everything I mean to in this life – starting with her.
Is there more to this weird shit between us than lust? I need to think about it, and I mean seriously fucking think. But not 'til I gasp awake and find myself with my neck snapped to the side, drool and blood streaming out my mouth.
The referee's face is crooked, upside down. He's standing over me, giving Fat Boy an uneasy look, like he's about to call it so the fucker doesn't murder me.
These fights are rough, brutal, and borderline illegal because it brings us crowds like nobody else. Too bad my whole damned operation will be in hot water if anybody suffers a serious injury here tonight, much less a dead owner.
I think about my asshole father, standing over me in the hospital, gloating like the summer sun. Congresswoman wifey'll be at his side, giving me that fake sympathy she does so well. And she'll have all the confirmation that I'm scum underneath it, a fucking moron who couldn't stand flirting with danger.
All because I had to satisfy my ego against my billionaire father's.
I think about Claire. She'll never fuck me if I don't win this fight, and I can't blame her. It's not about being pounded to a pulp by a stronger man.
The only one beating me right now is my own fucked up lack of discipline and self-control. It's everything she scorns, and all because my dick's begging my brain to let him jackhammer between her legs twenty-four seven.
I can still move, so I'm not dead. I have to fight. I can't fucking give up.
Fat Boy's tiny eyes whirl with dark excitement. He's cold, stunned, frozen in disbelief. The bastard probably can't believe he's done it, beaten Ty Sterner on his own turf. The asshole has a few heavenly seconds where all the incredible possibilities of winning flash before his eyes.
That's all he gets before I bolt and uppercut the fucker's jaw with both fists, before the ref can call the win.
I hear the crack. It's loud and sharp as lightning. If I haven't broken his jaw, then it's splintered at the very least, and he's probably lost a few teeth.
The audience surrounds us in a deafening, chattering blanket as I jump, landing on top of him. Something primal rips through me. My senses are so overwhelmed I can barely see, but I don't need to as long as I can feel him underneath my fists.
I punch him in the guts and keep on going 'til I can't feel my own arms. It's a miracle I'm able to get up and fight like this after losing all my oxygen, but this fucker won't manage because he's not as lean and buff as I am. His bulk fucks him over.
The primal thing tears out my throat. I'm hollering like a chimp with rabies as I beat the bastard blind, holding back from killing him only because I think about the same scandal that'll erupt if I put his ass in a coffin. I have to protect this club.
My lungs won't work. My heart's about to crack my ribs with its damned thunder. My muscles are gone, and there's just stones fixed to my bones, hard and unyielding.
I fall down next to Fat Boy, face-to-face, staring into his barely conscious eyes. “What the fuck did you wanna say to me? Before the fight?”
He growls. I land one more punch and his head lolls back. “Just fucking tell me. Do it.”
“Wanted to say it's me. I was gonna be the man to beat you. Ty...fucking...Sterner.” The last part's like a whisper.
He stops trying to get me off him and goes flat, his huge body softening beneath me. The referee comes over and starts slapping the ground, doing the final countdown.
Shit, shit. I roll off him and struggle to get up. I manage to hold myself in a push-up position with my exhausted arms, anything to keep this from going to a draw.
Slap-slap-slap. The ref's palm keeps hitting the floor, and I lose count.
I barely realize it when he's standing up, speaking into the mic. “Ladiiiies and gentleman! It's been hella close, but we have our winner. It's Ty Sterner. Always undefeated.” He pauses for a second, but adds one thing over the crowd's hurricane force scream. “Undefeatable.”
5
Undeniable (Claire)
I've never seen anything so brutal in twenty-two years on this earth.
Just a second ago, Ty's beautiful blue eyes were fading, winking out like dead stars. His head was turned my way all through the commotion, even when the man was on top of him, beating him senseless. I can't believe he saw me through the pain and the blinding spotlights, but his eyes were searching.
Searching for me.
Karl, the Swede, was laughing before, chuckling and slipping me drinks when the match started. He went dead silent as soon as Ty went down. I never knew hundreds of people jammed into the same small
place could be so deathly quiet.
Everybody forgot to breathe until Ty pounced and began punching the big man like something possessed him. I sat glued to my seat, watching my step-brother with a whole new worry.
His eyes were different. They flashed crazy, angry murder, alive with the same ruthless energy in his fists. I watched him smash the other boxer to bits, and it scared the hell out of me.
I'm still afraid he's going to kill this guy and wind up in jail.
Obviously, I didn't have a clue what I'd gotten myself into. When Ty said fight and slipped me those tickets, torturing me every hour, I came because I couldn't resist. I couldn't lie and brush off the attraction, the fire threatening to burn me alive whenever I'm in his arms.
I expected something rowdy, clean, and civilized. I didn't expect to see men bloodied and brought to the brink of death.
Guess the tough guy thing isn't just an act, a rich son slapping his richer asshole dad in the face. No, the crap happening in front of me is as real as it is dangerous.
It should disgust me, send me running, prove that everything I've feared is totally right. But it doesn't.
I can't help but swoon when I realize he's won the fight. Karl climbs the seat next to me, screaming his lungs out. When he's finally done, he reaches into the cooler at his side, and passes me another wine cooler. I'm screaming too, even as I twist off the cap, yelling like a mad woman until Ty's finally out of sight, the attendants helping him off the stage.
I normally don't drink this much. Hell, I'm normally not this violent. I don't know what I am anymore, and I'm not sure I'll figure it out before I give into this throbbing urge to feel my step-brother's lips on mine.
I'm confused. There's something in the air tonight, something thick and sultry and otherworldly. I can't even describe it better than that.
“Hang tight with me, Claire,” Karl says. “We'll get into the bar much easier once we let the crowd clear out.”