by Nora Cobb
Thanks to too much cheap beer and vodka, people are dancing like animals, with no sense of timing. Grinder doesn’t allow drugs inside. If he did, the cops would shut it down, but they look the other way as long as it stays inside. I edge my way over to the stage, so I can be as close as I can get to the action. I don’t care if blood and sweat land on me. I just want to watch Mask’s primal moves up close. Sweaty bodies vibrate around me and heat my body until I ache. I’m ready for the fight to begin between two real men.
“There you are.” Nova collides into my shoulder and hands me a red cup half filled with flat beer. “No cans,” she explains, taking a long sip. “I spilled half of it getting through these fuckers.”
I laugh, downing the piss-yellow water then wiping my mouth on my forearm. “Derick says this will be fierce.”
“Fierce!” We shout in unison, laughing with glee. We bump hips as we wait for someone to get his ass kicked across the ring. Secretly, I hope it won’t be Mask.
The music stops abruptly as the speakers are cut off. The lights rise slightly while a spotlight hits the center of the ring. With a wireless mic, Derick climbs into the ring dressed in every piece of logo he owns—no doubt fakes, but he doesn’t care as long as his high-life image is in our faces.
“Gentlemen and my ladies.” He lets the word hang in the air as if he’s flirting with every woman in the warehouse. “Tonight is the night you don’t want to be at home. Where do you want to be? Here at the Pit to see the extravaganza of pain.”
The shouts of the crowd shake the ancient glass in the blacked-out windows as Derick lifts his hands in the air. The place is hyperactive on cheap booze and medicinal weed as the dense smoke tickles my nose.
“Everybody wants to be seen in the ring, but few are called,” he continues. “You know him by his massive reputation.” Derick emphasizes each syllable as Stockade climbs into the ring. “This man can block out the sun. Hey, let’s get fucked up in an insta-minute.”
Derick dances around a few steps as if the crowd is cheering for him. He glances up toward the catwalk, and Grinder is giving him a vile look. The grin slides quickly off Derick’s face. “And his opponent, Mask. Enjoy the fight.”
Derick speeds out of the ring, climbing between the ropes, and disappears briefly into the crowd before reappearing next to Grinder on the catwalk.
Grinder looks down at me. At least, I think he is. I look away, but the sensation of being watched doesn’t disappear. Seating reflects status or willingness, so I’m stuck down here, which is fine by me. Stockade moves into the center ring, showing off his build as he checks out Mask from a distance. There are no bells, referees, or protective gear. The fight is over when the winner steps over the loser.
“Fuck, this is going to be bloody,” laughs a guy standing too close behind me. “Look at that guy; he thinks it’s Halloween.” The guy gets too close, and I give him a dirty look until he backs off me. “Sorry.” He smirks. “It’s crowded.”
“Watch your hands,” I snap. “You know where they were.”
The guy’s smile morphs into a sneer. Asshole thinks it should be easy because he has a pulse. My attention flies back to the ring when someone in the crowd shouts. Stockade has taken a swing, and that asshole made me miss it. No problem. The fight is literally inches away from me. Mask is still in the fight with his fists poised. He takes a jab, toying with Stockade. His footwork is pure talent, bouncing on his feet and ready to spring. He must know MMA.
There’s another shout from the crowd as I press against the side of the concrete platform. Stockade’s face is covered with sweat as his eyes narrow to slits in frustration. He wants to connect his fist with Mask’s face.
“Show me pain!” A lone shout rises above the rest. “Show me pain!” A chant starts in the dark as everyone focuses on the ring. “Show me pain!”
A twisted look forms on Stockade’s face as the crowd pushes him to tear the guy up. Losing his patience, Stockade rushes Mask. The dumbass has brawn but no skill. Instead of retreating, Mask ducks then weaves and plants a right hook under Stockade’s chin. The sweat flies off in an arc, landing on the spectators. A girl screams, and the chant is replaced with a deafening roar. They don’t care who wins as long as someone bleeds.
Stockade throws a punch, but Mask is way too fast. Using Stockade’s momentum, he grabs his arm and sends him into the ropes. The mob gasps, leaning away as if Stockade might crash through, but he doesn’t. Mask lands another punch, angled perfectly into Stockade’s ribs, and Stockade doubles over.
Stockade lashes out his hand and grabs the newcomer by the arm. A bare fist plummets into Mask’s face, and he brings up his arms to block. I wince as Stockade’s meaty fist gets in another punch. But this is a warm-up as Mask straightens up, ready to go at it again. The new guy is making Stockade look like a fool.
Mask slips behind Stockade with grace never seen before in this place. He grabs Stockade’s arm, spinning him around and sending him down on his knees. Stockade lands hard on the concrete as his smug face dissolves in agony. Mask twists and kicks, landing a sharp blow to Stockade’s calf. Nice. I open my mouth in surprise as the realization hits my brain. He’s going for all the spots with the least muscle. Smooth.
I look on with respect as Mask grabs Stockade’s arm so he can’t get back up, and batters his face with savage blows. Stockade is pinned like a beetle on his back, dying slowly in the hot sun. Well, fuck him. The fickle crowd shouts each time Mask makes contact with his huge fist. Soon Stockade is a heavy mass on the concrete, and most fighters would take advantage and finish him off for spite.
Not Mask. Instead, he peels off his sweaty shirt, revealing a body that is hard, lean muscle, while his pants hang low on his hips. I grab Nova’s shoulder, and she squeals but not in pain.
“Yummy,” she says, “Girl, he should win for his bod alone!”
His body is ripped and gleaming with sweat, and the women are hollering his name. But the sound dies in my throat when he turns, and I see the tattoo covering his entire back—a phoenix ascending with wings outstretched and curls of flames shooting from its tail. When Mask flexes his muscles, the bird moves as if it’s about to soar straight into the sky.
“Shit, Astrid,” says Nova, “That’s the drawing you sold to Hank’s tattoo shop.”
I smile as I watch Mask raise his arms above his head and stretch his beautiful ink. Stockade stays on the ground, unable to get up on his own, and Grinder nods, making it official. Mask has won the fight. He wasn’t the favorite going in, but he is when he steps out of the ring.
Mask moves near to where I’m standing, and I watch him closely as people lose their shit all around us. He bends his head and wipes his hand over his face, knocking his mask off. Holding it in his hands, our eyes lock. Fuck. He’s hot from head to toe. His gaze scans me quickly, but before anyone else notices, he slips his mask securely over his eyes. With a smooth walk that a panther would envy, he disappears into the crazed crowd.
Chapter 2
Astrid
If I had bet on Mask last night, I wouldn’t have to go to work in the morning. I passed my driver’s test but can’t afford a car, not even a beater, so I ride a thrift-store bike to work. I know the second I leave my neighborhood and enter the rich town of Rockingham. The streets widen, and the houses aren’t crammed together.
You can always tell the rich people’s homes by the length of the lawn from the house to the curb. I ride my bike down Oak Street with mansions on either side. These aren’t even the big ones. The gigantic ones are hidden behind stone gates with mounted cameras and brutal guard dogs. New Hampshire is known for its granite, but instead of gold, the rich made a fortune in the quarries.
I whip my leg over my bike, balancing on one pedal as I sweep under the stone archway and follow the road that leads to Stonehaven Academy. The buildings I zoom past are made of red brick and have stood in place for hundreds of years as guardians of higher learning. I read that in the school brochure. But this isn
’t my school. I sneer at the thought as I prop my bike up against the back wall of the dining hall where I work. This is the only place I belong at Stonehaven Academy, not that I care.
“You’re late, and you look like crap, Astrid. What time did the cat drag you home last night?” My boss, Gary, eyes me as I slip on my apron. He used to hang out at the Pit until he married a middle-class woman from Rockingham. Gary used to be cool, but good manners fucked up his personality.
“I’m not that late,” I reply, “and that’s not your fucking business.”
He frowns at me as he scoops a pit out of an avocado. “A point for cursing,” he scowls, “and put on your hat.”
I glare at him, wishing I had called out sick, but I need every cent I earn for rent. I shove my paper hat on my head and smooth down my shapeless white dress.
“The longer you scowl, the less work you get done.” He motions toward the pail in the corner beside the industrial wipes. “Breakfast is almost over. Start wiping the tables.”
Yeah, he’s pissed about something. Usually I don’t have to go out front. I spend my workdays prepping vegetables. I grab the wipes and the pail. Well, it’s work no matter where I do it, but I’d rather not clean tables while the rich kids watch me.
“Where’s everyone else?” I ask, genuinely curious.
“Don’t know and don’t care anymore.” He huffs.
I get it now. Whoever is on with me is a no-show, plus I’m late. I’d apologize, but it’s smarter to ignore his crap until it blows over. Gary watches as I walk through the swinging door into the main dining room. I glance around the room at the long wooden tables. It’s a lot of tables to wipe, and I start in the corner closest to the kitchen, which is usually empty. The students don’t like sitting by the kitchen door unless they want to keep a low profile or make a demand on the staff.
The old-fashioned hall was once the academy’s church until a donor built a new one. The interior is lit with gigantic brass chandeliers, but the room is illuminated by a beautiful stained glass window that spans the length of the building on the farthest wall. Instead of a religious scene, it depicts workers excavating granite out of the quarry—an image of common laborers in the jeweled, leaded glass where rich kids now eat.
I stop to stare at the colorful window while dragging a wipe across a tabletop. Then I skip a few tables where people are sitting as per Gary’s standing instructions. Of course, a pig left a tray behind with a half-eaten sandwich. The person picked out the lettuce and left it on the table instead of on the tray. I don’t have my gloves, so I use the corner of a wipe to pick it up. Spoiled fucking brats. I feel eyes on me as I toss the grossness into the pail. Maybe one of the brats is fascinated with hard work. Or more likely, they probably want to bust on me and call me the help. Sometimes they’re really helpful and point out the spots I missed.
I look up, and I’m ready to give the nosy twat who’s staring a sneaky middle finger. But the hostility drains out of me, leaving my mind reeling. It’s that guy from the Pit—the one with the mask, staring back at me. He’s seated with three other boys, probably all seniors. Stonehaven doesn’t require uniforms during the summer session, and Mask is dressed in decent-looking clothes—expensive fabric with a close fit. He’s a rich kid.
“What are you staring at, Wyatt?” A blond guy across from him looks over his shoulder, and his eyes go straight to my legs. He scoffs and shakes his head. “She’s definitely tastier than the runny avocado on dry toast,” quips the blond, tossing his food back onto the plate. “Are you going to spend the afternoon sending her longing looks, or do you plan to approach her?”
“Shut up, Bryce,” growls Wyatt.
“I’ve been observing her too,” laughs another guy at the table with short, light brown hair, “and it has lovely legs.”
I’m an it?
The other guy with the long hair doesn’t say a word as he gazes in my direction like I’m trapped behind glass at a zoo. Well, fuck him too. I ignore them and finish wiping crud off the tables. I move to the left, away from their table, and wait for them to take their asses out of here so I can finish.
I put my back into it, and my hand turns into a blur as I work. When I look up again, the hall is empty. I wipe my forehead on the back of my hand and start setting up for lunch. We have an hour before service starts, and without the ambient noise in the hall, the voices carry from the kitchen.
The afternoon crew is in, and Gary is shouting orders at the top of his ear-piercing lungs. He gives a shit about cursing, but not enough about volume. I drag my feet slowly to the swinging door, knowing if I don’t make an appearance, I’m going to get chewed out for being lazy though every surface in the hall is shining from my hard work.
“Time is precious,” shouts Gary, “and it’s the only commodity you have to give me, so don’t screw it up!”
“You mean fuck it up,” I reply. Quickly, I slip out the back door for my break. I start walking around the corner of the building when a hand grips my upper arm and pulls me against the wall. I will tell this person off if he doesn’t get his paws off me, but it’s Mask. Or Wyatt. Or whoever he is today.
I stare into his deep brown eyes, and my lips part when he stares into mine. The strength of his body pulses off him, enclosing me in his energy. I’m rocking chills all over my skin because close up, this boy is definitely delicious. Tall and strong with my tattoo on his back. Without thinking, I lick my lips.
“Listen, I have to talk to you,” he says, dragging me toward the back of the building.
I stumble after him, trying to keep up with his long strides as his hand tightens on my arm. Now, I think I’m not so lucky after all.
“Slow down and let me go,” I snap.
We round the far corner, and the stained glass window is above our heads. A band of sunlight illuminates a section of the glass while the rest stays in the shadows. His eyes flash brighter than the glass as he pushes me against the stone wall.
I gasp. “You’re too rough.”
His grip loosens, but he doesn’t let go. He pulls back a little, and his breath touches my lips as they part wider.
“What you thought you saw the other night,” his voice is low, “You can’t talk about it.”
“Talk about what?” I ask.
He eases back a little more, and the pressure is off me though his eyes stay locked on mine. Wyatt smirks then nods. “That’s the correct answer. I don’t want you talking about me.”
What a fucking ego. Does he think I sit around with my girlfriends, painting my nails and gossiping in my pajamas about boys? I shake his grip off me. “I don’t give a shit.”
His eyes narrow as his nostrils flare. This time he doesn’t use his hands as he pins me against the bricks using his hard body. I squirm, and instantly that turns into a huge mistake.
“You better care,” he snarls, “You’re not to gossip about me.”
I mock him. “Is your ego bigger than your dick, Wyatt?”
His face falls. He didn’t expect me to talk back. “What I do there, I don’t want mentioned here,” he says, “Are we clear?”
“It was clear before.” I sniff like a wannabe snob with no logos to back it up. “I don’t give a shit about you.”
Wyatt smirks, placing his arms on the wall and boxing me in. He already knows that’s a lie as my body links to his like two puzzle pieces locking into place.
“You like using that mouth, blue eyes?” he whispers.
“It’s Astrid.” I smile as he leans against me. “So, are you playing with me now? Lord of the manor having his way with the chambermaid? I’m not that easy.”
He scoffs. “Easy is not the word that describes a heartbreaker like you.”
Wyatt’s lips touch mine tentatively, but when I sigh, he moves in with force. His mouth presses against mine, and I match his hotness with every stroke. I wrap my arms around his body and pull on his hard chest until it squishes mine. I break away for a second, taking in a deep breath as his mouth tra
ils down my neck.
I don’t do this. Not with guys I just met, but Wyatt isn’t like the rest of the Stonehaven boys. There’s a connection happening between us that makes my skin tingle as his mouth moves up and captures mine again. His tongue slips into my mouth, and our tongues twine as I grip his thick hair between my fingers. Control is slipping away, and though I’m no virgin, I’ll never be a slut. Gradually, I push him off, and releasing me, Wyatt takes a step back.
We look at each other, gauging the situation. He wipes the back of his mouth with his hand as my chest rises up and down. I stare at him, wondering if he’ll be my summer fling. My pussy twitches, telling me a firm yes.
“I didn’t expect to find any men at Stonehaven.” I eye him as directly as he’s eyeing me.
Wyatt cracks a smile. “So, you won’t tell.”
I press my lips together hard, wondering if he thinks flirting with me will shut me up. Now, who’s the slut?