Brawl
Page 6
Leaving Jep’s side, I take my seat again. Nate’s uncle is being introduced and the excitement in the room has increased noticeably. Everyone seems to be talking at once, and my inability to stand the increased noise is testament to my slightly tipsy condition.
Jep sits down, closer than previously, his leg pressed against mine. Nate is still standing with his back slightly angled toward us, apparently waiting for his uncle to arrive and intent on ignoring me. I know that he can still see us out of the corner of his eye because his posture stiffens when Jep leans into me and lays a hand on my closest leg.
“I know what you were doing just then,” he murmurs in my ear. The breeze caused by his hot breath as it blows over my ear and neck makes me shiver and reminds me of my original plan for tonight. He runs his finger over my exposed thigh tattoo and I decide that he’ll do quite fine. He’s sufficiently sexy, and obviously interested in a no-strings-attached hook-up.
“What was I doing?” I ask, tilting my head closer to his.
“You’re trying to make it clear to Nate that he’s not getting what he wants. For once.” He pauses and runs his fingers up the inside of my closest thigh in soft, rhythmical strokes. “I’m more-than-happy to help you drive the message home.”
Taking hold of his arm, I halt his movements as they grow bolder with each circuit he makes, angling closer and closer to my pussy. Cocking my head to the side, I stare into his eyes and wait. I’m waiting for the throb of desire to begin between my legs. Something. Anything. I need a sign that my pussy is on board with my decision.
Shit. Nothing’s happening. Apparently, my vagina has gone on strike. It’s a new development because she’s made her interest in Nate known numerous times tonight. My mind runs in circles, trying to work out what her problem is.
Using his superior strength, Jep shakes off my grip and starts stroking my thigh again. The touch snaps me out of my confusion and I grab his arm to force him to stop again.
“I wanna watch this fight. We’ll discuss this after.”
I put him off, for now—all the while hoping that whatever the hell is going on between my legs rectifies itself before it comes time to put my money where my mouth is.
The whooping and hollering in the basement kicks up a notch as Nate’s uncle’s opponent enters before it becomes a thunderous roar as he’s introduced. It drowns out Jep’s response. I remove his hand from my leg and stand, making my way next to Nate. He looks down at me, the hurt in his eyes making it apparent that he’s witnessed what was going on between me and Jep. I widen my eyes with feigned innocence before directing my attention to the octagon.
“And, entering through the red door, we have our undisputed, undefeated, reigning champion. Give it up for Hooligan Harvie.”
The crowd goes wilder. Ear-splitting whistles erupt and I cover my ears with my palms. This is crazy. I thought the gathering was enthusiastic before, but that was nothing on the electrifying feeling that’s filling the basement with Hooligan’s entrance.
I lift onto my tiptoes, eager to get a glimpse of the man capable of causing this type of reaction. I can hardly see a thing since everyone groups around the entrance and then mobs him as he makes his way inside. All I glimpse is the top of a head covered in short dark-brown hair sticking out from the crowd as he makes his way to the ring without the entourage that his opponent entered with. He seems to be alone; one man in a sea of bodies, and I wonder why he doesn’t have anyone in his corner like a fighter should. Before I can ask Nate why, I’m jostled by the crowd as it surges to the side of the cage. Annoyed at my lack of view, I hop from one foot to the other, waiting for him to enter the cage so I can catch a glimpse of the man who’s responsible for the hysteria growing in the room.
“It’s fucking insane,” Nate looks down at me. The hurt I caught sight of before is gone from his eyes and he appears amped. His flushed face and bright eyes telecast his excitement. “He’s on a four year winning streak. Everyone reckons he’s gonna lose tonight. This new guy is a hotshot, some mixed martial arts whiz kid, but they’re underestimating Hooligan.”
Some of his words are lost in the noise echoing around the basement but I catch enough to understand most of what he’s saying. Nodding as if I agree, I look back to the cage to find that the two fighters are now locked in with the referee.
“Fuck them all,” Nate continues while I assess the challenger and his ripped physique. “Hooligan might be thirty-two but he’ll still smash this asshole without breaking a sweat.
The challenger looks nasty, bashing his gloved hands together and snarling at Nate’s uncle who has his broad, rippling back to us. Just from my current view of the man, I’m disinclined to buy into Nate’s assessment of the situation. The man his uncle’s facing looks like the epitome of a fighter to me.
Nate sticks two fingers in his mouth and lets out a high-pitched whistle.
“Hey, Hooligan,” he yells. Even with the booming noise of the basement, he manages to catch his uncle’s attention, who turns toward the sound.
My breath catches in my throat, and I feel my eyes widen of their own volition when piercing emerald green eyes meet mine. The bleakness in their depths matches the barrenness of my own soul; equaling my constant loneliness and despair at the state of my life. The exact emotions that I try my hardest to hide behind my in-your-face appearance and take-no-shit persona. A strangled gasp leaves me, my hand lifting to my chest, right over my heart without thought or reason. My pulse quickens, racing in my chest and my heart—that almost dead organ that beats only for Cooper and Zali—flips in my chest and makes me conscious of its existence for the first time in a very long time.
Surprise followed by an intense flare of electricity that makes me feel as if I’m the only person in the room briefly makes an appearance in Hooligan’s expression before it shuts down—almost before I’ve registered its presence. He runs his gaze over my frame, taking in what I have to offer and dismissing it with a flick of his eyes in the next second. My stomach drops, disappointment taking hold of me, and I feel tears prick behind my eyelids.
What the fuck?
I’ve never had a reaction like that to a man. And, I’ve certainly never had a man dismiss me so crudely before. I hold back the tears that are threatening for no real reason and concentrate on finding some anger to direct toward him. It takes a moment, but I manage it.
Arrogant asshole. That’s better, I muse as the need to cry dissipates.
“Nate.” He calls out, threading his fingers through the mesh of the cage.
“You ready to kick some ass, old man?” Nate shouts over the noise.
“That’s enough of the old, you little shit,” Hooligan wisecracks in response to his nephew’s teasing. “I’ll still have enough energy to teach you a lesson in respect after I’ve dealt with this knucklehead.”
He points his head in the direction of his opponent, who’s mugging for his supporters. Without thinking, I laugh at his cocky threat when Nate does which makes his gaze flits toward me once again. Disapproval shines brightly from him and he rejects me for the second time. The tears that I blinked away moments earlier make themselves known again and I turn away before they spill, seeking solace in Jep.
He wraps his arms around me when I press my body against him and pulls me tight against him. “Want another beer before the fight starts, Gabbi?”
Now’s probably a good time to tell him that Nate was telling the truth.
“I’m really only seventeen.”
His arms disappear from around me at lightning speed, his hands curling around my biceps and he holds me in front of him. His eyes run over my face as if he’s trying to work out if I’m joking or not. I press my lips together, lifting my eyebrows in a silent request for forgiveness, before I shrug. “I could murder a lemonade, Jep.”
Shaking his head, he appears slightly bemused when he answers me. “Shoulda known you were too good to be true. What’s with the tatts and the trampy clothes then if you’re underage?”
I am exactly as I appear...a slut.
“Perks of knowing a kick-ass tattooist,” I answer, my attempt a nonchalance falling short when my voice doesn’t cooperate. Instead of the breezy tone I was working toward, I sound defensive. “And, let’s not pretend that you don’t like my clothes.”
Suddenly, feeling tired—of defending myself, of my life, of the world in general—I close the short distance between my current position and my seat. Falling into it wearily, I hug myself with both arms. Crossing my legs and drawing my feet under my seat, I make myself as small as possible. Once this fight is over, I’m going home and crawling into Cooper’s bed. I need to bask in my little brother’s pureness after the past twenty-four hours that I’ve had. First Hooligan blatantly dismisses me as trash with one look; now Jep’s decided that I’m a little girl playing at being a whore.
I feel dirty; exposed and raw.
“Brace yourself,” Nate declares as he falls into his seat beside me. “He’s pumped. This is gonna be brutal.”
Swallowing down the self-pity I’m currently wallowing in, I plaster my best fake smile on my face and nod as if I agree with his judgement. Truthfully, I’d forgotten about him and his rude uncle.
The MC makes his announcement and then leaves the cage. The tension in the room ramps up as the referee explains the rules.
“Here ya go.” Jep passes me a plastic glass. I take a sip, fizzy lemonade bursting over my tongue, and my mood lightens a tiny bit. Glancing his way, it lifts even further. His handsome features are cloaked with contrition, and he lifts his beer my way when he sees me looking at him.
“Apologies for being a jerk. Sometimes my mouth moves quicker than my brain. I like you; you’re hot as fuck and tough-as-nails, just how I like my women.” I smile at his declaration. It’s not what I was expecting, however, it’ll more than do as an apology. “Let’s start over. Hi, I’m Jep. Nice to meet you.”
He holds out his free hand. It takes me a second to catch on to what he wants from me. Extending my own arm, I grasp his hand and shake it. “It’s my pleasure, Jep. I’m Gabbi.”
Nate’s eyes burn a path over the back of my head as he watches our weird interaction.
Jep tugs me closer to him with the hand he’s holding and I don’t resist. Letting go of my hand, he shuffles his beer into the one furthest from me, and then slings his free arm over my shoulder. Once he’s slid me hard against his side, I fix my eyes on the octagon, and push away all thoughts of my strange reaction to Hooligan earlier. Jep’s proving to be more my speed tonight. Easy, safe, and down-to-fuck. There’ll be no messy run-ins at work afterward. Hell, I don’t even have to see him again if I don’t want to.
With those thoughts firmly in the forefront of my mind, I watch the referee call the two fighters into the middle to touch gloves before he starts the fight. Nate and Jep stiffen with anticipation on either side of me, catcalls and whistles coming from the pair of them in support of Hooligan. I stay silent for the moment, stuck in a quandary about which fighter I want to cheer for.
I’d be lying if I said that a small part of me wasn’t hoping that Nate’s uncle’s opponent would hand him his arrogant ass tonight.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Hooligan
Adrenaline surges like electricity through my body. It sends sparks of energy to the ends of my fingers and toes. Breathing deeply, I begin to channel my focus into the fight in front of me, zeroing in on the asshole challenging for my title. My preparations are interrupted when a pair of wide amber eyes appear in my mind, followed by a pouty set of ruby red lips, a full rack, and tattooed legs that go forever. Nate’s girl. Or Jep’s. Fuck knows which one she’s with, she’s been all over both of them.
All I know is my dick thickened at the sight of her and that surprised the shit out of me...that was until thoughts of Mari and Gabe popped back into my head. Which put an end to the two seconds of peace I’d had since the last time their memory haunted me.
Jesus H. Christ. My cock twitches in my cup, grinding painfully against the hard shell. There’s not much room for growth and I’m about to give everyone a free show if I can’t get it under control.
Nuns. Calculus. Bathroom mold. Dead son. Murdered wife.
Pale blue eyes filled with love replace the sexy amber pair that were filling my vision, and my hard-on wilts. Icy-cold, inescapable anguish filters its way back into my veins like liquid nitrogen, and my momentary return to hot-blooded male ends as quickly as it began.
“Touch gloves,” the ref’s voice breaks through the fog of grief holding me in its grip. Bouncing on my toes, I hold my hands out and wait for my opponent, Gregory “Kryptonite” Krakan, to touch gloves. He doesn’t, and it proves everything I’ve heard about the up-and-coming Croatian in the lead-up to tonight.
He’s arrogant. Full of himself. Already has the fight won in his head.
All of these things will work in my favor. Not that I really need any extra luck or assistance. The need to inflict damage—to make my opponents feel a small amount of the pain that grips me every single fucking day—is more than enough. I haven’t lost a fight since my life turned to shit and I have no intentions of starting tonight.
“And...FIGHT!”
The bell dings, and with it my attention sharpens into laser focused concentration. The roar of the crowd dulls, sent to the back of my mind, leaving my world to consist of just the two of us. I stretch my neck from side to side, faking the need to loosen up, before I lead with my right foot and fist. My gloved knuckles connect with Kryptonite’s left cheekbone. His eyes widen when the punch lands and he takes a step back from me.
I feint to the left, throw a deceptive left kick that barely glances off his thigh, and then follow my first strike with another. Hot on the heels of the initial impact, I know it rattles him when my right fist lands in the same spot. This hit is twice as hard as the last because I’ve thrown all of my weight behind it. Immediately, he gets that dazed look all of my challengers get when they realize that the old man can still hit.
Internally, my hypothalamus signals my adrenal glands to get to work transforming the tyrosine amino acid floating around my body into dopamine so the oxygen I’m inhaling can change it into noradrenaline, so that can be converted to the soul-sustaining, arrogance-inducing adrenaline that fuels me. The entire process takes less than half a second, sending my body coursing into an adrenaline rush to end all adrenaline rushes and emptying my mind of all thoughts of death, loneliness...and burying my dick as far as I can into pretty little brunettes with alluring amber eyes.
Kryptonite tries to engage me in a clinch and throw me to the ground when I move to throw another fist his way. My ground and pound game isn’t my strong point; my fists are my weapon. That’s not a secret. Everyone who comes up against me knows this. Getting me to the ground—that’s the part they all have trouble with. Hell, I’m sure they all watch video after video of my previous fights, trying to devise a way to get me on my back.
Clenching my abdomen to stabilize my core when he tries to shift me off balance, I meet his strength with my own and force him to straighten. I’m barely met with any resistance and it takes all my resolve not to end the contest now.
Need to give the crowd the show they came for...the gamblers dumb enough to bet against me will cry foul when they lose their money if I don’t let them think he’s in with a chance.
Leaning near his ear, I throw in some trash talk for good measure. “Is that all you’ve got? I’ve met white belts with a stronger core.”
“That’s not what your wife said when I bent her over your kid’s headstone.”
What. The. Fuck. Did. He. Just. Say?
Pictures of my Mar
i getting fucked over Gabe’s grave flood my mind. I know he’s full of shit—my wife was pure as driven snow—yet I can’t stop myself from giving him the reaction he wants. Unfortunately for him, anger doesn’t make me sloppy so it won’t give him the free shot he’s looking for.
Rage makes me lethal.
Brutal. Vicious. Ruthless.
Intent on wreaking havoc on this cruel world and anyone stupid enough to get in my way.
Rearing back, I put space between us in order to create enough motion to swing my head. Bringing my forehead down on the bridge of his nose, I smile when it bursts like an overripe tomato and blood splatters over my face. My move would’ve ended the fight in a sanctioned competition—which is why I’ve turned down all offers to go pro—but this is an underground, no-holds-barred fight ring in the basement of a dingy nightclub in Sydney. The only thing I can’t do to him is kicking him in the nuts, hit him in the back of the head, or gouge his eyes out. And he should be thanking his lucky fucking stars about that right now for daring to mention sticking his cock anywhere near my angel wife.
Satisfied, that he’s in a world of pain, I push him backward. He stumbles but keeps his feet. Retreat is written all over his face, but I don’t give a shit. I follow him, intent of finishing this now...and in the most painful way possible. I throw a one-two combo. Right fist to the face, followed by a left then another right. Stunned, his hands drop, leaving him defenseless as he backs away from me. I don’t care, following him step for step, determined to make him pay for even allowing thoughts of my wife and son to enter his putrid head. Swinging my right arm again, my uppercut connects with that sweet spot on his chin. He fades, eyelids drooping, his knees wobbling when his retreat picks up pace.