DEVOUR ME: A Dark Bad Boy Romance (The Wicked Angels MC)

by Sophia Gray

  Scraps of paper with bets on them flowed through every room in Bluebonnet like whitewater rapids. They wagered anything they had—credits for the commissary, food, drugs, cigarettes, work shifts, phone cards, and even sexual favors.

  It was all anyone could talk about: Who would win? Which round? By decision or knockout?

  Beth tried to attend to her duties without letting any of the chatter affect her, but she felt nervous. What if Hank got injured badly? Bib had always praised Hank's skills as a fighter, but what if Manolo cheated somehow? She hadn't interacted with Manolo much since she'd started working at Bluebonnet—he largely kept to himself and stayed out of trouble—but she'd heard a lot from the other guards about how ruthless and unpredictable his brother Roberto was.

  Worst of all, she had to keep taking orders from Bull and enduring his lewd comments. At one point, he told her to go buy him a bottle of champagne.

  “We can crack it open to celebrate after Hank takes down Manolo,” he said, winking. “Maybe you can even use the bottle to put on a little show for us, how about that?”

  She'd taken his money and left to buy the champagne without answering him. Still, on the way back to the prison, she kept eyeing the bottle as nausea squirmed in her stomach. He'd probably just said that to rattle her, but what if he was serious? If he demanded it from her, what could she do? Being subjected to the whims of someone so twisted and evil made her sick, and when her panicked mind dragged her to thoughts about how the bottle would feel inside her, dread crawled up her throat and she pulled over to open the door and retch.

  She desperately wanted to tell Bib what was going on. There were even a few nights when she'd come close, after he'd pulled her aside and asked her how the job was going and how Hank was holding up. She opened her mouth, wanting to let it all come blurting out—but then she thought about Butler threatening her with perjury.

  Being a guard in a prison was hellish enough. She wasn't eager to find out how it would feel to be an inmate, especially since she doubted ex-guards were treated well inside. There were two ex-cops serving time in Bluebonnet on corruption charges, and both of them were kept in solitary, along with the child molesters and others who'd be special targets for the rest of the prison population. The isolation had already driven one of them to attempt suicide.

  So instead, Beth forced a smile, took a sip from her beer, and said that the job was fine and Hank was fine and everything was fine. She saw the traces of suspicion in Bib's eyes and hated herself for lying to him. She wanted to believe he'd think of something, find some way to protect her and Hank.

  But she couldn't.

  Now she was back in Bluebonnet, feeling the gray concrete walls and iron bars press in on her from all sides. The air was always sour with the odors of sweat and raw testosterone, and she felt the eyes of the convicts on her tits and ass every minute of the day, like grubby hands pawing at her from every direction.

  The fight was scheduled to take place during the hour when about a third of the guards—Beth included—were on their lunch breaks. Even though she'd always hated boxing, Beth filed into the gym with the other COs and inmates who were attending as spectators. She knew she'd be even more worried about Hank if she weren't watching.

  But it was more than that, too. She wanted him to see that she was there. The things he'd said to her in the stairwell had hurt. But she understood that he was feeling as angry, trapped, and helpless as she was, and she was sure that was why he'd lashed out. She still cared about him, and she wanted him to see that, even if there was no safe way for her to express it overtly. She wanted him to know that she was in his corner—figuratively, and also literally, if that was what he needed from her.

  A boxing ring had been set up in the center of the gym, with bleachers on all four sides. The spectators were clearly divided into sections based on who they were rooting for. The on-duty guards positioned around them were tense and watchful, looking to stop fights in the crowd before they started. With all these inmates sitting side by side, it would be far too easy for someone to get a shiv between the ribs in the name of settling old scores.

  For the most part, though, the convicts just seemed happy and excited to watch the fight. It seemed like they were far more interested in the temporary relief from their boredom than they were in harming each other. In several areas of the bleachers, Beth even saw known enemies sitting next to each other. There was some trash-talking, but overall, it looked like a temporary truce was in effect.

  Beth was briefly reminded of a nature show she'd once seen, in which predators and prey on the plains of Africa sat beside each other peacefully when they got to the watering hole. Even for the most bloodthirsty creatures on the planet, there was still a time and a place for violence, and a time when certain social niceties needed to be observed.

  Once everyone had taken their seats, a potbellied CO named DiNovi stepped into the ring and stood in the center. He'd been chosen to act as referee, and Beth wondered whether he'd placed any bets on the outcome himself. If so, how could he be trusted to enforce the rules equally, or do a proper ten-count if someone got knocked down?

  Beth shook her head. As examples of corruption and injustice in Bluebonnet went, she reminded herself that this was pretty minor. Still, she didn't love the idea of how ugly this crowd would probably get if they thought it wasn't a fair fight.

  Hank sat in his corner of the ring, staring straight ahead as Bull massaged his shoulders and spoke to him. Beth saw how uncomfortable he was, and how much he was trying to focus on the fight itself instead of whatever racist nonsense Bull was probably spewing into his ear. For a moment, she regretted her impulse to come see the fight after all. What if he saw her and it broke his concentration?

  Well, too late now. She was here, and she couldn't bring herself to leave.

  Manolo was in the other corner of the ring, his expression blank as his brother Roberto jabbered at him. Manolo's face was inscrutable, and Beth wondered whether he'd had any more choice in participating in this than Hank had. More than anything, it seemed like he just wanted to get it over with.

  DiNovi took a deep breath and addressed the crowd in a booming bass voice, drawing out every syllable. “Ladies and gentlemen! In this corner, wearing the red trunks and weighing in at two hundred and ninety-two pounds...representing the Nation of Sinners, with a record of twelve victories, four knockouts, and no losses...MANOLO 'THE MEXICAN MAULER' TORRES!”

  The Sinners in the crowd took to their feet, howling and clapping. Roberto danced around in the corner, grinning and holding up Manolo's huge arm. If Manolo noticed the commotion, he gave no sign. His brown eyes were fixed on Hank, studying him carefully, as though looking for weaknesses.

  “And in this corner,” DiNovi intoned dramatically, “wearing the black trunks and weighing in at two hundred and eleven pounds...representing the White Knights in his very first Bluebonnet boxing match...HANK 'THE HAMMER OF HELL' HALL!”

  The Carnage Warriors whooped loudly, pumping their fists in the air. The Aryans stood and gave stiff-armed Nazi salutes, chanting, “Seig heil! Seig heil!”

  Beth saw Hank wince. She suspected he'd been prepared to be introduced as a representative of the Warriors, not the White Knights, and she could only imagine how much that had to piss him off.

  The crowd began to whistle and stomp their feet, and Beth saw that the prisoner named Foley Cartwright was circling the inside of the ring. He was wearing a slinky dress that looked ridiculous on his pudgy frame, and tottering in high heels as he held up a sign that said “ROUND 1.”

  Beth felt a wave of pity for him. Everyone knew he was being regularly beaten and humiliated by the Sinners, but no one would do anything about it. Most of the guards just laughed about it, especially Butler. She knew that the crime Foley committed to get sent here was horrible, but even so, the punishments he'd endured in prison seemed disproportionate. She wished there was something she could do to help him, but she knew there wasn't. This was just the way things w
ere in Bluebonnet.

  Foley stepped out of the ring and a bell dinged sharply.

  Both fighters were on their feet immediately, dancing, circling, sizing each other up.

  Good luck, Hank, Beth thought fervently, her hands curled into tight fists.

  Chapter 13

  Hank

  Hank had been in so many fights that when the bell dinged, he was on his feet reflexively before he knew it, like a leg-jerk when a doctor taps a patient's knee.

  So was Manolo.

  Many of Hank's bouts had been fought against men much larger than he was. Most of the time, they used their massive frames to bully and intimidate their opponents—howling, swinging wildly, and rushing at them like enraged giants with the hope of throwing them off early and finishing the fight fast. These tactics never worked on Hank, who simply stood his ground and waited for the behemoths to run into his fists. Such fighters usually relied solely on their size and weight, to make up for a lack of prowess or discipline. They tired early, and they fell hard.

  But Manolo was hanging back with his gloves up, dancing lightly on the balls of his feet as he warily sized up his opponent. From the way he carried himself, Hank could see Manolo was a patient, canny, well-trained boxer.

  For the first time since he'd agreed to this fight, Hank started to worry about its outcome. Luring Manolo into coming at him swinging wouldn't work. Outlasting him probably wouldn't, either. Hank would have to take the fight to him and pour on the damage, which would be risky.

  But the crowd was already roaring for blood. And no matter how much Hank tried to focus, he could hear the voices of Bull, Speed Bump, and the rest of the Warriors and Aryans, all jeering at him for hesitating.

  A grim realization dawned on Hank: It wasn't enough to accept this challenge, or even to win it. In order to earn the respect and protection of the White Knights, he'd have to look good doing it, to boost the gang's rep in Bluebonnet. He wasn't sure if he'd be able to do that.

  And Manolo was still waiting with narrowed eyes, as though he were reading all of Hank's thoughts from a billboard on his forehead. Manolo's rep was already solid, while Hank had everything to lose.

  Fuck it, Hank thought. May as well go for it.

  He approached Manolo suddenly, hoping it would throw him off after waiting for so long. But Manolo's left connected with Hank's stomach before he could even see the punch, and a split-second later, Hank found himself looking up at the ceiling with a pain like a firecracker in his jaw. The awareness of the uppercut rumbled in slowly after the initial shock, like thunder casually announcing a lightning bolt that had struck seconds earlier.

  Instinct kicked in, and Hank raised his arms to protect his face. But Manolo was way ahead of him, getting under Hank's arms to pummel his defenseless ribs and abdomen. The breath was pushed out of Hank's lungs, and no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't draw any more air back into them. Black roses started to bloom in the corners of his vision.

  The bell dinged again, and Hank was alone in the center of the ring. Manolo was already sitting in his corner, his inscrutable brown eyes locked on Hank.

  Hank shuffled back to his own corner. Bull was waiting for him, and Hank expected him to cuss him out when he got there. Instead, Bull handed him the water bottle, patting him on the shoulder as he drank from it.

  “You're doing good in there, pal,” Bull said quietly. “He's tough and he's fast, and he took you by surprise, but you can bring him down. I've seen him fight lots of times before, and he comes on strong...but his nose is his off button. You mash that button two or three times, and all his Terminator bullshit's going to come to a screeching halt. Okay? Got it?”

  “Yeah, aim for his nose,” Hank replied. “Got it.”

  If I can even get a punch in, he thought.

  The bell dinged again.

  Manolo was all over Hank before he even realized he'd stood up. Three more body shots, breaking a couple of ribs that were already bruised. Hank dodged a brutal haymaker that came within an inch of shattering his eye socket, but the sudden jerk backward made him lose his balance for a moment, and he realized—too late—that it was what Manolo was counting on. A follow-up punch to the side of Hank's head brought him to one knee.

  Hank bounced back to his feet, but his fists were lowered, and he made his movements seem woozy. This time, Manolo took the bait, moving in for the kill.

  Take the first punch, Hank told himself. Where it lands doesn't matter. All that matters is that it'll take one of his hands away from his face, and then it's hello nose, goodbye Manolo.

  Based on the confidence in Manolo's approach, Hank figured he was used to finishing fights quickly. Right now, he seemed caught up in the familiarity—terrorize them in the first round, polish them off in the second. No need to be as careful. He could indulge himself in a roundhouse punch that anyone could see coming, if they weren't already dazed and ready to fall.

  Hank ducked the punch easily, ramming his fist directly into Manolo's nose with all the strength he could muster.

  Manolo shrugged it off like it was a mosquito bite, delivering a savage blow to Hank's ear.

  Hank saw stars and felt like he might fall, but his hands moved on sheer muscle memory, blocking Manolo's next two hits. He felt a battering ram crash into his ribs again and the bell dinged, ending the second round.

  Manolo returned to his corner. His nose looked a bit swollen, and Roberto gave him some nasal spray. Other than that, Manolo looked as calm and confident as he had at the start of the fight.

  For his part, Hank felt like he'd been beaten with an aluminum bat and stuffed into a trash compactor.

  “I thought you said his nose was his off button,” Hank groaned, taking another gulp from the water bottle.

  “It is, it is,” Bull assured him. “He's trying to hide it, but you'll see. The next couple rounds, he'll be like a whole different person, and you can bring The Hammer down on him. Trust me.”

  Yeah, sure, Hank thought blearily. Trust the Nazi. Great. I'm a fucking dead man.

  He glanced into the crowd and saw Beth standing next to one of the bleachers, looking at him. She was deathly pale, and her eyes looked like they were the size of dinner plates. Hank figured he must look like a real mess, based on her expression.

  In that moment, Hank wished he'd stayed home on the anniversary of his family's death. He wished he hadn't followed Beth into that bathroom. He wished he'd ignored that stupid asshole in the bar instead of attacking him. If he could just take back one of those three bad decisions, he'd still be riding with the Warriors with the free wind in his hair, and Beth would still be drinking and telling bad jokes with her uncle.

  Maybe he'd have hooked up with Beth eventually, and maybe he wouldn't have. But at least neither of them would be trapped in this insane nightmare today.

  The bell dinged again. Round Three.

  Hank heaved himself off the stool in the corner and propelled his body forward, expecting another flurry of devastating punches. But Manolo was moving more slowly than he had in the previous rounds. His gloves were hanging lower than they had been, and his steps were unsteady. Hank saw that the muscles in Manolo's face seemed slack, and his eyes were glazed and unfocused.

  Well, I'll be a son of a bitch, Hank thought. The shot to the nose worked after all. I've never seen a single punch scramble someone's brain so much, but hey, gift horses and all that.

  Now this is for my ribs, you cocksucker.

  Hank danced up to Manolo, firing a trio of punches into his sides. He felt one of Manolo's ribs give way under his fist, and expected him to retaliate.

  Manolo's eyes rolled over to him blankly, like the eyes of a cow about to be slaughtered. It almost seemed like he didn't recognize Hank, or where they were.

  Hank's left hand connected with Manolo's jaw. The huge man grunted loudly, took a step backward, and fell down on his ass in the middle of the ring.

  The Warriors and Aryans shrieked like banshees, and DiNovi started to count to ten.


  Hank frowned. Something about this felt wrong. There was no way in hell that a fighter like Manolo would suddenly turn into a worthless palooka after just one punch, no matter how sensitive his nose was. He was acting like he was brain damaged.

  When DiNovi reached six, Manolo hauled himself off the canvas and staggered to his feet. He tried to lift his gloves to protect his face, but his arms were trembling, as though his fists were lead weights. He shuffled forward like a ninety-year-old.

  Hank moved in, tapping him with a few light punches to test him. Manolo reared back and swung, his fist missing Hank's face by at least a foot and a half. He made an anguished sound like a wounded elephant, stumbling forward and almost falling again.