by Ella James
I think about the governor's mistress going missing two and a half years ago, right before he started fucking Priscilla. Just sixteen months after Lockwood stopped working security for him and started working security for Priscilla. How likely is it that Lockwood simply spirited the other woman away? Down to San Luis. Then into Mexico.
I feel sick, because Sarabelle is alive somewhere, being forced into God knows what. I want to go get her right now. And tonight in this fight, I want to bathe in Michael Lockwood's blood.
I slide thin gloves over my taped knuckles and remind myself that I can’t. He could be all we have to lead us to Sarabelle.
Ted Burts and Roberto are scouring San Luis at this very moment—starting with MIGHTY'S bar—and Julie and Dave are with Lay1a visiting Priscilla and Lockwood's places of residence while they're out. We think we’re close.
I’ve decided we’ve got three days more. Three more days to find Sarabelle or I'm going to the FBI myself. Priscilla can say whatever she wants.
I stare at myself in the mirror again, hoping I won't have to take that risk. Just the thought of it has me vibrating with rage. I check the clock. Marchant will be here in two minutes. I inhale deeply, trying to find the chill zone before we have to walk upstairs.
There's not enough time. I swing at the mirror, shattering it—and maybe my knuckles—in one mighty punch that sends glass raining all around me. The pain in my fist is good, blazing like fire.
I let myself drink it up. Inhale it. I take it inside.
I don't have time to clean this mess, so I meet March outside my door. He's got an envelope containing the name of my match-up.
Lockwood.
*
~ELIZABETH~
The Joseph Club is like nothing I've ever seen. As far as gyms go, it's fairly ordinary; the yellow circus-tent exterior, with its sparkling, blood-red sign and showgirl ticket-punchers remind me we're in Vegas, but it's the crowd inside that widens my eyes and makes my palms sweat.
"Got them packed in like sardines, no?" Juniper is pressed against me, a vision in a skin-tight white pant suit and red pumps, her dark hair pulled into an elegant pony tail. Swimming through a sea of shoulders and elbows on my other side is Loveless, wearing a flouncy peach-colored dress that whirls around her gorgeous legs.
"It's like this every year," Loveless tells me as we battle our way through the crowd. "Priscilla Heat knows how to throw a party."
I'm chewing fruity gum; I nearly choke. "Priscilla Heat?"
"The one and only." She says it casually, but when she glances at my face, I must have that swallowed-a-bug look—and that gives me away. "I sense a story here."
"There's no story."
"Sure there's not."
"Story?" Juniper pipes in.
"No." I shake my head, making my loosely curling pigtails tickle my bare shoulders. "There's no story, I swear there's not. I've just heard of her. Kind of surprised she's doing something for charity."
"Ooh, there is so a story here. One that perhaps will tell us more about who Scarlett really is.” Juniper smiles slyly, like she's already dredged the rotten truth out of me.
"I'm not saying a thing." I mime zipping my lips and follow Loveless, who's flattened her body against a cement wall and is trying to make her way through the gate that leads to our seats. Finally we make it from the outer walkway and concessions area into the arena. Loveless stops, eliciting several irritated shouts from the stalled crowd behind Juniper and I, and holds up her ticket. "Looks like we're that way," she says, pointing at the bleachers below our walkway.
She takes my hand and Juniper grabs my other one, and behind Jupiter, Hannah, and on we go. I glance down at my bright red daisy dukes and loose, silk strapless top—it's white and sparkly—and I pray I don't stick out like a sore thumb. Already I've noticed that the biggest difference between these gorgeous women and myself is my lack of muscle tone. Yeah, I've lost weight, but you can see my flab and cellulite if you look closely; they, on the other hand, are built like gymnasts, plus big boob.
When we finally make it to our seats, I'm stunned to find how close we are to the fighting platform. I guess it's called a 'ring'. It looks bigger than anything I've seen on TV: a bouncy-looking blue platform about a third the size of a basketball floor, surrounded by red 'ropes' attached to four yellow square posts at each corner.
There’s a platform around the ring that’s sunken, sort of like a moat, below the first row of seats, which is level with the ring. It’s packed with men in tight pants and women in bikinis. I notice a lot of fake tans and faker boobs and even what I think is probably fake hair. I wonder how many of these people are porn stars, and feel kind of embarrassed that I have no idea. I've never watched a porno.
As I sink into my plastic bucket seat, I'm listening to Juniper and Loveless with only half an ear. So when I hear the name “Hunter” I actually whirl around toward Loveless. She's got her head craned toward Juniper, who's reading the program and speaking loudly to be heard over the crowd.
“He'll be fighting someone named Lockwood,” Juniper is saying. “There are five fights. Theirs is fourth.”
Loveless is nodding when I realize my mouth is hanging open. I shut it and turn back toward the ring, but it's too late. Juniper reaches around Loveless and grabs my elbow, shrieking, “You are holding out on me!”
I frown, trying my best to give her a ‘what the hell look,’ but Loveless is catching on now, too. She turns to Juniper. “Do you think she knows him?”
“Oh, I think she does.”
“I don't know what you guys are talking about,” I say loudly. A guy with taped fists and tiny black shorts is leaning up and waving to the crowd on the other side of the arena, so the noise level is at max.
Loveless gently grabs my chin and makes me meet her eyes. “Hunter West. You know him? Don't you lie to me, woman.”
“I'm not,” I say, but I can feel my stupid eye brows arching like they do sometimes when I lie. I look down at my knees, then Loveless shrieks and I put my head down in my hands.
“Holy shit, Scarlett! You sneaky little bitch!”
“I'm not sneaky,” I wail. “There's not a story here.”
“Oh, I'm quite sure she's lying,” Juniper says.
From around her, a blonde, gray-eyed girl leans. “What are we talking about?” she asks in a Southern accent.
“Oh, nothing,” Juniper says.
“Later,” Loveless says in my ear. She gives me a pointed look, one that says I should be sorry for lying, and I shake my head a little guiltily.
A minute later, music I think I recognize from Rocky starts playing over the intercom, and everyone's attention is shifted to the ring, where two guys are now stretching. I try to feign interest, but all I can think about is Hunter. I wonder how much space stretches from my chair and the ring. Twenty yards? Fifteen? Could he see me from the fight? What if he gets hurt?
You can't care, I tell myself. He's not your boyfriend.
He's a guy who has sex with escorts and dates porn stars. A guy who has been nice to me a time or two. On a rational level, I know my feelings for him are about as realistic as a middle school girl’s crush on a pop star—and the chances of it being realized are pretty much the same, too.
But I have a bad gut feeling when I try to feel okay with the idea of him dating Priscilla. It’s her I should be worried about; I did see his hands around her neck. But when you look at Priscilla, you can see the bad in her. It's a woman thing, I think. Women convey so much without using words. Once you've seen one catty bitch, you've seen them all. And I know how to spot a catty bitch. Whatever Hunter is doing with her, she wants it, and what I really believe is that he does not.
The two men fighting first start to circle each other, and it’s a good distraction. As I watch the fight, I'm buoyed slightly by the other girls' enthusiasm. It only takes a second before word reaches my ear that the fighter with long black hair, Dominique Domino, is one of Marie V.'s clients. His opponent, a muscled guy with buzzed hair
, is a porn star.
Loveless cups her hands around my ear. "But he also pays for Marie V."
I gape. "Why?” I say near her ear. I try to lower my voice while still being audible. “Can't he get all the booty he wants, like...on the job?"
She nods. "But he likes it kinky," she hisses. "He wants to keep his image clean, so he pays for Marie V. for the weird stuff.” I don’t even want to imagine what depraved acts could ruin a porn star’s reputation.
“I think he kind of likes her more than just professional," Loveless adds, and I arch my brows. "Oh."
She rolls her eyes. "That's a nice way of saying it."
I spend the rest of the fight wondering what she means, eventually deciding Marie V. is probably not a fan of Domino's affections.
The fight only lasts two more minutes before Domino clocks the porn star—hard—making his nose spray blood and gaining his title in a fit of screaming and applause, and Loveless leans in close to me. "He's the possessive kind. Marie V. will have to cut him soon."
I wonder how many of those types of situations working women find themselves in, and I think I’ll ask later. I'm feeling more comfortable with Loveless and Juniper now—more like we're friends. For not the first time, I wonder if I'm just a job to them, just like the men are, but I shove the thought away. If they think of me that way, it's not a bad thing. I don’t need to get too attached. Plus, it wouldn’t be fair to pretend to be friends when they don’t even know who I am.
Juniper passes me a huge tub of popcorn, smiling, and it's like a confirmation that I'm right. We are becoming friends. I don’t want to enjoy the feeling, but I let myself off the hook. It’s easier to face everything with friends, even ones that don’t know your real name. I feel truly at ease for the first time since I arrived at the ranch.
That feeling lasts through two more fights. Then Hunter walks to the ring.
Chapter Twenty-One
~HUNTER~
Lockwood is in the corner opposite mine, looking surly but not threatening in red shorts and black sneaks. He's shorter than I am—maybe five-foot-ten—and without clothes to give him bulk, I can see his upper body is well-defined but lean. His biceps and pecs are oiled and his black hair is slicked back, so his sunken cheeks and sharply square jaw stand out like a caricature. His wary brown eyes haven't left my body since I came into the ring, but I've noticed he doesn't like to look me in the eye. The crowd around us cheers, and he widens his legs, trying to adopt a more intimidating posture.
Fat chance.
I've got maybe forty pounds on this guy, four inches or so, and I hate him down to his bones. I think I’d kill him with my bare hands here and now, if I didn’t need him alive. I flex my hands inside my gloves and try to ignore the pain radiating from my back.
We’re announced, and then we step forward to tap gloves. I look into Lockwood's eyes, and for a second he looks into mine, and there’s plenty of hate there. I keep my expression cool, because I can't let him know that I know what he's up to.
Lockwood swipes at the air as he bounces back to his corner, and the crowd cheers with excitement. In addition to doing camera and security work for Priscilla, Michael Lockwood also fights semi-professionally—meaning he has fans.
The fight begins with the loud honk of a bullhorn and the crowd roars. He steps out of his corner first but he’s waiting for me to come at him.
I circle, looking for an opening. Of course, he doesn’t give me one, so I lower my guard. He takes a swing. I jump back. He gets me in the shoulder, a hard sting that sends pain across my back in waves, but I keep moving, arms up, ready when the moment comes.
He peeks up for a second, and I smack the bridge of his nose. It feels good. He swings, and I think it’s wild but he’s aiming for my back. He connects, and as the pain erupts I curse myself for not expecting that.
The crowd cheers when my fist hits his jaw, but he was already turning out of it. I get a kidney shot, and then he’s on me. He hits me on the shoulder, and, choking back a scream, I hit him in the head with my elbow.
He dances back, and I follow hard, thinking I’ve got him. I go for a knock-out punch, and he side-steps to evade. A hard jab to my stomach, then a blow to my jaw. Everything whirls. He gets me in the hip, he gets me in the ear. I think I see Libby in the audience, and that moment of hesitation earns me a glancing blow across my cheek.
I get him in the teeth, and he spits blood at me. I slam him again in the nose and he goes down on one knee. I kick him in the shoulder, I punch him in the neck.
He falls back, and when his eyes flicker, he smiles a bloody smile.
"You're an evil bastard," he hisses. "Making that escort disappear."
And I change my mind. I'm going to kill this rotten bastard here and now.
*
~ELIZABETH~
Something's wrong with Hunter. I can tell the moment he steps into the ring. I've been watching him from afar for years, and I'm an old pro at his body language. Hunter West is a guy who's used to setting the agenda. His limbs are usually loose and relaxed, carried with the kind of self-assurance that comes from knowing you've got it all handled. So when he steps into the ring looking uncomfortable, those wide shoulders slightly hunched under a tight blue t-shirt, with eyes that look tired and heavy even from my vantage point, I feel worried.
Then the fight starts, and it's dirtier than the others. From Hunter's end and Lockwood's. A few times I catch his eye and I think he looks desperate. I cringe each time he gets hit, and I cringe each time he hits Lockwood, too. Eventually he knocks Lockwood down, and I sigh with relief. I watch Hunter lean over; words must have been exchanged, because Hunter settles on one knee and starts punching Lockwood’s face.
"Holy shit." Loveless, beside me, is leaning forward, both hands over her mouth.
My mouth is open, too, because Hunter is really going at it.
A whistle blows, but he won't stop. People in the crowd gasp. Men come and grab him, throw him down. Meanwhile, a nurse and a doctor are stepping in to check on Lockwood. Marchant steps in the ring behind them and helps Hunter to his feet. Someone throws a metal winner's chain sash over Hunter’s head and I see him wince when it comes to rest on his back. He stalks away with Marchant, and I wonder where Priscilla is.
"Where's Priscilla?" I ask Juniper a minute later.
"She's in Ontario. They're filming something huge there."
The crowd claps as Lockwood is helped to his feet. His face is a bloody mess, but he waves, drawing more applause.
The last fight is tamer, but the vibe inside this place is still a little...off. A little dark. I think about what Hunter did, and I begin to see holes in the story I created to make myself feel better about the whole Hunter-has-rough-sex-with-porn-stars thing. ‘Cause he certainly seemed to like violence in the ring.
"Want to go downstairs?" Loveless asks over the din of chatter. "See if we can get a view of the guys after they exit their prep rooms, post-shower?"
I do, but obviously I should not. "I don't think so."
"Then let's get a drink. You can spill your Hunter story."
“Yes. You can,” Juniper says.
I insist there is no story as I follow them to the bar that hangs out over the arena. We have to go up countless flights of stairs to get there, and when we finally arrive—in a dark den lit by flashing, multicolored strobe lights—I realize we’ve clomped to the very top of the arena.
Juniper goes to order our drinks, while Loveless and I take a seat at a yellow booth. She leans across the table, and I smile blandly, pretending I don't know what she's about to ask.
“What's your story, Scarlett? We trust you, now you trust us. What's your Hunter West Story?”
I swallow hard, aware that I'm going to have to tell her something. It's only fair. Finally, after looking twice at the bar, hoping Juniper will be on her way back and I can postpone my sad tale until she arrives, I jump in head-first.
“I have a crush on him. But he doesn't know that I'm alive
. I promise.”
Loveless nods, like she's thinking this over carefully. She has a pretty good poker face, I realize as she purses her lips. “You know him from back home?”
I nod.
“So you are from Napa Valley?”
“Please don't tell anyone else. My family would be upset if—”
She reaches across the table, grabbing my hand, which is curled into a nervous fist. “Your secret's safe with me.”
“Pinky swear?” I smile a little, and we latch pinkies.
“Pinky swear.” Loveless stands abruptly and leans down. “Will you be okay for a minute by yourself?”