“We know exactly where we are.” Collier holds up a fist fill of hundred-dollar bills. “I’m here to fight your best guy.”
The doorman takes a long pull of his cigarette, the sound of raucous cheering bursting out of the doorway behind him. “That right, pretty boy?”
“Yeah. That’s right,” Collier sniffs, starting to look irritated with the man’s lack of immediate respect. “You got anyone in there who wants to take on the regional champ?”
Slowly, the man’s mouth pulls into a grin. “Oh yeah, I think we’ve got someone.”
A few seconds later, we’re walking down the dark, dripping stone hallway, following the doorman. Up ahead, the light grows brighter, the cheers louder. More distinct. And then the heart of the Hellmouth comes into view. It’s a makeshift boxing ring. More like a slightly elevated platform surrounded by actual rope. Bright spotlights are situated in the corners of the stone den, highlighting the faces of spectators in a harsh glow. Casting scary moving shadows on the walls. There are two men in the ring battling with bare fists wrapped in a few layers of tape, their bodies glistening with sweat.
One of those men stops me dead in my tracks.
Future Grace sets down her teacup and lowers her glasses.
Who…is that?
My attention whittles down to the brutal young man throwing punches to the sound of shouts and whistles. He’s unlike anything I’ve ever seen in my life. There is nothing gentlemanly about him. With a cut bleeding under one eye and a savage smile on his face, he’s not from my world. His muscles are cut and glistening, his eyes black with focus. Determination.
A little bullet of heat fires right into my belly and knocks me back a step, the warmth spreading to…everywhere. Suddenly I’m not just hugging myself for warmth, I’m hugging myself to hide my erect nipples. To hide the goosebumps popping up all over my arms.
The fighter throws a right cross, his back muscles flexing, that fist connecting with his opponent’s face—and down goes the other man, lying motionless on the platform.
And without delay, the fighter’s gaze zips straight to me, his sweaty, dark brown hair flopping down over one eye, a frown pulling his brows together.
He takes a slow step in my direction and I start to tremble. What is happening to me?
“Holy shit, look at Grace,” laughs Bianca. “Mystery solved. She likes to slum it.”
Without taking my attention off the fighter—I don’t think I could if I tried—I feel Collier’s gaze rake me head to toe. “Grace,” he barks, yanking me closer by the elbow.
In a split second, the fighter has ducked between the ropes and started storming through the gathered audience, the men parting like the Red Sea to make way for a victorious warrior. His lips are peeled back from his teeth, his muscles shifting sleekly, eyes focused on Collier’s hand where it grips me tightly. Too tightly.
Oh my God. He’s so masculine up close, I can’t think straight.
His eyes aren’t black, I see. They’re golden. And they cut right through me.
“Get your hands off that girl,” rasps the fighter, sweat dripping down the sides of his face. “Unless you want your yuppie friends to carry you out of here on a fucking stretcher.”
The craziest thing happens. Collier listens.
He lets me go on command, seeming shocked that he did so after the fact.
A muscle flinches in the fighter’s cheek. “That your boyfriend, beauty?”
“No,” I breathe. But at the same time Collier says, “Yes.”
I don’t know how to describe the way the fighter is looking at me. It’s somehow predatory and reverent at the same time. Like he is having a hard time maintaining control. Like he’s working overtime to hold himself back from getting closer to me. Those golden eyes trace over my hair, my face, my body, and his eyelids seem to grow twice as heavy. “Did you come here to fight?” he asks Collier, hitting him with a glance rife with malice.
Collier is already shrugging off his letterman, handing it to our friend. “Damn right I did.”
He takes off his shirt next and I can’t help but compare Collier’s pale, unmarked body to the raw, roughhewn, corded physique belonging to the fighter. There is no comparison. One belongs to a boy, the other to a man. “The name is Collier Banks. You might have heard of me. I’m the regional champ.”
The fighter’s low chuckle ties my tummy in knots. “I’m North Whitlock,” he says, his gaze brushing mine, holding for a moment before transferring back to Collier. “And who exactly did you have to fight to get that title? A bunch of other rich chumps? Because, uh…” He crosses his arms and glances around the room, laughing quietly. “You only earned that title because none of us got the sign-up form.”
Collier bristles at the resulting laughs. “It’s not my fault you can’t compete at the highest level. That your only option is some filthy underpass in Southie. You’re just jealous.”
Again, North’s focus drifts to me and lingers. “Maybe I am.” He takes a step in my direction and my pulse flies into a sprint, knees trembling. It’s everything I can do not to collapse into a quivering heap of hormones as North approaches, slowly circling around back of me, miring me in ungodly awareness. I’ve never wanted to be touched so bad in my life—and it’s this stranger making me want it. For the first time ever. “Here’s an idea, regional champ. Why don’t you keep your money? I’ll fight you for the girl.”
Outrage claps my ears like erasers, followed swiftly by disappointment.
Of course the fighter turns out to be a jerk.
Whatever chivalry I thought he displayed must have been an anomaly.
It’s on the tip of my tongue to tell North to go to hell, that I’m not a piece of property, when Collier holds out his hand toward North for a shake. “Done.”
I’m rendered speechless.
Did that just happen? I’m the prize? Absolutely not. I’m leaving. It’ll be a cold day in hell before I stick around to be fought over like some piece of meat.
North doesn’t shake Collier’s hand, though.
Instead, he says, “Nah, I don’t gamble with human beings.” He winks at me. “I just wanted her to know you’re the type of motherfucker who does.”
Two
North
Dear God in heaven.
This girl tore me apart the second I saw her.
That was before I even got up close. With her cherry cola scent filling my head, I’m now marveling over a masterpiece. A priceless work of art. And I’m not a man who gets to a lot of museums, but hell, they’d have to make her a special one all her own.
I’d pay the admission every day of my fucking life.
I’d sleep out in the rain just to catch a glimpse through the window.
Is she made of silk? Her skin barely looks real, it’s so soft and radiant. She has long, thick brown hair that spills down her back, a few lucky pieces curling near her tits. And yeah, I’m trying real hard not to stare at that perky little rack, because there would definitely be no hiding an erection in these sweatpants. I’m halfway stiff already and if she keeps flashing me those innocently curious looks, I’m going to beg for one stroke of my lips across those soft shoulders. Just one. I could try and live off the memory for the rest of my life.