“I know, babe. Your whole life was turned upside down because of him. But…” Lacey sighed too. “Eventually you’ll have to make a decision. Whether to deal with this Clay stuff head-on, or just cut him off completely.”
“Eventually,” she echoed, keeping her tone light. She took a last sip of coffee before pushing her chair back. “All right. I’ve gotta hit the library. I still need to finish up my conclusion for that abuse victims paper.”
“Any big plans for tonight?” Lacey grinned as they picked up their trays and headed for the row of trash cans across the cafeteria.
“Probably not. I haven’t heard from Gage.”
“Well, I hope you do. You need to make the most of the sexy times while they’re still deliciously new.” Lacey put on a strict face. “But remember—don’t fall in love with him.”
Skyler rolled her eyes. “I’ll try not to.”
…
The warehouse was filled to the rafters. Gage swallowed a tired sigh as he maneuvered through the throng of people, wishing he were anywhere but here. The crowd was more boisterous than usual, releasing cheers, jeers, and deafening screams as the two fighters in the cage beat the crap out of each other. And the air was sweltering hot, thanks to the hundreds of bodies crammed in the large space. He was already sweating, and he hadn’t even gotten in the cage yet.
He ignored the wave of hellos and back slaps he encountered on his way to the roped-off area on one side of the room, where three rows of “elite” seats offered an unobstructed view of the cage. Several shady characters occupied the VIP seats, although on paper, everything about the arena was legal. Permits, liquor licenses, vendors—all aboveboard. And yet there was nothing aboveboard about the man who ran the fights.
Mitch O’Donnell rose at Gage’s approach, looking pleased as punch to see him. He was a big man, six five to Gage’s six two, but lanky rather than built. He had pale skin and red hair tied back in a ponytail, and an unlit cigar dangling from the corner of his mouth. “Glad you made it, Holt.”
He said it as if Gage actually had a choice in the matter.
“Any instructions for tonight?” he asked after he’d nodded in greeting.
Mitch raised one reddish eyebrow, waiting for clarification.
“Do you want me to win or lose?” Gage said in a curt voice.
The other man looked annoyed. “Why the hell do you gotta ask me that every time? Have I ever ordered you to throw a fight?”
Gage shrugged.
“You know what I want, brother. Beat the shit outta your opponent and make us some goddamn money.”
“Gotcha.” He had to admit, he thoroughly enjoyed seeing the aggravation clouding the other man’s eyes. Gage always made a point to inquire whether he should throw the fight, just because he knew that the implication that Mitch fixed matches pissed the guy off. He also knew it was the truth—more often than not, Mitch did arrange the outcome of the fights.
But Gage had never lost or thrown a match. Not once during his professional days, and not once in the seven fights he’d already given Mitch.
“How’s my man Denny doing these days?” Mitch asked.
His shoulders stiffened. “He’s good. Clean as a whistle.”
“Good. Good for him.” The man clucked his tongue. “It was such a bloody shame, seeing him fall off the wagon again.”
“I bet it was,” Gage murmured, not believing a word of it.
Mitch had relished having Denny under his thumb. Dealing drugs for him, doing his dirty work in Southie. The bastard had probably come in his pants after Denny’s royal screw up, because now he had Denny’s big brother under his thumb, too.
“Tell him to stop by and see me one of these days,” Mitch said. “I know he’s out of the drug business, but we’re still buds, no?”
“Sure, I’ll tell him.” Yeah, fucking right.
A bone-jarring crunch had them both cocking their heads at the cage in time to see one of the fighters stumble backward, fist pressed to his nose as blood poured down his chin.
“Damn right!” Mitch shouted, clapping his hands in delight. “That’s it, Colin! Show that mofo who’s boss!”
“I’ll find you after the match,” Gage muttered, edging away from O’Donnell.
He stalked toward the locker rooms, desperate for some peace and quiet. It didn’t take him long to get ready. He was already wearing his boxing shorts, so all he had to do was strip off his hoodie and wifebeater, kick off his sneakers, and he was almost ready to go.
He sank onto the splintered wooden bench and taped up his hands, grateful that nobody was around to chat him up. Christ. He was so sick of this shit. He’d quit fighting for a reason: because he was tired. Tired of walking around black-and-blue all the time, tired of the ache in his bones. His nose had been broken so many times it was a miracle it’d stayed on his face, and he’d dealt with so many fractured ribs he was surprised he’d never punctured a lung.
Three more.
He took a breath, clinging to the reminder. Three more matches, and he and Mitch would be square, Mitch and Denny would be square. And he had a good thing going over at Sin. The club had turned a profit in its first year of business, which meant he had a ton of cash in his bank account. He didn’t need to fight anymore. He didn’t want to fight anymore.
He wasn’t sure how long he sat in the locker room. Other men wandered in and out, changing into fighter gear, shooting the shit with each other, but Gage just sat there, shoulders tense, gaze downcast, until a male voice finally called his name from the doorway.
“Holt, you’re up.” One of Mitch’s people entered the locker room. LeSean something or other.
Gage got to his feet. “Who am I facing?”
The beefy black man actually cracked a smile, something Gage had never seen him do. “Robbie O’Reilly.”
He blew out a curse. “Seriously? That crazy fucker from Dorchester? Why does he keep coming back?”
At least it made sense now, why Mitch had looked so annoyed at the thought of Gage losing. Mitch was no doubt eager for him to kick O’Reilly’s ass like he’d done last month. During their previous meeting, O’Reilly had fought so dirty Gage had no choice but to go apeshit on him, and the results had been a damn bloodbath.
“I guess he likes getting his ass whupped,” LeSean answered. “Watch yourself out there, white boy. I saw O’Reilly fight at that gym in Roxbury last week and it looks like he’s added biting to his li’l bag of tricks.”
“Wonderful.”
LeSean clapped him on the back. “Don’t sweat it. You’ll tap him out.”
Yeah, but how bad of a beating would he take before that happened?
Chapter Five
Skyler’s cell phone rang just past midnight. She’d been watching a Top Chef marathon in bed, so she was fully alert as she reached for the phone. Her heart jumped when she glimpsed Gage’s number on the screen, and she wasted no time picking up with a quick, “Hello?”
“Hey.” His deep voice slid into her ear and rippled through her body. “Can I see you tonight?”
Wow. Okay. She hadn’t expected to hear from him tonight, and she frowned when she glanced at the clock on the bedside table. In her very limited experience, anything after 11 p.m. equaled a booty call. That was just Sex Etiquette 101.