1
I fucking love fight nights.
The warehouse is packed as we make our way in, weaving through little knots of people all jammed in together like sardines. The tension in the air is high, and the excitement is thick enough that it feels palpable, everyone ready for another thrilling night of fights.
It’s the perfect place to house a bareknuckle boxing ring. The warehouse is nondescript and out of the way enough that only the die-hard fans and participants find their way out in the middle of the night to see the matches.
Scarlett’s at my side like she always is. Like she always has been. We grew up together, living in rough neighborhoods and making the best of sometimes shitty situations. Nothing in our lives has ever come easy, but we’ve always had each other. And we’ve come out of it all tougher, with a bond that’s unbreakable.
When someone knocks into her as we pass, she shoves him back and then gives a look that dares him to say anything about it. Her sweet face is deceptive as hell, but whatever the guy sees in her eyes makes him hold up his hands and back off.
She shoots me a satisfied smile, and we keep moving.
“I’ll find us a spot to watch from if you want to go on back,” Scarlett says once we’ve pushed through the worst of the crowd.
She knows the routine well since she’s usually with me whenever I come out on fight night. If she were anyone else, I might worry about leaving her alone with the kind of people who come to watch the brutal spectacle these events usually are, but Scarlett can more than handle herself. So I give her a grin and slip off to the back to find my dad.
Ever since my mom died when I was seven years old, it’s just been me and Dad. He’s all the family I really know, and every time he has a fight, I find him in the locker room beforehand to wish him luck.
He’s stretching when I walk in, and I grin, waiting for him to notice me. He punches at the air a few times, warming up, then turns to smile at me, eyes crinkling at the corners.
“There she is,” he says warmly. “My good luck charm.”
He’s called me that for as long as I can remember, asking me to pick lotto numbers for him or blow on his dice before a game. Maybe it’s dumb, but it gives me the same sense of pride at twenty as it did when I was a little kid.
“How’re you feeling about tonight?” I ask him, perching on the bench in front of rows of identical lockers painted an ugly shade of green.
Dad shrugs a shoulder and then rolls it. “About the same as always. You never know how it’s going to go until you get in the ring. Overconfidence is a killer.”
“You always say that.” I smirk, rolling my eyes. “And yet you always win.”
He cocks an eyebrow at me. He’s got the same dark hair I do, and I know I got it from him, just like my green eyes. My mom had dark blonde hair and blue eyes. “That’s because I keep my head together and don’t go in thinking the fight’s won before it’s even started.”
“Just make sure you keep your head out of the way of their fists,” I counter with a smirk. “Keep ’em on their toes. Heel of the hand so you break their bones, not yours.”
Dad gives me a look that’s a cross between exasperated and proud. “Who do you think you’re talking to, Mercy?” He chuckles, running a hand over the light stubble on his jaw. “I’m the one who taught you all that.”
“I know.” I affix an innocent expression to my face. “I’m just making sure you haven’t forgotten in your old age.”
He snaps a towel at me, and I jump up from the bench to avoid it, laughing with him. At thirty-eight, my dad is one of the older fighters still competing. Sometimes I worry about him a little when he goes up against one of the younger, up-and-coming guys. But he’s still one of the best fighters out there, not just because of his strength and skills, but because he fights smart.
“Come here, you little brat.” Dropping his towel on the bench, he catches me in a one-armed hug that I return with a smile. “Thanks for the pep talk. I’ll take your advice to heart. Now get out of here before someone comes in.”
I take his advice and slip back out the way I came, sidestepping a burly looking man as I make my way back to the main part of the warehouse and the clusters of people packed around the ring.
I have to stand on my toes to see where Scarlett is standing, firmly guarding the little pocket of space that she’s picked out for us. Before I can get all the way over there, a group of three guys pushing their way through the throngs of people catch my eye.
They’re the typical type I’d expect to see at something like this. Tall, well-built, oozing confidence, and sexy as fuck. All three of them look like they could be models if they wanted to, although I’m sure none of them actually do. They walk through the crowd like they own the whole damn place.
It’s not until they get a little bit closer that I realize I know one of them. Rich brown eyes, dark hair, cheekbones for days, and a jaw that looks like it was handcrafted to break hearts and fists. I have to stop myself from staring.
Oh, shit.
A hand wraps around my wrist, yanking me out of my momentary daze, and Scarlett tugs me over to her, reclaiming the spot she vacated before anyone else can snag it. She shoots me a curious look, obviously reading the expression on my face, then turns her head to follow my line of sight.
Her eyebrows raise when she catches a glimpse of the guys, who are farther away in the crowd now. “Oh, hey, isn’t that the dude you hooked up with?”
“Yeah,” I murmur, my gaze still locked on him. “Levi.”
About a year ago, Levi Hendrix and I hooked up once. It was hot and intense in the best way; his hands all over me, pinning me down to the wall, the bed, the floor. Even thinking about it now has me flushing with heat, and I rip my focus away from him and his friends, not wanting to catch their eyes.
Levi is a member of the Black Roses gang, and I can only assume his two buddies are as well. I knew it was probably stupid to hook up with him, but when I met him at a house party last year, he caught my eye immediately. We eye-fucked and flirted for about half an hour before we ended up in a bedroom upstairs, tearing at each other’s clothes. We stayed in that room until dawn, and it was hands down one of the best nights of my life.
“God, they’re hot as hell,” Scarlett says, still eyeing them up as they move a bit further away. “The things I’d do to go a few rounds with them in the ring, if you know what I mean.” She grins at me, elbowing me in the side.
“Yeah, I think everyone in a four foot radius knows what you mean, Scar; you’re practically drooling all over yourself. Stop staring.”
I have to reach up and physically turn her head around to face the ring to get her to stop looking in the direction the three of them walked in.
“You can’t blame a girl for having eyes,” she shoots back, still grinning. Luckily the lights lower, indicating that the fight is about to start, so I don’t have to answer her.
My focus is immediately on the ring. Whenever my dad fights, I can’t look at anything else. I watch his movements, the way he carries himself and flows from punches to blocks to ducks, almost like I’m right there in the ring with him.
The announcer riles the crowd up, whipping them into a frenzy. He calls out Dad’s name—Oscar DeLeon—drawing out each syllable. My dad walks out, looking calm and collected as always, and I grin. When I was younger, I used to wave, even though he couldn’t really see me in the crowd. It’s enough that he knows I’m here rooting for him though.