"Avalon," Jake calls, "your shirt..." I rip my arm from Dean's grasp—hating the way his touch makes me feel—and yank my t-shirt from Jake's hand. Instead of putting it on right away, though, I use it to mop up the worst of the sweat and blood.
"That was some fight," Abel says, sidling closer.
"Fuck off," I snap.
Instead of taking offense, he merely laughs and slings an arm around my shoulders. "You should've told us you could fight like that, we could make some money, you and me," he offers.
My body stiffens against him. "No thanks."
Jake steps closer, earning a glare from Dean—well, well, well, looks like his betrayal didn't make anyone happy. I should've known better. With Dean's expression, my anger begins to cool. "Here," Jake says, trying to hand me the money back, "you earned this. I don't need a fee."
I grunt as I use my shirt to wipe around my middle. "Don't want it," I say, avoiding looking at the stack.
"Well, I'm not taking it," he insists.
I roll my eyes. "Then throw it away," I snap. "I told you, I don't fucking fight for money. It's yours if you want it."
"I don't."
Out of the corner of my eye, I see that my opponent has regained consciousness and a couple of guys are helping her out of the cage as she limps through the crowd. An idea pops into my head. I snatch the money from Jake. "Fine," I say.
"What are you—"
I don't stay to listen to his question as I pivot and head straight for the girl. Each guy supporting her has one arm over their shoulders. One narrows his eyes at me as I approach. "Sore winner?" he accuses, his eyes darkening as I stop in front of them.
"Not at all," I say. "I had fun." The girl lifts her head and I wince. Yeah, she's gonna feel this fight tomorrow. Hell, I might too, but there are still too many hormones flooding my system for me to feel anything right now.
"Then what do you want?" the other guy spits out.
"Nothing," I say and then reach forward, jerking the girl's elastic waistband of her shorts out and stuffing the stack of hundreds down into the side.
Her head lifts and confusion fills her eyes. "The fuck are you doing?" she asks, her words muffled as if she's still trying to get her bearings or stay awake—I'm not sure. Her eyes are hooded but it doesn't make it easy to tell if that's natural or because of me with how dark they both are.
"I don't need it," I say, turning back around as I finish the rest of my sentence over my shoulder. "And you look like you could use it. Thanks for a fun fight."
I walk away, but I don't get very far as a familiar masculine arm falls around my shoulders. "Come on, li’l fighter," Brax says with a grin. "Let's get out of here."
"I thought I was 'li’l psycho'," I say.
He shrugs. "Li’l psycho, li’l fighter—both are you, aren't they?”
Maybe. "Or little savage," I suggest.
Brax throws his head back and laughs. "You're right," he agrees. "That's what you are. A pretty little savage."
He steers me towards the exit and I see that Dean and Abel are already waiting there. Jake is nowhere to be seen. I guess they chased him off. My chest aches. I'm mad at him, but I'd at least hoped he'd stick around to give me a ride home after they laid into me. As the adrenaline begins to fade, soreness makes itself known. Walking back is going to be a bitch, I can already tell.
Shrugging Brax's arm off my shoulders as we stop at the far side of the parking lot, I lift my head and I meet Dean Carter's gaze head on. Might as well get this over with.
"Well," I state, crossing my arms over my chest, my shirt dangling from one hand, "go on." I gesture for him to say something.
Of course, being predictable isn't in Dean's nature. Instead of launching into the ridicule or scolding, he turns to his friends and nods. "Go ahead without me," he says. "I'll take care of this."
Abel hesitates. "You sure, man?" he asks.
Dean doesn't look at me. "Yeah, I'm sure."
Brax walks past me and heads for the familiar red Mustang parked alongside a black and chrome motorcycle. He claps Abel on the shoulder as he goes. "Just let it go," Brax says with a laugh. "Besides, I want some ice cream. I'm hungry."
Abel looks back once at Dean and then me before turning to his friend. I hear him complaining as they get into the car. "You're always hungry, asshole."
The tail lights illuminate as the engine turns over and both Dean and I watch in silence as they back up and drive off. Then, it's just him and me. Alone. For the first time in over a month, and I have no clue what's about to happen.
31
Dean
Her eyes watch me with a caution that demonstrates her intelligence. She knows a dangerous man when she sees one. And tonight, I'm feeling particularly vicious. Watching her fight has done something to me, awoken the beast so to speak.
After Abel and Braxton leave, we stand in silence for several moments and my eyes eat up the expanse of flesh available to them. Her abdomen is curved, slightly rounded. Her ribs, however, are barely covered by a layer of fat. I can see them beneath the lower strap of her bra. And there, on one hip bone, I spot the edge of dark ink. A tattoo. I want to rip off her pants and see it for myself.
Instead, I force my eyes away as I turn to my bike and pick up the helmet. It's the only one I've got, but she'll use it. "Here," I snap, thrusting it into her arms. She doesn't have a choice but to take it.
"What the fuck is this?" she demands as I press the key into the slot and turn it. The growl of the bike's engine roars to life.
"It's a helmet," I say, compelling myself to remain patient. "Put it on."
When I look back to make sure she's doing as I ordered, I'm not shocked to see that she hasn't. Her eyes jump from the black, full coverage helmet in her grasp to me before narrowing. She looks at the bike. "As much as I'd love a motorcycle, I don't think you're in the mood to give me one," she says. "Which can only mean that you want me to ride it … with you. And that's not gonna happen, D-man." Avalon steps forward and punches me in the gut with my own helmet. "No, thanks," she says sweetly before turning around and walking off.
Oh. Fuck. No. I let the helmet drop to the gravel coated ground of the warehouse parking lot and stalk after her. When I reach her, I grab onto her and spin her around. My mouth is open and words haven't even escaped yet when her fist comes flying at my face. Without thinking, I duck.
"The fuck?"
"Don't fucking touch me," she snarls, jerking herself out of my grasp. "You may think you own Eastpoint, but you don't own me. I can go where I want, when I want."
A growl works its way up my chest, but it stops when my eyes drop back down to her chest—which is heaving up and down. Then I look lower. Fuck … I wanna see that tattoo. I want to know what kind of image she's got on her body. If it's wicked and sinful or if it's the opposite of her personality, soft and girly.