Page 36 of On the Edge

ADAM

A blend of hip-hop and rock music flowed through my earbuds. I leaned against the cement wall and closed my eyes, allowing the grit of the voices and the hard pounding beat to pump me up. Honestly, I didn’t even need to follow my old ritual of music before the fight. I was raring to go already.

I opened my eyes and raised my fists, throwing a few punches in the air.

I was in the back of the room away from the audience waiting for my turn in the ring. Mine was the next fight, and I’d heard that the bets had been pouring in since Donovan had announced I’d be fighting. But no one knew whom I was fighting—all Donovan was saying was that I’d be in the ring. He was playing up the mystery, the sick bastard.

The energy rolled off me in waves as I tilted my head back and pushed the hood from my head. I unzipped my jacket and pulled it off, dropping it to the floor. Standing only in sweats with the cold concrete beneath my bare feet brought back memories. The good and the bad.

Was I really about to get back in that cage after five years? Ma’s face came to mind, and a slow burn of shame blew across my skin. I held my arm out in front of me and eyed the ancient Gaelic tattoo on the inside of my forearm. The message should have been enough to stop me. Ma’s refusal to sanction the act should have been enough to stop me, too. So why was I here?

Les. Anna.

Were there other ways out of this? Would it be as simple as sending Les away with enough money to keep him safe? Hell, I could tell Anna the truth, or even get her fired. She could go back to Kentucky. I wasn’t afraid of whatever Donovan threw my way as long as Anna and Les were safe.

So what the hell was I doing here? And why couldn’t I get myself to leave?

I had finally told Les this morning I was going to fight, but he’d already heard it from Donovan. I wasn’t sure if he was more upset that I was saving his arse, or that he wouldn’t get a rematch with Frankie in November. I couldn’t blame him, though. Fighting was his livelihood, but for me, it had been something else. Something much worse.

My gaze flickered up to meet the eyes of the arsehole that had cornered Anna outside Les’s apartment Monday night. My body stiffened as I fought to maintain my thin grasp of restraint.

I removed my earbuds and draped the thin cord around my neck. The noise of the crowd began to register in my ears.

“You actually feckin’ showed. There are side bets that you wouldn’t. Or that you’ll run off like a pussy just before the fight.” His voice elevated over the sudden wave of cheers exploding from the crowd.

The match must’ve been over—there was only one reason for such pandemonium, and it was either a tap-out or a knockout.

“I’m here, aren’t I?” But I shouldn’t be. I should leave.

I tensed, attempting to swallow back my disgust for Tommy—I’d learned his name the other day and spent yesterday training with him in mind, thinking about how much I wanted to break his face after seeing him threaten Anna.

Jesus. I’d only met Anna a week ago. We barely knew each other, but for some bloody reason, she was almost all that I could think about.

It was her sweetness I was drawn to. At least I tried to tell myself that. My soul craved the need of something pure after all that I’d done. I thought I’d changed in the last five years. But that moment in my office when I’d almost punched my brother made me realize I was still the same man.

And a man like that could never be with someone like Anna.

“Do you have something else you want to say?” My hands balled at my sides as I bit my lip, fighting the urge to knock Tommy out.

“No, but I’m gonna enjoy watching you get your arse kicked. Then, I’m gonna take care of Les. And after, I’ll have another visit with Anna.” He sniggered. “She’s feckin’ hot. I just want to—”

I lunged at Tommy, grabbing his shirt like I had that night outside the apartment, my fist pulled back taut.

But I stopped myself at the sight of a grin spreading across his face, which told me this was what he wanted. He was trying to get a rise out of me. Did Donovan send him here to bait me? To get me steamed before the fight so I would win? Because Donovan might be a disgusting piece of shite, but he was a man of his word. And he wanted me to fight in November, which meant he needed me to win tonight.

“You’re not fucking worth it.” I let him go. “For now.” I grabbed my hoodie from the ground and brushed past him and stopped behind the thick band of people crowded around the ring.

I nodded to the announcer, giving him the greenlight that I was ready.

When I heard the sound of my name from his lips, the crowd roared and cheered, electrifying me. I jogged in place for a few seconds, then bounced on my feet as I moved, the audience parting for me as if I was Moses and they were the Red Sea. Some began chanting my name, but their words became white noise as the Octagon rose up in my view.

I tucked my music and earbuds into one pocket of my sweats and grabbed my mouth guard from the other. I shoved my sweats down and stepped out of them, tossing them and my hoodie to a stool outside the ring.

I was down to my fitted boxing shorts and nothing else. I entered the Octagon, moving like there was fire beneath my feet. My body became less tense as I snapped out practice punches and hooks.

I stopped moving when I saw my opponent climb the stairs and enter the ring. Dark hair and even darker gleaming eyes stared back at me. What kind of game was Donovan playing? My fingertips buried into my palms as memories hurdled back to my mind.

It isn’t him. It can’t be Owen. Get your shit together—Donovan’s just fucking with you.

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