Page 36 of Repairing the Wreckage

“Fuck that. I finished him.”

Woolly slides his fist in the air in a jerk-off motion. “I’m sure you can go finish him again right now if you want.”

I duck my head and laugh.

Bull’s hands strike my chest again. “Think that’s funny?”

“Don’t. Fucking. Touch. Me,” I warn.

Like a toddler who skipped his afternoon nap, he pokes me in the chest. “Touching you.” Poke. “Touching you.” Poke. Poke.

You’ve got to be kidding. I flick my gaze past Bull’s shoulder. One of the camera guys from our outing has his lens on us. Two of the regular house camera operators scurry over to fan out around our circle. Someone else aims a beam of bright, white light our way. I squint and shift to the side. Wouldn’t want them to miss my fist cracking Bull’s jaw.

“What’s wrong, Stonewall?” Bull taunts. “You know I’ll kill you in the cage.”

“Of what?” I open my mouth wide and yawn. “Boredom?”

“Let’s go. Let’s go right now.” Warm flecks of spittle land on my face. I force my body to stay rigid and ready. “You can’t knock out The Bull!” He steps close again.

My hand curls into a low fist and slices through the air in an upward motion.

“You can’t?—”

Blam!

The uppercut lands square on Bull’s chin.

His heavy body crumples to the floor like a sack of wet cement, the impact reverberating through the room. Pain slashes across my knuckles while satisfaction rings in my chest.

Venom whistles. “That has to be the cleanest knockout I’ve ever seen. You didn’t even throw a jab first.”

I shake out my hand.

“That’s twice,” Woolly shakes his head, “no, three times, he’s stepped to someone and been put in his place.” He glances at Bull’s prone body. “Think he’s learned his lesson?”

“Probably not.” I study the unconscious fighter, taking note of the slight rise and fall of his chest.

Jordan rushes over and kneels next to Bull, checking his pulse. When he’s satisfied, he peers up at me, widens his eyes and ever so slightly tips his head toward the camera. I blink into the glare of the lights.

Better make the most of this.

Leaning into this cheesy spectacle, I swallow my dignity, flick my gaze to the camera closest to me, flash a cocky grin, and say, “Maybe the third time’s the charm.”

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Griff

Six weeks later…

And then there were two fighters in the house.

One by one, the other guys were eliminated.

Naptime and I are the only ones left.

No matter what, I’ll be going home with a hefty chunk of change.

But I want the big prize. What the hell was the point of this torture if I don’t come home the champion? The weight of that possibility presses in on me from all sides, keeping me awake at night, and fueling me throughout the day.

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