Page 32 of Fighting Jacob

Mavericks pulls in a decent crowd every Saturday night, but it's not as packed as the nights Rise Up performs. The band scheduled tonight is called Wanting Wombats. They're talented but lack the sex appeal Rise Up has. That might have more to do with them having the most ridiculous band name I've ever heard than their actual attractiveness.

“I thought I gave you the night off?” Maggie continues pulling beers for customers as we chat. Her work ethic is strong—nearly as sharp as her evil glare.

“You did; I’m meeting Jacob here.”

I shrink to one half my size when Maggie’s eyes snap to mine. “Are you two dating?”

“Nooo.” I shoo away her mothering with a wave of my hand. “We’re just friends.” Friends who like fucking each other, but I keep that to myself.

Maggie has more of a clue than I gave her credit for. “Friends? Or... friends?”

Wanting to avoid any further interrogation, I ask, “Can I grab a lemon vodka?”

She stares at me for several long seconds before murmuring, “You know where everything is.”

When she returns to serving other patrons, I dart around the bar to help myself to a drink. Maggie’s eyes remain slit, but nothing can hold back her grin when I stick my tongue out at her. She acts like she doesn’t like me, but she’s warming to me. Slowly.

I spend the next hour listening to Wanting Wombats while impatiently waiting for Jacob to arrive. I’ve been offered drinks and invited to play pool, but since I gave Jacob my word I'd meet him here at eleven PM, I refuse all advances.

I wish I weren’t a woman of my word when another hour ticks by without word from Jacob. It’s now past midnight, and I’m beyond pissed he stood me up. I know he said he had plans, but he shouldn’t have made any with me if he didn’t know how long his first “hook-up” would run.

“Can I buy you a drink?”

When I spin to face the mannish, accented voice, dizziness clusters in my head. I may be a little tipsy from the number of drinks I downed trying to cool the anger burning in my gut.

Flynn, the lead singer of Wanting Wombats, smiles before adding a head nudge to his offer. He's gesturing to the empty drink in my hand. “Looks like you could use a refill.”

Flynn is cute, but he isn’t the type I usually go for. His long brown hair hangs halfway down his back, and his face is so youthful, if I hadn’t carded him weeks ago, I would have never believed he was twenty-five. He isn’t as big as Jacob, but his athletic build is nicely displayed since he’s wearing nothing but tight black leather pants. His guns are blazing, his abs stacked, and he has the sexiest Australian accent I’ve ever heard.

Come to think of it, he has a lot of attributes that myself and my stinging ego can appreciate. He has the eye of every woman in the room, yet he’s talking to me. His attention is soothing the burn Jacob’s rejection caused, and it has me thinking recklessly—recklessly enough to ask, “Do you want a drink, or shall we just get out of here?”

Hearing the intention in my question, Flynn drags his teeth over the piercing in his bottom lip before nudging his head to the door. “Let’s go.”

Pretending warning alarms aren’t sounding in my head, I exit Mavs with my arms wrapped around his heavily tattooed torso.

Chapter Sixteen

Jacob

“Why did you do that, Hank?! I told you not to do that.”

Hank crouches down in front of the padded bench my ass is sitting in. I just finished my fight—an unjust and rigged fight.

“I warned you to stay off the cage walls, Jacob, and where did you end up?” His angry voice echoes around the locker room. “On the fucking cage.” He aggressively tugs on the tape on my hands. “I wasn’t going to watch you get killed just so you can remain undefeated.”

“I wouldn’t give a fuck about being defeated if he didn’t cheat! He cheated, Hank, making not only a fool out of himself but this organization as a whole!"

The instant my opponent dismissed my gesture of tapping our gloves at the start of the match, I knew he was going to fight dirty. Then, when he kneed me in the groin before executing an illegal punch to the back of my head, I realized it would be the dirtiest fight I had ever participated in.

Both tactics are illegal in the cage, but even with Hank protesting to the ref, no points were deducted from The Constrictor’s tally, and the fight continued as if nothing had happened.

By the time the second round started, I was so furious about the ref’s bias, I punished my opponent with a grueling left and right combination. It felt good watching him kiss the mat like the pathetic loser he was.

For the third round, we met toe to toe, chest to chest, eyes to eyes for an old-fashioned brawl in a back alley, neither willing to back down even when the bell rang. If it weren't for the ref dragging us apart, we'd still be fighting.

With exhaustion kicking in, the fourth round saw him bringing out his dirtiest tricks. While grappling on the ground, he gouged my eye with his thumb. When I stumbled back to protest to the ref, I ended up on the cage wall. I couldn’t see a fucking thing, so I had no clue The Constrictor was coming for me until he unleashed a barrel of punches and kicks to my already exhausted body. That’s when Hank threw in the towel, announcing my defeat against my wishes.

After removing the tape from my hands, Hank raises his nearly black eyes to mine. "Let me look at your eye." He lifts the ice brick from my right eye before completing a thorough inspection. "Your cornea doesn't look scratched, but we'll get it checked by an ophthalmologist."

---