Page 31 of The Club

Now I’m pissed. “Listen, you fucking prick, it’s not that big a deal!”

But he’s already heading to the elevator, yanking on his shirt as he goes. He smashes the down button. The doors open and he darts inside. He smashes another button and the doors slide shut.

I swipe a bottle of lube off the nearest table and send it flying. “Fuck!”

ELEVEN

Rafael

Fuck him straight to hell.

It’s been four goddamn days.

Twice I’ve lurked outside his building, andnothing. Has he left the city? Jesus fucking Christ, where is he?

I almost broke down and asked Noah to find me his phone number, but I’m avoiding Noah right now. I have to.

He’s already annoying the shit out of me with daily check-in texts like I’m seventeen again. He started up after I killed that guy, whose name I’ve already forgotten.

I’ve had to be so fucking careful how I reply to keep him from coming to see me. Because if he’d laid eyes on me the past few days? He would’ve known what I was going to do.

I don’t do this often. Fighting without fucking isn’t my thing, and I don’t like getting my face beat to shit. But it’s this or kill someone, and I don’t have anything lined up.

Dante likes stalking around and studying people. He can get months of fulfillment out of that. I need more immediate gratification.

This fight club caters to gay men. Combatants are chosen for their looks as much as their skill. Should I be flattered that Ivan was so pleased to see me stroll back into his burlesque nightclub? I hadn’t been there in two years, but he wasted no time in sidling up to me at the gaudy bar with an offer to replace someone in tonight’s line up.

So here I am in the underground space, which is just as gaudy as the nightclub upstairs. The staggered levels feature chrome and a lot of toxic pink. Men dance on the half dozen polesscattered throughout the space, entertaining the crowd between fights. Any noise not contained by the walls’ sound dampening is covered by the rowdy burlesque upstairs.

Barefoot, dressed only in my black jeans, I’m about to step into the ring when Ivan snags my elbow.

“Make it last at least four minutes, or I won’t put you in again,” he warns.

I glance at my opponent. He’s warming up his gym muscles with almost as much flair as the pole dancers, moving across the white boxing-style floor like it’s a show. But then, yeah, it is.

Here’s the thing. I like gym muscles. I have them too, and so does Dominic. But if there’s nothing to back them up—no skill, no ruthlessness—they don’t count for much.

I frown. “Four whole minutes?”

Ivan’s grip tightens. “At leastfour.”

“And what’s my reward for being such a good boy?”

“Him.”

Ivan jerks his chin toward the elevated VIP section. I glance up.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” I mutter.

Dominic is leaning on the chrome railing, sexy as hell in his black waistcoat and white shirt. His eyes burn on me like he hates me. I scowl at him even while my heart is tripping all over itself.

“Four minutes,” Ivan reminds me then lets go of my elbow.

Huh?

Oh, yeah. Make this meathead last four minutes. I’ll do my best, but I’m not a fucking miracle worker. He’ll have to give me something to play with.

We circle each other in the ring. I dodge his jabs like I’m studying him, but there’s not much to study.

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