Page 52 of Rushed

Julia

February 24th

I can hear the roar of the crowd as they chant, whistle, and hoot, carrying on about the title bout of the night. The warm up welterweight went well. The winner was expected so no surprises, which meant for a happier set of spectators, Max informed me.

I couldn’t bring myself to go out and watch the first match, as I was too nervous to see the final. Lincoln and Mick’s war had come down to this. I had no intention of allowing Mick out of this venue, whether he was the victor or not. And even though I have full faith in Lincoln, taking him and wiping the mat with his blood, I have the authorities ready to arrest him as he leaves the cage.

Over the past few weeks, Lincoln has worked harder than I thought anybody could. With eight hours a day of pelting, sweating, and sparring, he was a lean and mean weapon.

Don’t get me wrong, we still enjoyed Valentine’s Day and the club. Julia’s lifestyle melded with Keenan’s nicely. My wardrobe has become increasingly better, and the sex is even better than before, if that’s possible. Plus, the family time I had with Jax, Troy, Charlie, and Jim was way better now that they felt a kindred spirit in me. It was liberating.

Today, though, is all about Lincoln.

“You okay, darlin’?”

Turning, I see Troy and Jax waiting in the wings of the tunnel, as we anticipate the announcer to call Lincoln to the cage.

“Yeah, I’m more than...I’m perfect. How about you? How you holding up?” I know this is rough on Troy, whether he admits it verbally or not. He and Jackson have argued lately about the whole fight, and if he should even show up to it. I understand that Jax is just worried; it’s too much for Troy to be here so close to Mick. Also, I think he’s worried it will be a distraction for Lincoln too.

“We all want this to go well. I know you have his balls in a vice regardless of the fight’s outcome, so yeah, I’m good.” Jax squeezes his partner’s hand. The smile on Troy’s face is weak, but understandable.

“Is he ready for the tunnel, or do you think he needs a final kiss before going out?” Jax asks me with a wink.

“No, we talked about it ahead. It’s better that he doesn’t see me until after the match. No distractions.”

“Right,” he says, while he looks my outfit over. It’s the Breakfast at Tiffany’s outfit that I received so graciously at Christmas. It fits me to a T, and I know it will make Lincoln lose his shit. He always does when I don’t wear underwear for him.

“Well, I think we should go find our seats,” Troy announces. We weave our way to the front row.

“It’s all come down to this, folks. The title bout for heavyweight champion.” The announcer crows across the rows and rows of spectators at Madison Square Garden. The scantily clad size zero in the ring showcases the title belt as she walks the perimeter. I swear it weighs more than her. How she’s holding it above her head without falling over is a miracle. I’d seen the belt before, but had no idea what it was. Now I can’t think of it hanging anywhere else but above his desk in the office at Dangereux.

“In this corner the contender, wearing purple trunks with eight wins, one loss, and two draws, coming in at two hundred and thirty-five pounds, Mick ‘the King’ Jackson.” The roar of the crowd is what I would expect for a contender, the one trying to unseat the current champion. It’s weak.

Out of the far tunnel, he and his entourage file out. There’s the arm candy girls—those just there for the popularity of the event, clad in the skimpiest of outfits that even a handkerchief would overshadow in size—followed by his two goons. Both leery looking and disgusting. I haven’t heard their voices yet, but five to one, those are the motherfuckers that attempted to rape and beat me within an inch of my life. I have plans for them too after the match; they just don’t know it yet.

Then the slime ball and his father pass through the crowd to the cage. They both look cocky and confident, but that won’t be for long. He seems to have grown since I saw him at the bar, but it will make no difference. He’ll still eat the mat at the hands of the man I love.

Jax saved me the seat closest to the aisle so that when the match is over, I can join Lincoln in the cage to congratulate him. I’ve thought of nothing more for the past few days. I have no misgivings about his win. He will win, I know it in my soul. He’s tough enough, he’s trained for every move, and he has the determination to make sure the piece of shit can’t have something that doesn’t belong to him.

As I take my seat and wait patiently for the announcer to introduce Lincoln after Mick reaches the cage in a puffed peacock sort of way, he bounces on the balls of his feet, showboating for the crowd, swinging his arms in mock strikes and walking the edges of the cage. That’s when he sees us. I give him no satisfaction as he runs his tongue along the seam of his mouth, nor when he winks at Troy. He will get nothing from us.

He turns away with a smirk as the announcer chimes in again.

“And in this corner, the reigning world heavyweight champion with twelve wins, no losses and no draws, weighing in at two hundred and thirty-seven pounds, wearing bright blue trunks. The undisputed and undefeated, Lincoln ‘Rush’ Moore.” I stand, stare down Mick and nod with a contemptuous grin. He will fall at the feet of Lincoln, and I will smile back as his ass is laid out on the mat.

The crowd of spectators scream so loud that it feels as if the roof will split from the din. It’s deafening, but it’s music to my ears. I know he’s earned this, and he will not have it taken away by a schmuck like Mick.

The adoration of the fans is phenomenal as he exits the tunnel towards the cage. They tap him on the shoulders, rub up on his robe, looking upon him reverently. In here he is a God— my God—and for tonight, he belongs to everyone. As he passes us, I can see Max look over to make sure we’re where we are expected. I’m sure that Lincoln ordered him to confirm it before the match started, as his worry has ramped up tenfold. Lincoln is afraid of anything harming anyone he holds dear, and to know we’re safe is key to his win.

He strips off his robe, then has his wrapped hands checked, his mouth, the rim of his trunks, and all along his body to make sure there is nothing illegal hidden by the ref. I know he’d never, but I hope they check that piece of shit Mick out with a fine tooth comb. As they finish with both men and go over the rules of the match, I zone out as they go over everything. I want to keep an eye on that father and the two goons. I want them within sight at all times.

There is no way they will leave this stadium in anything other than cuffs and a car with NYPD’s finest.

Everyone but the two fighters and the ref clear out of the cage, and my heart rate rises at least twenty beats. Linc’s eyes search me out, and as he makes contact, he nods.

I know he has this.

The bell rings to signal the round, and it’s on.

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