Page 86 of Kings & Carnage

"Where's Drago?" Rock asked, displeasure darkening his blue eyes.

He clearly wasn't happy Oscar had left me alone.

I pointed to Oscar, still talking to the leather jacket, and Rock nodded, his shoulders relaxing a little bit.

The volume on the music dimmed by half a decibel and a cheer rose from the crowd.

The fight was about to start.

Rock took my hand. “Come on, kitten. Let’s go watch Neo ruin someone's face.”

Chapter39

Willa

Ilet Rock pull me toward the front of the theater along with the rest of the crowd, all of us ready for the fight.

It was like being at the center of a mosh pit, everyone shoving and jostling to get the best view, and I held on to Rock's arm, determined not to be separated.

“How do you know Neo will win?" I shouted up at Rock when we found a place to stop.

Neo had lost to someone half his size in a fight before Thanksgiving break. There must've been a reason — it was the only fight I'd ever seen him lose — but he hadn't wanted to talk about it when I'd asked.

"The look on his face after he cornered you on the way in," Rock said. "I'm guessing you promised him a prize but I'm trying not to think about it. Jealousy is such a turnoff.”

Oscar joined us a few seconds later and Rock gave him the glass of whiskey, now only half full.

"Thank fuck," Rock shouted. “I’m wearing the other half so don't complain.”

Oscar downed the drink in one swallow. I wondered what he'd been talking to the man in the leather jacket about. Oscar wasn't a big drinker.

I smelled Neo before I saw him — the scent of his expensive cologne combined with sweat and sex sending a current of lust to every nerve in my body.

And goddamn. Neo always looked good, but there was something about him wearing nothing but basketball shorts and sneakers, his bare chest already glistening with sweat.

Like his angel — me — was weeping.

A shiver moved through my body. Lust or dread?

With Neo, who knew.

The wound on his chest was no longer covered with a bandage and the stitches were gone, but I knew it was there, blending into the ink, a weakness that he couldn’t afford when he was about to go toe-to-toe with some other sociopath who liked to get the shit beat out of him.

“Are you sure about this?” I asked him, shouting to be heard over the still-deafening music. I was suddenly nervous, the weeping angel lingering in my mind like a bad omen.

His grin looked evil as the multicolored lights spun over his face. “Worried about me, Jezebel?”

“Yes!” I said. “Yes, I am. Can we go home now?”

“No way,” he said, bouncing on his feet. “I have a prize to win.”

I cursed myself for giving him another reason — one he didn’t need — to fight, then looked over the crowd, trying to find Neo's opponent. It was one of the rules of fight night.

No one knew who was fighting until it started — including the fighters.

I gave up almost as soon as I started. If we’d been at a boxing match I would have looked for someone dressed like Neo, but at the Orpheum, Neo was as likely to be fighting one of the bikers in leather pants and a cut as he was one of the preppies from the nearby community college or one of the Phantoms in their jeans and leather jackets.

“Here comes Marge,” Oscar shouted.

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