Page 18 of Lies Like Love

Jude lets me go, but when he steps back, he doesn’t acknowledge the referee, trapping me with his gaze instead. Something dark flashes in his eyes as he scans me once more. My goal of pissing him off worked a little too well. Rage has been replaced by determination. Something more terrifying because it means he’s focused on his prize and nothing will stand in his way.

“Eyes on me, Red.” Jude wraps his hand a final time. “Watch what you make me do.”

I’m not sure what he means, but the referee shuffles me down a set of stairs before I can ask. I’m led to a seat at the edge, where the other eight numbers await me. And I can’t help but wonder how many I’m going to need.

How far is Jude going to take this?

The crowd roars as the start of the fight nears, and Jude stands in the ring with his fingers flexed. Eyes locked and focused on me. While he should be worrying about the man on the other side of the ring, he doesn’t break my gaze.

Issuing Jude a challenge is dangerous. Lines don’t exist for him. I threw meat to the lion anyway.

A buzzer blares through the speakers and it makes me jump, while Jude doesn’t so much as flinch.

He stays in place in his corner of the ring without a care in the world. A god in the flesh out for revenge.

Jude’s always been attractive, but right now as he stands in the ring in fighter shorts, my mind walks a moral tightrope. Shirtless, every tattoo on his chest is on display. Hints to the stepbrother I used to know, but no longer do.

His fingers flex and it draws out the muscles in his forearms. Thick veins that ripple with every pop of his knuckles.

The seventeen-year-old boy I said goodbye to is gone, and in his place stands a man whose gaze wants to ruin me a second time.

His opponent is the first to move. He steps forward with a proud smile on his face at Jude’s hesitation. Wiping a finger on a gash above his eyebrow and pushing his short blond hair off his forehead, he grins wide, failing to see what’s right in front of him.

The fighter probably thinks the fact that Jude hasn’t taken a step means it’ll be an easy win. But Jude doesn’t hesitate without a reason. While his opponent is fueled with adrenaline, Jude is assessing, and his gaze is lethal.

This fight was over before it began because Jude doesn’t play games he won’t master.

It doesn’t matter how much I want the other fighter to win just so I can prove a point, Jude won’t let it happen.

When the other fighter reaches Jude, I’m not sure who swings first, but it happens so fast, both fighters are on the sidelines and then in the middle of the ring. Fists strike skin with raw fury. Jude takes a solid hit to the jaw, but all it does is make him smirk.

He always was a bit of a masochist in school—feeding off punches when he should have been staying out of trouble. Taking whatever pain was necessary to find his opening to strike.

Like he does now, letting his opponent get in one more good hit before he seizes the moment. His opponent shifts to the left, leaving him wide open. An opportunity Jude takes before the other man has a chance to blink. To breathe.

For a split second, the entire room is silent, broken with the sound of Jude’s knuckles cracking against his opponent’s face.

Again.

And again.

The crowd screams.

Even if there’s a referee, he doesn’t seem to care how much blood coats the ring. He watches them beat each other in a brutal display of rage.

Something Jude embodies right now. Pure hate surfacing in his eyes. In his actions. His focus might be on his opponent, but his fury makes waves that rock the building. The earth. My soul.

Eleven years and the man can wreck me in ways I forgot he was capable of.

Jude is about to land another punch when a buzzer sounds and two men slide through the ropes to peel the fighters away from each other. Both are still standing, even if I wish one wasn’t just so it would be over.

“This your first fight?” A man sitting next to me leans in, and for the first time since the fight started, I’m aware that I’m at the edge of my seat, gripping it for dear life.

I look over at a guy who must have fought already because his eye socket is darkening and his lip’s split in the center. Bruises and gashes make a mess of his otherwise strong facial features.

“You look nervous.” His blinding grin’s out of place here.

I shake my head. “It’s just intense. How long will it last?”

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