Page 27 of Savage Suit
The spacious underground arena boasted the ring in the center, surrounded by front row seating. Rows of staggered stadium chairs designated by ticket purchase hallmarked our section. Luckily, we weren’t in the upper area, which Quinn described as a seating free-for-all. Paul had bought tickets for the assigned seating. It allowed us the luxury of sitting while ensuring we’d see the bloodshed in full glory. We’d just miss the sprays of blood and sweat those in the VIP section experienced.
As I imagined, the smell of booze, cigarette smoke, and sweaty humans filled the air, marrying and marinating in a gag-worthy scent. The screaming crowd deafened me. Spectators shouted demands for more brutality; others offered advice on how the losing man could turn his odds around.
I hated noisy events and assumed the volume would increase once the main act came out. Twinkle Toes and Knucklehead, or whoever TT’s opponent was. They were all knuckleheads, as was I, for allowing Quinn to convince me this would be a clever idea.
At the disgusting smells, two grown men pummeling each other, and the overwhelming noise, I regretted my choice. Quinn could’ve introduced Paul and me at lunch.
“Hey, babe,” Quinn greeted as Paul sat beside her. She leaned over and planted a kiss on his cheek.
Well, speak of the devil.
He smiled in response, pecked her on her lips, then handed Quinn her popcorn and beer before passing me my nachos and Coke.
Paul was not a man you’d expect to be into MMA. If I had to guess, I would’ve thought his sport of choice was golf, tennis, or even polo. Mixed Martial Arts wouldn’t have been on my radar.
An attractive forty-something Italian American, he wore his salt-and-pepper hair in a parted pompadour. Unlike Noah’s tapered fade, Paul’s hair glistened with gel.
Noah? Did I just think about the managain? So casually, too.
Paul and Quinn switching seats placed her in the middle. She leaned close to me.
“What do you think?” she whispered, close to my ear.
“He’shawt, just like you said,” I returned, my voice as low as hers.
Smiling widely, she gave me a vigorous nod, then turned to Paul.
According to my sister, he was a trust fund baby on the board at the company his older brother had inherited from their dead father. He was a man of few words based on the car ride to the underground fight club.
“Ooooh, fuck,” Quinn chirped, bracing against the chair, and tipping her head back, her gaze focused on the ring.
Curious, I directed my attention there, too. The two fighters weren’t evenly matched. Didn’t martial arts have weight classes, or was that only in boxing? Heavyweight, welterweight, middleweight, and so many other categories I couldn’t remember. My dad loved boxing and introduced Quinn to the world of martial arts. He’d wanted to be a professional boxer. I had my theories about why he’d never realized his dream.
Gritting my teeth, I forced my thoughts to the here and now, once again noting the disproportionate sizes of the MMA fighters. One was tall and lean, and the other was average height and bulked up. When we found our seats, I’m sure Beefy had been kicking Lanky’s ass. Somehow, Lanky had changed into a lean, mean fighting machine because he’d turned the tables on Beefy. He was struggling to block Lanky’s blows. He’d prevent a kick, only to have Lanky elbow him.
Lanky feigned a blow at Beefy’s face. Falling for the tactic, he raised his fists to protect his face from a hit that never came. Lanky punched Beefy around his liver, and the poor man doubled over. Not that it mattered. Lanky lost all control and went on a brutal offensive.
The roars of the crowd turned to gasps and boos. Lanky didn’t give a fuck. He repeatedly kneed Beefy in the chin, keeping his opponent upright to continue his assault.
Curses and insults rained from the spectators. Lanky released Beefy and the man collapsed onto the mat. He was still conscious and twisted to sit up. The blows had him disoriented. Without warning, Lanky rushed Beefy and tried to knee the side of the man’s head. Beefy’s movement at the last minute thwarted Lanky’s attempt. The sudden shift in the crowd and the vicious attack had me on edge.
“What’s going on?” I asked Quinn. My eyebrows scrunched together in confusion because the referee wasn’t moving to stop Lanky.
“Knee strikes to the head aren’t allowed when your opponent is on the ground.”
I made an “o” shape with my mouth and nodded.
Lanky spat near Beefy’s head and walked toward the official. Beefy, the abused foe, stuck out a foot and tripped Lanky’s rule-breaking ass.
My eyes widened at Beefy’s reengagement, and I gasped. Lanky stumbled, then fell backward, landing spread eagle, arms outstretched. Beefy straddled him, reigning brutal punches to Lanky’s head and face. The organized fight turned into a chaotic mess. The referee blew his whistle, but Lanky and Beefy’s melee continued, entirely out of hand.
Men in black shirts with white letters proclaiming them as security rushed from a tunnel close to the brawl and swarmed the ring, pulling the two men apart.
“Whatis going on?” I demanded, confused as hell. Was this the usual outcome?
“They’re not fighting according to the rules,” Paul responded in a manner that immediately had me classify him as an asshole. “That should be obvious if you have a brain.”
Annoyed at his unnecessary comment andthis,I narrowed my eyes at him and opened my mouth to respond. Unfortunately, the announcer interrupted my intentions.
