Page 4 of Win You Over
The host continues. “Quiet!” he yells at the raucous crowd. “The sooner we get this part over with, the sooner the good stuff can begin.” The noise reduces to a quiet hum, anticipation thick in the air. “Tonight, we will have three bouts, each lasting two minutes. The winners of the first two will fight each other in the third and the winner of that final fight will take home the prize money.” The crowd cheers again, but it dies down quickly. “Asalways,” the older man continues, “there is only one rule. No weapons. Anything else goes.”
My hand stills on my knife. I know better than to take it into the ring with me. I fight fair even if I’ve had enough experience with people fighting unfairly against me. And in any case, I don’t carry this as a weapon. I carry it for myself, because of what it means to me.
One of the official team members – if you can call anything in this illegal fight night ‘official’ – comes over to us. She gives Remington a sparkling smile, her hand landing on his forearm when she speaks to him.
“You’re up first. You’ll be fighting against Charles.” She tips her head towards the ring, where a dark-haired guy, who I recognise from campus, is taking up position in one corner. He’s well built, tall and muscular, but has nothing on Remington’s broad frame. But then, neither do I.
When Mum and I moved back to her and Dad’s hometown in Michigan eight years ago, I took the move as a chance to become a new me. To stop being that small, quiet, defenseless boy that the bigger kids beat the shit out of.
Mum took me to therapy. Two different therapists here in the US said my inability to speak in certain situations – selective mutism, they called it – was a form of social anxiety. A third, the one I really liked, said it was more than likely a trauma response to the events of my childhood. Losing my dad and then the bullying had been a difficult time for me. After three months with her, there was a glimmer of hope that things were changing. I could talk to Mum more often than not, and even had a favourite teacher I could easily confide in. But when Mum’s job changed and she no longer had insurance to cover the sessions, I had to stop going. I know she wanted to do more for me, but life wasn’t easy on her either.
After that, I learned to accept that my voice was never going to be the same again. I embraced the quiet that became a part of me.
Then, I joined a kickboxing club and when I was old enough, my local gym. I worked on building muscle and stamina and taught myself how to protect my body from people who want nothing more than to push me down. People like those kids who put me in hospital all those years ago. People like RemingtonfuckingLangford.
The team member finishes ogling Remington and turns her attention to me, not giving me the same smile – or any smile for that matter – that she aimed at him. “You’re up second, against him.” She points to a guy I’ve never seen here before. He’s around my height, maybe a bit stockier in build, but there’s nothing overly menacing about him.
Remington turns to his posse, and all but his right-hand man, Finn, drift away and into the crowd, taking up position to watch his fight. Moving a step closer, until I can smell the mixture of sweat and cologne on him, he leans into my ear, his hot breath ghosting over my skin. It sends a shiver down my spine, and I grip my knife a little tighter.
“You’d better win that match,pretty boy. I’ll be very disappointed if I don’t get my hands on you tonight.” He winks at me,fuckingwinks.
Fury, hot and intense, burns through my veins at the nickname. Because while Remington flirts with everyone, it’s thewayhe says it that has my hackles rising. Bringing to mind unwanted memories of the mocking way kids teased me, calling me names, ridiculing me because of my looks or my size. I pull away, taking a big step back and putting some much needed space between us, before I have a chance to lose my shit and slam my knife intohispretty fucking face.
Not that I could ever hurt someone like that, but fuck does he tempt me.
Remington chuckles, clearly amused at something about our encounter. Maybe he can see that he’s pissed me off. Maybe he thinks he’s won. Newsflash, he hasn’t. The only thing he’s won tonight isnotreceiving a knife to the head.
Finn whispers something in his ear and then the two of them swiftly spin on their heels, making their way through the crowd towards the ring. The way the crowd parts is like he’s the king of the fucking world and it makes me clench my teeth again. He’s going to cause me some serious dental issues at this rate.
“God, he’s a dick,” Theo mutters and I grunt in agreement, trying to bring my now rapidly beating heart to a normal pace. Theo pats my shoulder. “It’s okay if you lose. We’ll manage. I can pick up more shifts at the coffee shop.” Though he means well, his words send a new wave of anger through me, and it’s no longer only about the money. Tonight’s fight becomes about proving that Iambetter than Remington Langford. Even if my best friend doesn’t believe it, I will damn well fucking prove it.
Chapter 2
Remington
Finn’s hands land on my shoulders, shaking me briefly before patting my back from his spot on the outside of the makeshift ring.
“You’ve got this, dude. Take the fucker out,” he all but yells, his fingers sliding discreetly across the back of my neck. He wants me to win tonight, possibly more than I want to win, because he likes the person I am after a fight. The way I fuck him, hard, fast and relentless, when adrenaline is coursing through my blood. We’re not a thing, never have been. He’s my best friend and we like to fool around. It’s all very casual, exactly the way I like it.
He runs a hand down my back before stepping away and leaving me alone in the ring. Pushing off the side, I wave my arms in the air, flashing a smile at the cheering crowd, then lickmy lips and slide my hands down my naked chest. I catch a few eyes, offering a wink here and there before toying with the waistband of my shorts. Someone catcalls and I can’t help the laugh that bubbles out of me. I always put on a show before a fight and the crowd goes wild for it. Some call it showboating, I call it giving the people what they want. The crowd loves me. They eat this shit up. And why wouldn’t they? I’m a fucking snack.
My last fight was over in a minute and apart from a dull ache where the guy delivered a roundhouse kick that caught me square in the hip, I barely have a scratch on me. He was no match for me and I had him crumpled on the floor within sixty seconds, crying like a baby.
Someone boos and I turn in time to see my opponent enter the ring, climbing between two of the three ropes. Holden Booker. The smile I put on for show a moment ago turns into genuine delight as he straightens, his eyes tuning into me with a steely glare. Holden looks like he wants to murder me. It’s cute. Like a kitten. No, not a kitten. A lion cub. All growly, with sharp teeth and claws. It wouldn’t surprise me if one day he stabbed me with that knife he likes to fondle.
Fuck, he makes my dick hard.
I adjust myself, not at all discreetly, super glad I wore a jock to keep the goods secure. Holden's eyes follow the movement, one brow raised above his slightly swollen left eye. His cheeks are bright red, contrasting against his fair complexion. Whether that's from hits he took or the god awful heat in here, I can't be too sure.
He’s wearing black shorts and a grey tank top. Most fighters I know take off their tops when they fight, but not him, and dammit, I want to know why he keeps it on. Or maybe I just want to see what’s under the fabric that clings so beautifully to his lean, muscled frame. Or both. Who knows why I want halfthe things I want? All I know is that the more I see him, the more I want to unravel him and find out everything there is to know about Holden Booker.
“Ohleeutjie,you made it. So glad you could join me.” I open my hands, palms up and swoop them around the ring. Holden snarls, his nose crinkled in disgust as he hops from foot to foot, amping himself up for a fight. He doesn’t say anything – never does – but that’s okay. I like his silence. I like the growl that rumbles from his chest even more.
“Fuck him up!” Finn yells from behind me and I tune him out, honing my focus on the man in front of me. Possibly the only person I’ve met that doesn’t like me and I cannot for the life of me work out why. Everyone wants to be my friend. Or my fuck buddy. Not Holden though andfuck me, maybe that’swhyhe gets under my skin so easily.
Holden’s friend, the one with the mousy red hair and sprinkling of freckles over his nose, hands him a mouth guard, which he pops in, moving his lips to get the protective material into place. The friend rubs Holden’s shoulders and I watch his hands, feelingsomethingabout the way he touches the other man. Parking that thought for later assessment, I open my mouth to say something, but am cut off when a third person joins us in the ring.
Tonight's ring announcer, a professor at our university, who not only runs these illegal fight clubs but also deals drugs from his history classroom, joins us in the ring, standing in the space between Holden and I.
