Page 2 of Ruthless Lord
The half-dressed fighters seem confused, especially one massive man, a fighter I've never seen before. I lurch forward, trying to get away, but I stagger and trip over someone's duffel bag. Underwear and tape rolls go flying as I lose my balance and ram right into a hulking brute, his body rippling with muscle. He's shirtless, showing off his defined abs and chiseled chest, and I grab at the only thing I can to catch myself before I fall.
The edge of his towel.
His eyebrows raise as I rip it off his waist. I land hard on my knees in front of him, and for one horrible moment, I'm staring at the guy's enormous dick. I've never been this close to something so huge before, and I'm gaping, embarrassment flooding me, as the big fighter's smirk gets even bigger.
"This was unexpected," he says softly. "You okay?"
"I'm so sorry!" I fling the towel at him and scramble to my feet. Oh my god, the man is absolutely, knee-shakinglybeautiful, andhe's not in a hurry to cover up again. He's grinning big now, and I keep looking from his bare dick to his eyes and back down again.
But I don't have time to admire. I'm busy running for my life.
I sprint toward the far door, dodging around cursing muscular men, leaping over gear bags and benches. Big Boss is close, though, so close I can feel his fingers reaching for my hair?—
"Fuck!" he screams, and there's a sickening crash.
I reach the far door and risk a look back. Big Boss is on the ground, shoving himself back to his feet, while that massive new fighter stands nearby looking innocent. He wraps his towel around his waist again and gives me a little shrug.
Did he just save my life?
"Gonna slit you cunt to throat, bitch," Big Boss roars as he throws himself back to his feet.
Nope. Just delayed the inevitable.
I wrench open the door and run.
The back section of this warehouse is a twisting maze of dead ends and private booths. I take steps up, weaving around waitresses, hurrying toward the box at the very end. If I'm right and a little bit lucky, there's a man in there who knows me and who can explain that this is all just a misunderstanding, that actually I'm not a thief, although I might be a little clumsy. Big Boss will laugh, and we'll shake hands and go our separate ways, my body very much not slit from cunt to throat.
Only I have to make it first.
Big Boss is coming up fast. For a man that size, he's shockingly quick. My legs are pumping, air dragging ragged into my throat, thighs beginning to burn from running all out. Ireallyneed to start jogging again, and if I survive this, I swear I'll run at least three miles every single day and get super fit, but please, God, just let me escape. Big Boss's rasping wheeze is getting closer and closer, but up ahead I see the door with a big golden ONE in fancy script right in the middle, my salvation, my savior?—
I grab the knob and yank.
Sweet, sweet salvation at last?—
Locked.
Fuck.
I yank and twist and pound.
Still locked. And no answer.
"Got you now," Big Boss snarls, slowing down. He's sweating and breathing hard. A little trickle of blood runs down his cheek from a cut he must've gotten in the fall.
"Please, hold on a second, just listen." I turn to him, hands upraised. My smile's gone. This isn't fun anymore. Desperation claws at my guts.
"Too late for begging, bitch." He flicks a knife from his pocket. The blade is long and looks well-used. I really regret hoping for a stabbing all of a sudden because it seems like I'm about to get my wish. "They're gonna mop your corpse from this fucking carpet for the rest of the week. It's gonna cost me, but you'll be worth it." He advances, grinning wickedly, eyes wild with rage.
"You don't understand!" My back presses against the door.Fucking Albert! Tonight of all nights he decides not to watch the fights!"I'm Charlie Westbrook. My family owns this place!"
He hesitates. But only for a second. He shakes his head. "Lying bitch. The Bloody Fist owns these fight rings. Never heard of the Westbrooks."
I could cry. This guy's important enough to handle the betting cash but not important enough to know who he works for.
"You have to believe me. Look, I know who uses this box! Albert Morton! He manages the fights and comes in here all the time?—"
“Enough,” Big Boss snaps. He lunges forward and grabs me by the front of my sweatshirt. I’m in street clothes, just simple stuff to help me blend in. No creme blouses and designer shoes tonight. Which is a pity, because that might’ve helped sell my entirely true story. “Look me in the eye while I fuck you with this knife. And feel free to cry.” His breath smells like cheap vodka and old meat. “Gets my dick hard when a pretty girl’s crying and sayingplease.”
