Page 14 of Tricked By Jack
“Do I?” I ask, mostly just to fuck with him.
Reaching the ground floor, I wave before almost running outside, where Caleb’s leaning against the building. His icy-blond hair is pushed back, a few strands already falling out of place and across his forehead.
“Damn, sweetheart,” he drawls, gaze dragging over me like he’s checking out a purchase. “Are you trying to get me killed before the fight even starts? Or just make sure I’m thinking about you instead of the guy I’m about to break?”
I raise an eyebrow. “That would be stupid since I planned on betting on you tonight,” I retort.
He reaches for me, one hand finding my waist and pulling me closer while the other slides behind my neck. “Did you dress like that for me?” he rasps, moving his hands to my ass while fusing our lips together.
The kiss is hard, his mouth claiming mine, our tongues snaking around each other. I moan softly and reach for him, my fingers curling into the hem of his hoodie. I let him take what he wants, just long enough to feel my pulse kick harder.
When I’m tempted to suggest we skip the fight, I pull back. “No,” I quip, slightly breathless. “I’m dressed for me. You’re just lucky enough to see it.”
He chuckles, short and sharp, like the joke’s on me. “That I am.”
Loving the way he’s reacting to me, I put more sway in my step than necessary as we walk to his old dented car that’s parked by the curb.
I never trust it to make the destination whenever he drives, but I never complain out loud. Caleb loves this car, which is evident in the way he strokes the dashboard when we’re both seated.
“How many fights are you doing tonight?” I ask as we head toward Gowanus in Brooklyn.
The times I’ve been to see Caleb fight, it was in an abandoned factory. With its brick walls and blood-stained concrete flooring, it legit looks like something taken straight out of Fight Club.
“Only one fucker was stupid enough to challenge me,” he replies, cockily, grinning widely when I look over at him.
For a moment, I consider giving him a good luck handjob, but then I decide against it. Caleb’s always more eager to play once victory courses through his veins. He has thatto the victor goes the spoilsmentality, and once he proves he’s the best, he becomes deliciously rough.
The factory sits hunched between two warehouses, its rusted gates wide open like broken jaws. Floodlights mounted on scaffolding throw harsh light across the gravel lot, illuminating clusters of men with smoke-tipped mouths and predatory eyes.
This is the kind of crowd that doesn’t flinch at bruises, and doesn’t ask questions when someone leaves limping and bloody.
Caleb parks just past a stack of crumbled pallets, his engine growling low before cutting off. I step out, a shiver rolls down my spine as excitement settles thickly in my throat.
Inside, the air hits me like a wall. It’s saturated with sweat and something more primal. Like old blood and broken promises. The floor remembers every scream it’s soaked in—and tonight, it’s thirsty again.
Bodies press close around the makeshift ring—a square of chain-link fencing reinforced with concrete blocks. Blood stains streak the floor like sacrament, smeared and trodden into the concrete.
“I don’t think I’ll ever get used to having you here with me, Doc,” Caleb murmurs, brushing his knuckles against the small of my back as we slip through the crowd.
People part for him, recognizing the cut of his jaw and the gleam in his eyes. He’s not the biggest man here, but he’s the one they avoid brushing against. That says everything.
I glance up at him with a smirk. “Oh?” I ask, quirking an eyebrow. I don’t expect him to answer since we both know why.
Caleb was assigned to me through court-ordered therapy after too many brawls and a possession charge. I assessed his anger issues, and put together a treatment plan. That was basically all I managed before he was reassigned or something.
If I’m honest, I’d completely forgotten about him until he showed up at my apartment two or three months ago. He just stood outside my door, arrogant and oozing the right kind of danger. In other words, my perfect kryptonite.
He refused to leave until I agreed to at least one drink. Which we’ve still never had. All we do is hook up. We don’t go on dates or cuddle. Hell, we don’t talk about anything that matters.
Caleb uses my body like I’m just a wet, willing hole. And he makes sure I remember that’s all I am to him. That’s why it makes no sense if he’s the one who sent the courier.
We reach the fighters’ corridor—bare bulbs overhead, flickering weakly—and he stops just short of the curtain that separates blood from breath. “You good?” he asks, turning to face me.
I nod, the pulse between my legs already steady and low, like a warning hum.
Caleb watches me like he knows exactly what I’m thinking. His hand curls around the back of my neck and he leans in. The kiss is rougher this time. Less heat, more possession. His teeth scrape my bottom lip. My knees almost buckle.
He pulls back before I can chase him. “Stay close. Don’t talk to anyone,” he orders, fingers tightening just enough at the back of my neck to make it clear what happens if I don’t follow his orders.
