Page 83 of Filthy and the Beast

“You’re in a tight spot. Debt?”

I shake my head. He’s sniffing out my weakness, seeing how desperate I am. “No. I just want to fight.”

He grunts. Reaches into his jacket, fishes around for an interior pocket, and then hands me a folded piece of paper.

“You want to work with me, this is your option.”

I unfold the paper. For a second, I think it might be a real opportunity. As soon as I see it, though, fury takes hold.

It’s a mockup of an ad. I stare at an ancient picture of me from the Vegas fight, screaming as blood pours down my face, set across from some cage-fighter I’ve never heard of, AJ Slice. The words are big and bold at the top of the page.The Sledgehammer! A Fighter with No Honor!Back from the Dead, One Night Only!

Buck shoves his finger on the paper. “Three million cash prize. And one million guarantee if you show up and fight.”

Needing it to disappear, I crumple the paper in my hand and shove it in my jacket. Rage boils over. This monster is the opposite of the man I’ve tried to be.

I imagine Damian eyeing the advertisement, seeing me the way the world sees me, and shame hits me.

“It’s just to give you an idea,” Buck says. “There will be a giant media push, of course. And the promoter wants you to sign a contract saying you’ll never fight again. Wouldn’t hold up in court, I don’t imagine, but for show.”

“Fuck you,” I say. “You know this isn’t me.”

“Who cares? You said you wanted money, and you wanted to fight. Well, that asshole AJ Slice is one of the best fighters in the game. And you’re not getting a better cash offer anywhere.” He leans back, smug. “What do you say?”

I stand up. Glare down at Buck. Refuse to break eye contact so he knows I’m never going to cave.

“Fuck off,” I say again. “And fuck you for making me drive to the mall.”

Before he can respond, I storm away.

CHAPTERTWENTY-SEVEN

DAMIAN

Nudgedby a pair of fairy wings, the tower of glasses teeters to the side. I gasp and leap forward to catch it, but I’m too late. The tower shatters down the middle of the bar, spilling liquid everywhere and earning a chorus of yells and complaints.

It’s nearing midnight on Saturday. Pistil and Stamen has hit peak crowd. Every platform is occupied, debauchery overflowing, the dance floor pumping.

And I’m standing behind the bar, suddenly unable to breathe.

Anxiety sets in. “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” I whisper to myself. “Sorry!” I yell at the crowd, although I didn't pile the glasses there. Moving as fast as I can, I try to gather the shattered glass. Most of the customers have stepped back from the chaos, but new ones are walking up. I rush around the bar, warning them all about the mess, totally overwhelmed.

“Hey. Can I get my replacement cocktail when you get a chance?” It’s the twink who never tips.

“Just a second,” I manage through gritted teeth, barely keeping my cool. When he starts complaining to the woman next to him, I get so fuming mad, I stop paying attention.

Pain flames across my palm. Wincing, I pull my hand back from a glass shard. Blood oozes from the fresh cut, and I grab a towel from behind the bar to wrap it. “Shit!”

My heart is racing. I’ve been anxious all night. Finally, the stress finally breaks through, ripping me apart. The other employees work around me to help, but my chest is so tight, my lungs won’t work.

I don’t want to be here. I don’t want to be here. I don’t want to be here.

“Damian.” Ares's hand lands firmly on my shoulder, pulling me back from my spiraling thoughts. My eyes must be panicked because he gives me a sympathetic nod. “Take a break. Wash your hand. As long as you need. Okay?”

“Okay.” With a weak nod, I head toward the back. The staff room is empty, and with shaky hands, I tend to my cut.

Tears well up. At the start of my shift, Ares told me I’m one of the best bartenders he’s ever had, so why the hell do I hate this job so, so much?

Everything feels bleak. The idea of going back to work makes me start shaking again, and chugging water and practicing my deep breathing doesn’t help.

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