Page 50 of That Girl is Trouble

Triss purses her lips. “And if the other guy wins?”

“He won’t,” I snap. “Now settle the fuck down.”

I turn back to the ring, where Monroe has escorted a smiling Kat to the row of chairs lining the outside of the cage. She’s perched on his lap, and his hand is sliding up her bare thigh. I want to fucking kill him.

Even with all the people, the chaos in anticipation of the next fight, I know she knows I’m watching. It’s the smirk on her face. The girl thinks she’s won some sort of game. But she has no fucking clue what it means to be a prize in the Sinner Slam.

Our eyes meet briefly. And whatever she sees when she looks at me makes her smile split wider over her face. She gives me a wink, then turns back to Monroe, and I think maybe I want to kill her a little bit too. Or at least chain her up so that not a single one of these fuckers can touch her.

“He better win, Axe,” Triss says tersely.

“He will.”

But he doesn’t.

Rooster is out cold in less than a minute.

Triss rounds on me. “Fix this, Axe. Please.” Her usual sharp tone has been replaced with a plea. She turns to Graves. “You can do something, right?”

He gives me a knowing look. “Technically, anyone who’s won a Slam title can challenge the winner.”

With panic swirling in her eyes, she looks from him to me and back again. Then she cranes her neck, watching as her sister is swept up by that big motherfucker.

“Well? Who from South Bay can fight for her? You have to make them, Axe. Please. Please.”

I sigh. “That would be me.”

I haven’t fought in this thing since just after I got out of prison. That year I was hopped up on post-release adrenaline and jacked as fuck, having spent most of my days in lockup pumping weights. I can hold my own in a fight, and it’s not like I’ve neglected my body these past few years. But I’m in no shape for a fight like this. This guy’s gonna kill me.

Regardless, my feet are moving before I can think better of it, and I’m ripping off my shirt and stomping into the ring. Kat’s already in there, and this fuck’s already got his hands on her ass. When he catches sight of me, he meets my glare with a depraved smile.

Monroe follows me into the cage and pulls the mic to his mouth. “We got a challenge!” he calls out, and I don’t miss the look he gives me. My guy is gonna throttle you.

I swallow down my anger, keeping the storm raging inside me at bay. Anger never wins in a fight. You gotta be calm, focused, free of emotion.

Kat tilts her head, her eyes sliding over me and then shifting to the man who’s got his arms wrapped around her. She doesn’t think I can win this fight either. She doesn’t think I can win her.

Hands pat me down, searching for weapons. A blond woman in a bikini wraps my knuckles and plants a kiss on my cheek.

I kick off my shoes and shake out my arms, stretch my neck to one side, then the other. The crowd cheers at an almost deafening decibel as Tex pulls the mic from Monroe and ushers everyone else out of the ring.

“Sure you know what you’re doin’, man?” he asks.

Without looking away from the fucker standing five feet in front of me, I nod. No turning back.

“Brothers!” Tex shouts. “Place your fucking bets! Axel ‘the Axe-Man’ Donovan versus André ‘the Hammer’ Tremblay. You know how this works. Winner is by tap-out or knock-out only. No weapons and no rules. But keep your feet and fists out of each other’s junk. Got it?”

We nod at one another and smash our knuckles together. His hit is harder than mine, telling me he’s ready to take out a Sinner prez. That he’s ready to get bloody and do what he needs to do to keep that 5 percent and his sweet little honey pot. There’s no way in hell I can give him either of those.

He hits me first. The force of it sends my head jerking back. In return, I swing for him, but I miss, and he clocks me again, and then again. I see stars as he rams his fist hard into my jaw.

Stumbling back, I tighten my muscles, steadying myself. But he’s already coming for me. I dodge out of the way at the last minute, saving myself from what would have surely been a knock-out. This guy is brutal. A trained fighter. Big and bulky, but also fast, and I have to do a dance with my footwork to avoid his fists.

A kick clacks into my face, and I hit the ground. Before I can roll up onto my feet, he straddles my middle and hammers down a slew of vicious hits to my face and ribs.

It takes all I have to pull my arms in and bring my fists in front of my face to avoid the blows. And all I see is Kat. Her hand on her mouth as she watches me get my shit kicked in.

There’s a bob in her throat, a worried frown marring her face. Maybe even a tear sliding down her cheek. I’m not sure. Because maybe I can’t see much right now. Maybe it’s the blood dripping down my face and into my eyes.

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