Weigh-in, strategy meeting, warm up, arena.
I quicken my pace through the parking lot as a few photographers snap pictures.
“‘Assassin,’ you ready for the fight tonight?” The reporter has a microphone at the end of his outstretched arm.
With a tug to drop my baseball hat lower, I ignore him and keep walking.
“Is it true that fighters never have sex before a big fight?” another reporter shouts.
Fucking idiots.
“Do you have a lucky charm of some kind? Dirty socks or a jock strap?”
Do they really expect me to stop and give them an answer? I force a smile their way, pulling off a sneer at best.
Pushing through the doors, I’m hit with cold air that prickles my skin. Blake’s sitting alone in the lobby, obviously waiting for me.
“Blake.”
He stands and meets me halfway to the hall. His eyes work the room before coming back to me. “You ready for this shit, man?”
I nod.
“All right, dude. I got your back. We do this as planned, shouldn’t be any problems. You’re home in bed with your girl, nak*d if you’re lucky, by midnight.”
A grin pulls at my lips. “Got it.”
Blake drops his signature crooked smile and his jaw goes hard, eyebrows dropped low. “Let’s f**king do this shit!”
He claps me on the shoulder and leads the way into the locker room. My entire team is there huddled in the back, waiting. I’m greeted with fist bumps and chin lifts.
Guilt eats away at my insides. My crew has worked just as hard as I have to get me this fight. They’ve trained with me non-stop, taken punches, suffered injuries, all for me. I’m letting them down by not going out there and giving it my all.
I sit on a bench, elbows on my knees, focusing on the ground. I force myself to pull an image of Raven to the forefront of my mind: her wide, innocent, aquamarine eyes. That’s it. I need to keep my mind right here.
“You ready?” Owen says as he plops down at my side.
“Ready as I’ll ever be.” I fix my eyes to the floor. It’s a dick move, but I’m hoping he brushes it off to me getting in the zone.
“Good enough. Let’s warm you up and get you to weigh-in.”
My body moves through all of the pre-fight bullshit, but my mind is absent. I pop in my earbuds and listen to music, mentally walking myself through every round. The guys don’t talk to me much, only direct me where to go and what to do. Every now and then I catch a look from Blake. His jaw set, eyes cold, but knowing. We seem to share the same thought. Let’s get this shit done.
We load up into a white van and head to the arena. The streets are lined with tourists, fans, and paparazzi. I’m grateful for the dark, tinted windows and the inconspicuous car that allows us through without hassle. The driver avoids the front entrance and turns down a ramp to a private parking garage where he parks beneath the arena.
Blake turns around in his seat. “It’s show time.”
We unload from the van where we’re met by a man in a suit. He introduces himself as the event planner and takes us to our assigned dressing room.
The space is about half the size of the locker room at the UFL Training Center. Two large leather couches line the walls with a coffee table in between. The floor has been covered with padded, interlocking mats that provide cushion for a grappling warm up. A heavy bag hangs in the corner, along with some boxing mitts. A small refrigerator sits in the opposite corner, probably stocked with water and a variety of sports drinks.
I drop my bag of gear next to a couch and take a seat while the guys on my team talk to the planner. Blake turns from the group, stalking toward me. His face is hard. Shit. Once he reaches me, his hand motions to his ear for me to pop out my earbuds.
He points to the door. “Motherfucker’s sending in chicks.”
“The f**k you say?”
A woman in this room would cause the exact opposite environment that I need. Before a fight it’s all about relaxation. A relaxed mind is a sharp mind. The last thing any of us need is some chick in here kissing ass.
I shift to the side on the couch to look behind Blake. My team is hovering over the event planner, pointing in his face. The poor suit looks like he might shit his pants. I sit back, shrug, and lock eyes with Blake.
“It’s probably just something the networks orchestrated for ratings. They come, they sit in the corner and keep to themselves. They keep the f**k away from me.”
“Been fighting here for years and never had chicks in the dressing room.” Blake’s eyebrows lower over his eyes. “Gibbs knows we need calm before a fight. Why would he agree to this shit?”
“No clue. But lately this publicity shit is leading him around by his dick.” First Camille, now this. He seems less about the fight and more about the ratings.
Blake nods then turns back to the team and the suit. I pop in my earbuds, drop my head back, close my eyes, and pull up my girl’s face.
I’m lost in the music when the couch dips next to me. I look up to see Blake mouthing something at me, and squint to read his lips.
“. . . f**king told you that dick was up to no good.”
I catch something out of the corner of my eye that makes me do a double take.
Candy.
What the hell is she doing here? Before the question registers in my mind, it’s answered.
Distraction.
Candy and a girl I’ve never seen saunter around the room, asking if there is anything anyone needs. They’re both wearing what amounts to Hooter’s uniforms, minus the owl. Their red shorts look like they’re painted on and their tank tops look more like sports bras.
Fucking Dominick.
“Wes!” My blood is boiling and I’m itching for a fight. I shake my head, half furious and half impressed with Dominick’s play.
If he can’t distract me, he’ll piss me off enough to want to kill someone then put me in the octagon.
My head trainer turns and walks to me. “What’s up, Jonah?”
I stand and meet Wes eye to eye. “I want those girls out of here. Now.” My voice is a low growl.
He looks over his shoulder and back to me, his eyes narrow. “Those girls?” He tilts his head, motioning to Candy and her sidekick.
“Yeah, Wes. Those girls.” I throw my arms out and look around the room. “Who the f**k do you think I’m talking about? They’re the only f**king girls in the room!” Blood pounds in my ears and a low buzz rattles in my head.
“Get ’em out of here, Wes. Seriously.” Blake’s voice is low and threatening at my side.
Wes steps over to the girls and says something I can’t hear. They both look my way, and I spear Candy with a glare that I hope sends fear through her veins.
Her smile disappears and her eyes hit the floor. The girl with her is going into some long explanation about something and Wes listens. After a few minutes, he makes his way back to me.
“They can’t leave. They’ve been assigned to the room. If they leave, they’re afraid they’ll get fired.”
“That’s bullshit!” Blake turns toward the girls. I grab his elbow.
Fuck it. I don’t have the brain space to worry about this shit right now. I’m falling right into Dominick’s trap by getting fired up. He wants me half-cocked before I get to the octagon. I won’t give him the satisfaction.
“It’s cool, Blake. You just keep that bitch away from me.”
I suit up and hit the heavy bag. Every punch and kick relieves some of the anger polluting my focus. Blake and I move through some grappling techniques, and I feel the last of my tension dissolve.
Dominick thought he could goad me? Wrong.
Feeling more like myself, I go back to my place on the couch. Owen hits me up with the twenty-minute warning. Finally.
Behind my closed eyes, I play memories that make me relax. My dad and I playing ball in the front yard, him hugging my mom in the kitchen when he’d come home from work. Raven’s face alight with laughter, her peaceful expression when she’s deep in sleep—
A small hand brushes my knee then shoots straight up my shorts. My eyes fly open. I grab the hand and still its progression. Pressing it to my inner thigh, I pin the offender with my stare.
Candy is sitting on the coffee table, her body between my knees. She’s leaning forward in her barely-there clothes, her palm against my skin under my shorts. And I’m holding it there with my hand. Fuck.
The room is almost empty except for a couple guys, who are currently being distracted by Candy’s friend.
I rip her hand from my leg and stand, towering over her. “Nice try, bitch. Next time you put your hand on me, I’ll break it.”
She pulls free from my grip, fear working behind her eyes. She schools her features. “Whatever. Can’t blame a girl for trying.”
It’s time to end this.
Twenty-nine
Raven
My knees are bouncing like the pistons on a Ferrari. I have a burning urge to run laps around this arena, but the fear that grips my gut keeps me planted in my seat.
I’m grateful for the executive car Jonah had pick us up. I don’t think either of us could drive with these nerves.
The driver made sure to get us here just before the title fight, opting to forgo the opening fights at Jonah’s request. He feared they might freak me out. He’s right.
Where’s Guy?
Last time we spoke, he said he’d be here for the opening fights. He’s not.
I grab my phone. No missed calls. I call Guy again. No answer. Darn it. Maybe his phone battery died, or he left it at home.
“Still no answer?” Katherine is beside me, her hands folded tightly in her lap.
“No.” I shove my phone into my pocket. “I can’t imagine what’s keeping him. He seemed really excited to come tonight.”
Katherine rubs my back then re-knots her hands in her lap. “I’m sure he’ll be here soon.”
My fingers drum against the plastic seat of my folding chair, a furious beat that matches my racing heart. I scan rows of people surrounding the octagon. The crowd hums with anticipation, bloodthirsty. So close to the octagon floor, no doubt I’ll be able to hear the thud of fist on flesh at this distance. My stomach plummets.
I check the glowing digital numbers on the clock above the octagon. Eighteen minutes and thirty-seven seconds, thirty-six, thirty-five. They tick down, one by one, just like my freedom. Numbered in minutes. I wipe my sweaty palms on my jeans.
A warm hand stills my twitchy leg. “Calm down, honey. He’ll be okay.” Katherine misinterprets my anxiety.
Watching Jonah get hit in the octagon will be difficult, but I’m more concerned with his acting skills than his fighting skills.
I nod, smile, and fix my eyes back on the clock. Where is Guy?
The seats in the arena fill up quickly as people return from their bathroom and concession stand breaks. The air is heavy with energy and aggression. It could be my imagination, but the smell of blood and sweat seem to linger in the air from the earlier fights. As the main event draws near, the arena comes alive, chanting.
“Assassin, Assassin, Assassin . . .” Over and over, ratcheting my tension.
I wonder if Jonah can hear this from his dressing room. I wish so badly I was with him now, allowing the warmth of his skin and soothing words to comfort me. My arms wrap around my body. He’d hold me close. Probably tell me to breathe and relax. He’d tell me everything is okay and he’s going to take me home tonight as his, for good.