Twist the Knife - Page 182

I weave away from my opponent’s next strike. He already had his shot. He’s not getting another one.

Molly is my ultimate forbidden fruit—my best friend’s little sister. She’s sweet, shy, innocent, and gets good grades while I’m gruff, loud, definitely not innocent, and earn extra cash by beating the shit out of people in illegal underground fights.

Why is she even here?

The bloodthirsty spectators roar. This is a rougher scene than I’m used to. Dirtier fighting. Fewer rules. The dank, sweat-soaked air crackles with expectation.

My opponent—a skilled fighter, no doubt—goes in for another shot and that’s when I retaliate, pummeling him with several calculated strikes. He sways on his feet, then crumples to the concrete floor.

Stay down, motherfucker.

He groans and flops his forearm over his eyes. The crowd erupts in chaotic cheers and shouts. The ref stomps over and toes my opponent in the ribs. The guy curls into a ball on his side, signaling he’s done.

Breathing hard, I allow the ref to hold my hand in the air and show me off to the heavy bettors outside the cage.

“Give it up for Stonewall!” the ref shouts, using the ring name I was given years ago.

The people chanting my name are nothing more than a colorful, frenzied blur. My mind’s already left the ring. I’m too busy searching for Molly to pay attention to the spectators, girls, or anyone else.

The organizer of tonight’s matches approaches with a big smile stretched across his face. He hands me my stack of cash and slaps my back.

“Good match!” he shouts in my face. “Come back anytime.”

Not likely. I don’t plan to make a habit out of visiting Ironworks.

I nod to acknowledge his open invitation, then hustle out of the ring and into the fray. Need to reach Molly before the crowd swallows her. These aren’t the sort of people she should be mixed up with.

I shoulder through the mass, bumping guys out of my way. There. No more than ten feet from me. She’s in a shadowy area, waiting patiently against the back wall. My lips curve up as I recognize the logo of my fight club stretched across the front of her purple T-shirt. Brass knuckles and roses. Kind of like Molly and me.

Guys eye-fondle her as they walk by, but no one dares talk to her. They know better than to mess with Remy’s little sister. Because she’s my Molly—sweet, oblivious Molly—she doesn’t notice their attention.

Her eyes are focused on me and nowhere else.

Unfortunately, a lot of ring bunnies are also focused on me. One approaches with a sway to her hips and her full, red lips curled into an enticing smile. My gaze shoots to Molly in time to catch the turndown of her mouth and quick glance toward the exit.

I need to reach her fast.

“Congratulations, G,” Layla says. She waits for me to kiss her cheek. Give her some sign I want her to accompany me to the locker room or maybe my car so she can be my trophy for the night. Leaning in closer, she drops her voice to a conspiratorial tone. “Were you messing with him when you took that kick?”

I don’t bother bending down to hear her better or return her smile. “Nope.” My clipped answer’s meant to satisfy her questions—both spoken and unspoken.

Layla knows a brush-off when it’s happening. She’s too proud to beg and too beautiful to bother trying to convince me. She lifts her chin and stalks away. On to the next fighter.

My eyes lock on Molly again. She’s staring at the floor now, arms wrapped around her middle like she’s trying to make herself as small as possible. She lifts her head as I approach. A tentative smile flickers over her lips.

“You didn’t have to hurry up for me,” she says, nodding in Layla’s direction. “I know you have fans to attend to.”

The words come with an edge of hurt—pain I wish I could erase from Molly’s mind.

“Does your brother know you’re here?” I ask, holding out my arms to her.

Instead of answering, she flings herself against me, wrapping her arms around my neck. I lift her up, hugging her tight, burying my nose in her cherry-vanilla-scented hair.

“You scared me when he got that kick in,” she whispers against my shoulder.

No way will I explain she’s the reason I took that blow. I’m too fucking happy to see her. And even though she shouldn’t be here, I’m thrilled she came to see me.

Maybe too thrilled.