Game(3)

“Make him fight,” I said, trying to be cold.

“Fight,” Zander said. He grinned. His eyes widened. “Fight. Yes.”

“I’ll f*cking fight anyone,” Finn said. “Come on. Anyone.”

“Even me?” I asked.

“Ah, sweetie, I have other ways I could destroy you. And I’d still use my hands.”

A fire was sent through my body that I hated myself for. Finn was bold and sexy.

“You fight,” Zander said. “You fight and you lose. Then you tell me everything. Or I just kill you.”

“Yeah?” Finn asked. “That’s what you want?”

“No, it’s what you want. Sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong. I’ll send a clear message.”

“What’s my prize?” Finn asked with that cocky grin. “Her?”

Finn eyed me.

“Done,” Zander said, without hesitation.

“What?” I asked.

“Mind your place, woman,” Zander said to me. “He has no chance.” Zander pointed at the door. “Vale! Set this up. The next fight. The stranger who doesn’t belong here. Finn. Let’s have him take on… the Fist.”

I looked at Finn and felt my heart race.

I almost felt for him. Such a sexy face and killer attitude.

But against the Fist?

Good luck.

“I’ll fight for you, sweetie,” Finn said to me.

I shook my head. I tried to think of something snappy to throw back, but I had nothing. I’d never seen anything like this. Zander was crazy. Finn looked just as crazy. And now Finn was going to fight. For no reason.

“You fight,” Zander said. “You lose and you tell me everything I want to know. And then I send your body back to your boss. A warning to stay away from my fights. You win and you get the beautiful Shayna on your arm. You walk away with the prize of a lifetime.”

Zander was a degenerate gambler. And I was the prize.

“Shayna,” Finn whispered.

He looked at me.

I had to look away.

He was f*cked.





5.


(Finn)



I was f*cked.

I knew that from the second I felt the guy grab my head. Hell, even before that, from the second I looked up and saw Shayna standing there.

What a name, huh?

Not that it mattered right then. I had to goddamn fight. I wasn’t allowed to be there. If Fiore found out, he’d put a bullet in my head. No matter what, it seemed like I was on the losing end of this thing. So the plan started to form in my mind.

Win this fight. Get the f*ck out of there with Cormac. And then face the music with Fiore later. If I was f*cked up, I could tell him I got jumped or something. He’d never believe that though. So I’d have to make it good, tell him I had been piss drunk and got jumped by five guys.

Even then… Fiore knew I could fight when I was drunk. Hell, I was crazier when I was drunk. Hence the reason two men dragged me out of the office to get ready for a fight.

But if I won the fight, I’d get Shayna.

Damn. Talk about a prize.

Definitely not a take home prize though, I don’t do that. My time is best spent in segments. Fighting, drinking, f*cking. That was the only way I could survive and get through the days. Anything else that resembled realness was better off left behind. Because reality hurt.

The two guys pushed me away.

I turned and put my fists up, ready to take them on. “Where’s Cormac? My boy.”

“Zander wanted you,” one of the men said. “Nobody else. Your friend is still drinking. Now go down those stairs and fight.”

I walked down the stairs and two big men guarded the bottom. They were as thick as Zander, except they had muscle. I paused and looked at them. I could fight them. I could beat them too. How? Easy. They’re big with big arms and big shoulders. Their technique would be in muscle. I’d hit one square in the nose to start. That would bring tears to his eyes. Then I’d go after the knees of the other and bring him down. See, big guys aren’t used to going down and when they do, they panic.

“Finn?” one of the guys asked.

“The one and only,” I said.

He moved out of the way and I walked by. There was a group of people standing there. Five guys stood wearing medical gloves, two wearing glasses, the other three tending to fighters who were on their ass, bleeding everywhere.

“I need a needle!” someone yelled.

“Do you have novocain?” the guy asked as a gash above his eye throbbed.

“Fuck no,” the first person said. “This isn’t some f*cking hospital. Suck it up, *.”

Sadly, it was a sense of home for me. It’s what I knew. To fight and try not to get too hurt. We couldn’t go to the hospital when we got hurt. We didn’t have health insurance and copays and deductibles. We had people waiting in the back to stitch us up. We had whiskey. We had tough souls.

The guy started to cry and wince as he was being stitched up.

Well, some of us had tough souls.

“You ready, Irish boy?” a voice growled at me.

A tall, skinny man stood holding a piece of paper.

“Ready as ever,” I said.

“Take your jacket off,” he said.