Uppercut Princess (The Heights Crew #1)(46)

He growls, the low grumble pricking my skin.

“You can’t insinuate what you did about me and then ask if I’m okay. I wasn’t giggling on the phone, and yes, I was fucking pissed off yesterday. More than you know. I’m not used to being treated like that.”

“You shouldn’t be treated like that.”

“We’ve already come to the conclusion that I really don’t have a choice. But please, throw it in my face if it makes you feel better.”

Brawler swears under his breath. “It doesn’t. It makes me feel like shit. It makes me furious.” His body shakes. His fingers curl into his palms until his knuckles turn white. He’s a volcano about to erupt, spewing his shit over anyone close to him.

I’m not afraid of getting a little dirty.

“Good,” I say. “Then get your shit together because we’re headed to a gym. We can pound the shit out of inanimate objects until there’s nothing left inside us.”

We lock gazes, and I silently pray I’ll be so tired when we’ve finished that I’ll be able to resist the pull to Brawler. Whether he wants to admit it to himself or not, he’s jealous of Johnny.

An hour later, two workers at a local gym across town hold pads for us as we obliterate them. The looks on their faces when Brawler walked in was something to behold. I could tell they were regulars at the fights and had probably seen more than a few starring the guy to my left. For never setting foot in a boxing gym, Brawler takes to it easily.

They run us through round after round of focus mitts, then let us punch our aggression out on huge swinging heavy bags that rock forward and backward with the force of our punches. It’s like having someone come swinging back at you. At least, it’s easier to pretend this way than just hitting a stand-up heavy bag.

During a break, Brawler guzzles down water the workers throw at us, and we sit on a bench to catch our breaths. “I knew you’d like it,” I say.

He seems less agitated here. More carefree like the heavy baggage around his neck lifted away. “What’s not to like?”

“The fuck if I know.”

He grins at me, his smile toothy and downright sexy while sweat drips down his face. Instead of returning it, I’m struck, staring at him, imagining licking the bead of sweat edging down his cheek right now.

The light dies in his eyes, and a low rumble starts in his chest. “Don’t.”

I bite my lip.

He looks away. “Fuck.” He slams his water bottle down and heads back to the swinging heavy bag, beating the ever loving shit out of it. A few times, I’m afraid it’s going to come crashing down off the ceiling, but it holds steady.

To cool us down, one of the trainers has us do some stretching while he runs through some mechanics with Brawler. The guy’s a monster as it is. He just needs a little refinement, and he’ll be unstoppable. I’m talking UFC level fighter who brings in multi-millions for Pay-Per-View matches. I’ve never seen anyone who fights quite like him, and I’ve been around a lot of gyms across several states.

The sad fact is, he might not ever get out of the Heights to see what he’s capable of.

We take quick showers at the gym and then catch a city bus to our apartment building. People give Brawler a wide berth which is fine by me. I hide a smirk when I’ve watched the third person take the empty seat next to him and then change their mind last minute when they see who they’re sitting next to. One even changed direction on the descent of butt into chair. I almost drew blood on that one, biting the inside of my cheek so I wouldn’t laugh.

When we get to my apartment, the door closed and locked behind us, I ask, “How do the fights work?” I turn, heading into the kitchen to retrieve us both glasses of water.

“The fights?”

I look over my shoulder to find him running his hand through his already dry blond hair. His blue eyes are fucking fierce and sharp right now. Swallowing, I add, “Yeah. Do the fighters get paid?”

Brawler accepts my glass and then sits down on the loveseat, giving me the armchair. “It started out as just the Crew making money off the fights. People needed a structured way of settling conflict. If you had beef with someone, you would call them out. Whoever won, won. You weren’t allowed to have beef after that. It was settled in the ring. Then, shit got popular. We started drawing crowds. People started betting on the side, and when Big Daddy saw that, he turned it into what it is now. He was just second-in-command then. It’s one of the reasons he got voted into top dog position. When he made it into the fight circuit, they started paying the fighters. Nothing huge, but enough to entice them to fight without settling beef with someone. Now, if you’re a good fighter, you can make quite a bit. It depends on how long you’ve been fighting for us and how many people are betting on your fight.”

“You make money on your fights?”

He nods.

Understanding dawns on me. “That’s why Johnny was so pissed when you pulled that other guy out last time.”

He doesn’t have to nod again. It’s true. Johnny said as much to me.

I’d wondered how the Heights Crew made money, so this is something. If Johnny can afford to give “his girl” a new loveseat and table, they must be doing okay. I just wonder what else they’re into. It can’t be just the fights. Not for how big the Crew has gotten. They must have several business ventures by now.