Down and Out(44)

She shakes her head, looking at me in awe. “Wow.” Leaning in, she rests her arms on the table, like she’s about to share a secret. “Are you always this good at getting into a girl’s panties, or is it just me?”
I smile ruefully, watching the way her face lights up as she laughs. “You’ve still got yours on, so I can’t be that good.”
Perfect white teeth flash as she bites her bottom lip, her mouth curving into a wicked grin. “Who says I’m wearing any?”
I nearly fall out of my chair as I groan and hang my head. “You’re killin’ me, Smalls.”
“All right, all right, I’ll stop.” She holds up her hands in defeat and then grabs a spring roll.
Therein lies the problem. I don’t want her to stop; I want her to keep going.
“So what’s your story, Declan Whitmore?”
At my cocked brow, she says, “You got mine. Now it’s time I get yours.”
She’s right. Tit for tat is only fair.
Sighing, I tear off the plastic wrap from my fork. “My old man’s a drunk. Left us when I was twelve, then two years later my mom died in a car accident. Me and Blake were raised by our grandparents after that.”
Savannah bites into the spring roll and frowns at me. “That’s it?”
“Essentially.”
She covers her mouth with the back of her hand, saying, “Essentially?” around a mouthful of food. Swallowing, she sets the spring roll down, looking pissed as she crosses her arms. “Well now I feel gipped. I got into the nitty gritty of my life. Least you could do is the same.”
“You only told me the worst things ’cause you thought it’d scare me off.”
A cruel smirk twists her lips. “I didn’t tell you the worst things, not by a long shot.”
My eyes narrow on her. She better be full of shit, because what she told me was f*cking awful. Could it really have been worse than she let on?
The thought doesn’t sit well with me, and has my jaw clenching as I point at her. “Don’t think for a second that I’m gonna let that little comment slide, Kitten. We’re coming back to that later.”
Savannah does not look pleased.
Exhaling slowly, I set my fork down and lean my elbows on the table. “My dad’s a miserable sack of shit, and after my mom died, I kind of . . . lost it. She was the only parent I loved, the only true parent I had, and when she died, what little light I had in my life died with her, until it was just one big black void.
“I started acting out, getting into fights, trouble with the law. . . Girls, booze, drugs, misdemeanors—you name it, I did it. Blake was the same way.
“The only thing that stopped me from going completely off the rails was my pops. He was a boxer back in the Sixties. Third-generation Irish American, Catholic, and the toughest son of a bitch I’ve ever met. He taught me to channel all my rage and hate into fighting in a ring instead of out on the streets.” I shrug and simply say, “He saved my life.”
“Did he get you into underground fighting?”
“No, I have Blake to thank for that. He came to me with a problem, like he usually does. Said he owed this guy money he didn’t have, but he knew of a way we could make a lot of cash really fast. Turned out that ‘way’ was The Pit.
“Blake thought I could take down any * they threw at me. Kept telling me I was a sure thing. Only problem was, back then, I was this no-name punk kid off the street, and if we wanted to make any money off the fight, we had to bet money on me to win. Then, of course, I actually had to win. The only thing of value I had to my name at the time was my car, so that’s what I bet.” I shake my head, half-smiling at the memory. “I was so pissed. I love that car, but I love Blake too, and I didn’t want to see him get his kneecaps broken, so. . .”
“I take it you won that fight, since you still have your car and Blake still has his kneecaps.”
I nod slowly. “That fight and every one since.”
“You’re undefeated?” Her eyes widen. “Wow. How do you get people to bet against you? I mean, they have to, right? Otherwise you’d be bad for business.”
My mouth turns down as I shrug. “You give ’em a good show. Let the other guy get some good shots in. Make everyone think he’s winning. Then when he gets comfortable—when he least expects it—you come out swinging and take his sorry ass down.”
“You let them kick your ass before you hand them theirs? That seems . . . dangerous. What if you can’t come back in the second act?”
“Hasn’t happened yet.”
Savannah eyes me for a second, like she doesn’t quite believe me. Then she pops another piece of chicken into her mouth. “So how long have you been fighting in The Pit?”
I love that she’s not afraid to talk with her mouth full. And that she’s sitting cross-legged in my dining room chair, in her pajamas, without a scrap of makeup on.
She’s not afraid to be herself around me, and she’s not intimidated by me in the slightest. It’s refreshing. I’m so tired of girls who think they have to look and act sexy all the time. That’s not sexy. Being comfortable in your own skin is sexy.
True confidence is f*cking hot as hell.
I’m trying my damndest not to outright stare at her, but it’s hard. She’s so much more interesting than my food. “Uh, about a year,” I say, trying to get the conversation back on track. “When my pops died, he left me the gym. I’m using my winnings to fix it up.”
“Do you like fighting? Or is it just something you have to do for the money?”