Down and Out(60)

His hand slips out of mine as he sits on the metal bench. “It means the betting booth’s closed.”
“Oh.”
Declan grins up at me and pats his thigh.
Yeah right, buddy. I’m not sitting on your frickin’ lap.
I roll my eyes as I sit next to him on the bench.
He brushes my hair behind my shoulder and leans in, whispering into my ear, “What’s wrong with my lap?”
His deep, seductive voice brushes over my skin, and I instinctively fight off the shiver it tries to cause. My instinct still tells me not to let him know how much I want this. It’ll give him all the power, it says.
I have to remind myself that’s not true anymore. He’s made it very clear today that I hold all the power.
Aside from that little alpha-male fit he threw in the lobby, that is.
“I’m not a child, for one,” I say quietly. “And two, we’re in public.”
His nose skims my earlobe. “So I guess asking you to sit on my face would be out of the question, too?”
Oh, God. My thighs press together as I picture it, my eyes briefly sliding closed.
Why does he have to torture me like this? And in public, no less. It’s so not fair.
I’m immediately grateful for the music that blasts over the PA system as the lights begin to dim. It’s a welcome distraction. I don’t even care that it sounds like the theme song to some cheesy game show.
The bleachers are now full, and the only people lingering on the floor are big, beefy guys dressed in matching black outfits, so I’m assuming they’re security.
A spotlight shines on the ring as a guy in a suit climbs through the ropes. It’s expensive and well-tailored, I see, as he takes center stage. He looks nothing like the MCs I’ve seen on television for wrestling or boxing matches. This guy looks like he belongs in the pages of GQ.
“Ladies and gentleman,” he says into a small headpiece, which resonates through the speakers. “Welcome to The Pit. Tonight we have several exciting matches lined up for you. . .”
Declan’s hand on my knee drowns out the rest of the guy’s spiel, and I look up in the dim light, meeting his gaze. “I’m really glad you’re here,” he says.
“I am, too.” I was curious about this underground world of his, and yeah, I admit I had mostly negative connotations, but so far, this hasn’t been so bad.
The crowd erupts in cheers and I glance back at the ring, seeing the first opponent climb through the ropes.
“And now we have Bobby ‘Casper’ Oooo’Phelan,” the MC calls out, right as the spotlight flashes to the aisle and the group proceeding down it, led by a huge red-headed guy in a black silk robe, fist-pumping the air as the crowd screams his name.
He has got to be the palest dude I have ever seen. He looks downright translucent compared to the black material enveloping him.
I choke back a laugh and turn to Declan. “Please tell me his nickname doesn’t refer to how see-through he is.”
Declan licks his bottom lip and grins, keeping his eyes on the ring. “He hates that nickname.”
Unh, his lip ring is taunting me again. So is that damn beanie he’s wearing.
Why are beanies so hot? They shouldn’t be, but they totally are.
Somehow, I tear my eyes away from him and focus on the ring again. The MC’s gone and a referee has taken his place. He’s gotta be mid-forties, but he’s in great shape and looks no-nonsense. I have no doubt he could put these guys in their place if they get out of line.
Casper takes his robe off and hands it to one of his crew members. He practically glows in the dark compared to his dark-haired opponent, who’s sporting a nice tan. Casper puts in his mouth guard as the referee stands between him and the other guy.
“Let’s have a clean fight, gentlemen. No eye gouging, no crotch shots, no biting. You win by knockout or tap-out,” the ref tells the two men. “Are we clear?”
They nod and bump bandaged fists.
I cringe as it becomes very clear that there’s no gloves allowed in this organization. At least their hands are wrapped, I tell myself as the bell rings and all hell breaks loose.
Everyone around us is standing and screaming at the ring, like crazed demons demanding their pound of flesh. Declan and I remain seated, our view from the front row unhindered as Casper ducks his opponent’s right hook and strikes, landing an uppercut on his diaphragm.
The dark-haired guy clutches his gut and wheezes as Casper grabs his head and brings it down, connecting his knee with the guy’s face. Blood explodes from his nose, gushing down his lips and chin. A fine mist of red sprays the air as he exhales and drops to the ground.
Deafening screams erupt around us as the ref hovers over the dropped opponent. “One. Two. Three. . .”
The ref’s voice fades away as I stare at the blood pooling out of the guy’s mouth, leaving a dark red puddle on the white mat. I don’t know why I thought a ring, some bleachers, and theatrics would make this any less gruesome.

“Champagne?”
I look away from the blue ripples my feet and toes are making in the heated pool and up at the female voice next to me. It’s one of the scantily clad waitresses walking through the top floor of the penthouse suite. Each one has a big silver tray, some with hors d’oeuvres, others with booze.
“Thank you,” I say, pulling my feet out of the water to stand. I take the last champagne flute off the tray and smile at her in gratitude, really getting a good look at her for the first time.
She looks kind of familiar, and as my brows pull tight while I try to place her, a flicker of recognition flashes across her face.