Losing Track (Living Heartwood #2)(40)
He then turns to me and raises his eyebrows, prompting me. I dig out the wad of cash, silently cursing as I hand Jesse half of my stash. “This better be damn good,” I say.
“Don’t worry. I got you.” He hands the biker my money and says, “Two on The Hunter.”
Blowing out a deep breath, I stand on my tiptoes to peer over the crowd. A makeshift boxing ring is positioned in the middle of the wooden fenced-in yard, and I can just make out two guys in the center dancing around each other, their fists raised.
Holy shit. My mouth pops open and my head snaps around toward Jesse. “A backyard brawl?”
He laughs. “Relax. The po-po know about this club. In fact, I think they sponsor it.” He points toward two obvious cops despite their street clothes. You can always tell by the haircut and the clean-cut look regardless of how grunged out they try to appear. It’s in the way they stand, trying to look comfortable but like there’s a stick up their asses.
“Still,” I say close to Jesse’s ear. “It’s illegal, dude. The last place either of us should be, ya know?”
His forehead creases. “Wow, Mel. Rehab really put a hurt on your spirit. Look”—he motions toward the ring—“one fight and we’re gone. Just chill, okay? I promise there’s nothing to worry about. This shit is huge down here. It’s everywhere. No reason why we can’t make bank until we can get out of here.”
Turning my attention back toward the fighters in the ring, I try to assure myself that Jesse’s right. I mean, fracking cops are standing a few feet away, placing their own bets. When did I become so f*cking uptight?
Just as I’m maneuvering to get a better view, calming down enough to enjoy the show…my gaze lands on something that spikes my heart rate, and all bets are off.
Fucking good guy Boone.
Hardcore straightedge, sobriety peddler and keeper of celibacy, Boone Randall.
In the ring.
“What the hell…?” I’m taking off through the crowd, pushing around people and weaving a jagged path to the front of the throng before I know what I’m doing.
I don’t have time to process what I’m seeing, what I’m feeling—deceived. Played. Confused. Many things swirl the chaos of my thoughts as I watch Boone take a hard punch to the jaw. Bareknuckle. No gloves to soften the blow.
His head snaps sideways, and a stream of red sprays from his mouth. My gut clenches.
I finally reach the ring, but a band of yellow tape holds me back from getting to the ropes. I have no idea what I was going to do once I got here—what I intend to say. The shock of seeing Boone in the ring getting the shit beat out of him stunted all rational thought and I just needed to… What?
All thoughts cease the moment our eyes connect.
His deep hazels surrounded by sweat and puffed skin. Mine so wide, I swear they’re about to bulge from their sockets. In the two seconds it takes for Boone to register me, my utter confusion and disbelief, I glimpse the same in him. A fraction of a second now, his features shift from confusion to awareness.
Then a slight smile tilts his lips.
The fighter coming at him drives a fist right toward his face, and Boone shifts his attention from me to the guy, quickly dodging and delivering a powerful punch to the guy’s ribs. Without pause, he nails his opponent again in the same spot. Then with his other fist, lands a blow to the guy’s temple.
Wobbling on his feet, the fighter blinks and then sways left, unable to keep his fists raised.
I’m sure the fight is over. That whoever is in charge is about to call the end of the round, or the fight, ding the bell, whatever. But the crowd’s cheers rise around me, muffling the sounds in the ring. They stomp and chant, “Finish him! Finish him!”
Boone wipes the sweat from his brow, turning his gaze to mine once more before he stares down his opponent. He hauls back and sends an uppercut to the fighter’s chin.
The guy is through. He hits the mat with a solid thud, his head bouncing a couple of times before he blacks out. Everyone is screaming, and cheering, and money goes up in the air, gripped in fists and passed to others. It’s chaos.
And the whole time, my gaze is on Boone. Good Guy Boone. What. The. Hell?
Boone
For who should feel the swift assault
SON OF A BITCH.
I duck under the rope, then half sit, half fall to the edge of the mat. After flexing my hand, I peel away the tape. Back propped against the corner post, I swear under my breath. My knuckles are a bloody mess. Some of it mine—most of it the other guy’s in the ring.
I reach for the towel draped over the chair next to Turner and wipe my face and hands, then toss it over my bare shoulder.
How the hell did Melody wind up here?
“I haven’t seen you lay someone down like that in weeks, man. What was that?” Turner asks, chuckling. He hands me a water bottle, and I nod my thanks.
“Don’t know,” I say, shrugging and immediately wincing as white pain slices through my shoulder blade. Duregger got a few good hits in. “Just didn’t feel like dragging it out.”
He laughs and shakes his head. “Well next time, do try to add a little show, man. I’m going to have to round up Jacob quicker than I thought and toss him in the ring before the crowd eats me alive.” Then he’s off. But before he disappears into the crowd, he calls back, “Killer!”