He slid the drink he’d just poured across the bar and turned to face me. He arched a brow. Concern softened his light brown eyes. It had been almost two months since I last saw his beautiful face. Despite the rage boiling in me, I smiled at him; and he relaxed a little.
“You’re going to love them more when you see who I have lined up for you, Miss Moody.”
Ethan took care of me. He set up the fights, always seeming to know just when I needed them. He was careful, though, about whom he selected. It was a paid gig for the fighters, a flat fee no matter the outcome. It kept the extreme competitors away. They had too much emotion when fighting; and, often, I ended up worse off than when I started. I needed people who let out very little emotion. Not calm people. Cold people. Emotionless. They weren’t always easy to find.
“Hope it’s better than the last guy.” I slopped some cheap booze into a glass and pushed it at a guy holding out a five. I took the money and slid it into the waistband of my pants.
Ethan laughed as he stole the money back out and put it in the register. He kept talking as we continued filling drink orders.
“He’s a brick wall. He fried his brain on home-stewed goods years ago. If he’s got any emotion to steal, it’s nothing you’d want in you.”
“Sounds interesting. If he doesn’t do it, it’s you and me again, babe.”
We didn’t fight; it was like we danced, but with fists and kicks.
With my help, Ethan had learned to block his emotions from me—to a certain degree anyway—at an early age. After all, he was my sparring partner; I couldn’t have him flopping to the ground after two minutes in my presence. When we were younger, he’d radiated so much anger the possibility of draining him had been slim, unless I would have purposely tried to. But as we grew closer, some of his anger had faded. At least, when we were together.
He grinned at me, winked, then turned to fill the next drink order.
We worked side by side for an hour. He filled most of the orders while I shouted insults at the patrons. They laughed, Ethan made money, and I struggled to hold myself together.
“E, if he’s not here soon...” I shoved crumpled bills in the cash drawer.
Hands settled on my shoulders as I slammed the drawer shut. How many cash registers had I broken that way?
Ethan spun me away from the register, probably to save it, and planted a kiss on my forehead. Then, he pulled back with a grin and nodded to the stage. I turned to look.
The floor-to-ceiling chain-link fence had converted the stage into a fight cage. Mats lined the floors to protect anyone slow enough to get knocked down. A bag hung from the ceiling for warm-up; and, on occasion, it provided a place for my opponent to hide from me. A door led to a back hall restricted to employees and my guest fighters.
As I studied my sanctuary, the door to the cage opened, and a big brick of a man walked onto the mats.
Cheers erupted in the bar, and he raised his gloved hands over his head. Then, he did a few warm-up jabs.
Emotions soaked the room, and I could pinpoint where each one stemmed. But very little seeped from the man on the stage. It meant I wouldn’t drain him as I fought. It meant Ethan had found me a real challenge. It meant I’d finally feel some peace.
I turned back to grin at Ethan.
“I love you.”
He laughed.
“Now you feel love. Wait until after.”
He swatted my butt as I turned away. The distraction broke the weak hold I had on my control. Emotions flooded me. The elation of the band when the crowd cheered, the lust from the dancers as they bumped and rubbed against each other, and the anticipation from those who turned to face the cage.
I pushed past people and made my way toward the employee door that opened to a crowded, dirty hall. Ethan’s business wasn’t legitimate enough for a cleaning crew. Which meant it was perfect for me and the fights. With a smile, I turned right and walked toward the door marked “Z’s Play Room.”
The big man turned when I opened the door, but he didn’t approach. My gloves waited for me on the floor. They were clean and dust free as promised.
I looked through the cage, across the bar, and met Ethan’s eyes. His smile was gone. He nodded at my opponent as if to say, “Get to it.”
Tightening my gloves, I turned from Ethan and eyed the fighter with pity. I hated my need to fight. I hated that I would hurt him. I hated that I would never grow close to another person because of the drain I put on them. Most days I hated just about everything.
“What’s your name?” I asked.
The man turned to look at me.
“He said you would ask. Call me Brick.”
Ethan’s idea of a name, no doubt. I studied the man a moment before stepping closer. Ethan was right. Very little spilled from Brick. I tasted a hint of contentment and nothing more, though the scent of stale cigarettes and old booze hung around him like a cloud. I gave Ethan one last look, then focused on Brick.
“Tell me when you want to stop.”