He said it as if Gage actually had a choice in the matter.
“Any instructions for tonight?” he asked after he’d nodded in greeting.
Mitch raised one reddish eyebrow, waiting for clarification.
“Do you want me to win or lose?” Gage said in a curt voice.
The other man looked annoyed. “Why the hell do you gotta ask me that every time? Have I ever ordered you to throw a fight?”
Gage shrugged.
“You know what I want, brother. Beat the shit outta your opponent and make us some goddamn money.”
“Gotcha.” He had to admit, he thoroughly enjoyed seeing the aggravation clouding the other man’s eyes. Gage always made a point to inquire whether he should throw the fight, just because he knew that the implication that Mitch fixed matches pissed the guy off. He also knew it was the truth—more often than not, Mitch did arrange the outcome of the fights.
But Gage had never lost or thrown a match. Not once during his professional days, and not once in the seven fights he’d already given Mitch.
“How’s my man Denny doing these days?” Mitch asked.
His shoulders stiffened. “He’s good. Clean as a whistle.”
“Good. Good for him.” The man clucked his tongue. “It was such a bloody shame, seeing him fall off the wagon again.”
“I bet it was,” Gage murmured, not believing a word of it.
Mitch had relished having Denny under his thumb. Dealing drugs for him, doing his dirty work in Southie. The bastard had probably come in his pants after Denny’s royal screw up, because now he had Denny’s big brother under his thumb, too.
“Tell him to stop by and see me one of these days,” Mitch said. “I know he’s out of the drug business, but we’re still buds, no?”
“Sure, I’ll tell him.” Yeah, fucking right.
A bone-jarring crunch had them both cocking their heads at the cage in time to see one of the fighters stumble backward, fist pressed to his nose as blood poured down his chin.
“Damn right!” Mitch shouted, clapping his hands in delight. “That’s it, Colin! Show that mofo who’s boss!”
“I’ll find you after the match,” Gage muttered, edging away from O’Donnell.
He stalked toward the locker rooms, desperate for some peace and quiet. It didn’t take him long to get ready. He was already wearing his boxing shorts, so all he had to do was strip off his hoodie and wifebeater, kick off his sneakers, and he was almost ready to go.
He sank onto the splintered wooden bench and taped up his hands, grateful that nobody was around to chat him up. Christ. He was so sick of this shit. He’d quit fighting for a reason: because he was tired. Tired of walking around black-and-blue all the time, tired of the ache in his bones. His nose had been broken so many times it was a miracle it’d stayed on his face, and he’d dealt with so many fractured ribs he was surprised he’d never punctured a lung.
Three more.
He took a breath, clinging to the reminder. Three more matches, and he and Mitch would be square, Mitch and Denny would be square. And he had a good thing going over at Sin. The club had turned a profit in its first year of business, which meant he had a ton of cash in his bank account. He didn’t need to fight anymore. He didn’t want to fight anymore.
He wasn’t sure how long he sat in the locker room. Other men wandered in and out, changing into fighter gear, shooting the shit with each other, but Gage just sat there, shoulders tense, gaze downcast, until a male voice finally called his name from the doorway.
“Holt, you’re up.” One of Mitch’s people entered the locker room. LeSean something or other.
Gage got to his feet. “Who am I facing?”
The beefy black man actually cracked a smile, something Gage had never seen him do. “Robbie O’Reilly.”
He blew out a curse. “Seriously? That crazy fucker from Dorchester? Why does he keep coming back?”
At least it made sense now, why Mitch had looked so annoyed at the thought of Gage losing. Mitch was no doubt eager for him to kick O’Reilly’s ass like he’d done last month. During their previous meeting, O’Reilly had fought so dirty Gage had no choice but to go apeshit on him, and the results had been a damn bloodbath.
“I guess he likes getting his ass whupped,” LeSean answered. “Watch yourself out there, white boy. I saw O’Reilly fight at that gym in Roxbury last week and it looks like he’s added biting to his li’l bag of tricks.”
“Wonderful.”
LeSean clapped him on the back. “Don’t sweat it. You’ll tap him out.”
Yeah, but how bad of a beating would he take before that happened?
Chapter Five
Skyler’s cell phone rang just past midnight. She’d been watching a Top Chef marathon in bed, so she was fully alert as she reached for the phone. Her heart jumped when she glimpsed Gage’s number on the screen, and she wasted no time picking up with a quick, “Hello?”