Down and Out

When Declan told me he was an underground fighter, I imagined something straight out of Fight Club. You know, bareknuckle fighting in grimy basements, with sweaty men wrestling on the floor while a blood-thirsty crowd cheers them on. But this clean, well-lit basement with a boxing ring and bleachers? Not what I expected.
They even have a full-service bar and a place to take bets.
The place is packed as Declan leads me through the amped-up crowd. People start recognizing him, and he waves or politely nods in response. They call out his name and pat him on the back. It earns us a wide berth, and for that, I’m both thankful and irritated.
Thankful, because now I don’t have to brush up against a disproportionate number of guys who are obviously drinking or drunk, based on all the cups in their hands. And irritated, because now a lot of attention is focused on Declan and the girl he’s holding hands with. It’s earning me quite a few dirty looks from the women in attendance.
We pass the betting booth and the tail end of what must have been a long line, based on how many people are here. As we head toward the ring, I see that there are actually four sections of bleachers, set up several feet back from each side of the ring. They’re filling up fast.
Just as I wonder how we’re going to find a seat, I see Marcus sitting in the front row of a bleacher section. He’s looking down at his phone, but when Declan calls out his name, he looks up and nods in greeting. He stands when we approach, glancing down at our clasped hands before meeting my eyes, his expression unreadable.
“Marcus, you know Savannah, right?” Declan asks, gesturing to me.
“Yeah, we’ve met.”
Three pleasant-sounding bells chime over the PA system, and I glance up at Declan. “What’s that?” It sounds like the little notices they give on subways before the doors close.
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.
“You’re Savannah, right?”
“Yeah,” I say, frowning as I take in her brown eyes and curly auburn hair. “I’m sorry. . . How do I know you?”
“We went to high school together. Macy Dunham?”
I remember her now. Poor Macy was probably the only one in my class who got picked on as much as me.
You would’ve thought that’d make us BFFs, right? I mean, it just makes sense for the two biggest outcasts to band together and find friendship where they can.
Well, that’s not how it happened. I never had any classes with Macy, so going up to her and saying, “Hey, we should be friends, because I don’t have any, and I know you don’t have any,” would’ve been the worst icebreaker ever. So, both of us endured the hellish years at John Adams High School alone, in our respective bubbles.
She looks so much different than the lanky, frizzy-haired girl I went to school with. Now that her acne’s cleared up and she’s finally gotten her braces off, she looks kinda . . . hot.
Go, Macy.
“Oh my god, right,” I say with feigned enthusiasm. “How are you?”
“I’m all right. Just working my way through school, one fabulous job at a time,” she says, gesturing to her tray and little black dress.
Her sarcasm makes me laugh, and I say, “Hey, at least it’s not a slutty school girl uniform. You get tired of hearing ‘Do you want extra credit?’ pretty damn fast.” I bring my glass up, the bubbles tickling my nose as I take a sip.
“What is it with these a*sholes?” she asks, leaning in so she won’t be overheard. That’s really not an option, since there’s a bona fide pool party going on in front of us, complete with squealing naked chicks splashing around in the water. Add the music floating up from the bottom floor of the penthouse, and it’s pretty much guaranteed that no one’s going to overhear us.
“They think just because I have a vagina and a tray, it makes me an easy lay. Like, what the hell? I’m just gonna spread my legs for your fat, balding ass because you fed me some bullshit line? Uh, no thanks, pencil dick. Now move along. I mean, really, what planet do they think we live on?”
I nearly choke on my drink, coughing and laughing at the same time. “In their minds, slutty clothes equals slutty girl. They don’t seem to understand that it’s a work uniform, not some Bat-Signal for sex.”
Macy practically cackles and quickly covers her mouth as she looks around. “I’d love to stay and chat, but I’d better get back to work. I can’t afford to get fired on my first day, not with the kind of money they’re paying me.” She tilts her head and narrows her eyes. “You know, I could probably get you in, if you want. My friend got me the job, but she says they’re always looking for new ‘talent.’” She rolls her eyes as she says the word.
“Oh, no, I don’t actually waitress anymore—”
“Are you sure? I’m making five-hundred bucks tonight for carrying a tray around for a couple of hours.” She chuckles. “I might be wearing a dress that’s two sizes too small while I do it, but still . . . that’s not bad.”
“Wow.” My eyes widen. “Yeah, it’s not. But I, uh, have a job already. At Declan’s gym,” I add, pointing to him in the corner as he talks with Marcus and the MC. His eyes light up as they meet mine and I return his smile, adding a little wave with my champagne flute.
“Oh.” Her brows lift as she looks over at him. “All right. Well, I guess I’ll see you around, then.”
She smiles and gives me a wave as she walks off with her empty tray, and I see Declan break away from his group and walk over to me.
“You never said there’d be an indoor pool at this after-party,” I say. “I could’ve brought my bathing suit and gone swimming.” I finish off my drink and he takes the glass from me, setting it on the tray of a passing waitress.
“And give every a*shole here a peek at what’s underneath all this?” he says, flicking the ruffles on my shirt. He grins. “Not a f*cking chance.”
I glance over at the gaggle of naked people in the pool. “According to them, I don’t actually need a bathing suit.”
Declan steps closer, the warning evident in his face and voice. “Over my dead body are you getting in that pool naked.”
“I thought we established that you’re not the boss of me here, Mr. Whitmore.”
His eyes briefly shut as he bites his lip, his mouth turning up into a wicked grin. “Are you trying to make me hard in public?” he murmurs, slipping his hands around my waist as he pulls me close. “’Cause you’re doing a fantastic job.”
I can tell. Pressed this close, I can feel every inch of his burgeoning erection against my lower belly.
Maybe I should help him realize his full potential. . .
“And give every a*shole here a peek at what’s underneath all this?” I say, slipping my hand between us to tug on the waistband of his jeans. I move lower, palming him through the denim and relishing the look of utter ecstasy on his face and the low groan that escapes him. Abruptly I stop and pull away from him, smiling up at his confused expression. “Not a f*cking chance.”
“You’re toying with me, Kitten, and I think I like it.” The small smile that touches his lips and lights up his eyes is beautiful and makes me realize that somewhere along the way, this stopped being a game. For both of us.
My smile falters, but I’m quick to cover it up with my bravado. “You love it, you weirdo.”
He glances around as he discreetly tries to adjust himself. “So who was that waitress you were talking to?”
“Oh, that was Macy. I went to high school with her.” My eyes widen as I remember what she told me. “Do you have any idea what these girls are getting paid to waitress this party? It’s insane.”
“Jimmy pays all his employees very well.” Declan shifts, suddenly looking uncomfortable. “You’re not . . . thinking about trying to pick up a couple shifts, are you?”
I’m not, but I’m interested in where he’s trying to go with this. “Why?” I ask, crossing my arms as I look up at him skeptically. This will not end well for him if he’s about to try and tell me I can’t do something. It crosses the line from cute, alpha-male bullshit to douche canoe territory.
His face hardens as he matches my stance. “Yes or no, just answer the question.”
“Are you kidding me?” I scoff, walking past him.
He grabs my elbow and says, “Wait,” as I jerk out of his grip.
“I can’t believe you think I’d do something like that. Were you not listening when I said I didn’t want to take off my clothes for money anymore? Because hello, that’s exactly what this is,” I say, gesturing to the half-naked waitresses in the room.
We’re so caught up in our own little world that we don’t see the girl approach us. It’s only until her shrill voice demands, “What the hell, Declan?” that we’re ripped out and thrust back into the present.
My blood turns cold as I turn, seeing the one girl I swore I’d cunt punch if I ever had the displeasure of seeing again. But before I can open my mouth to spew my hatred all over her, Declan says, “Goddamn it, Jamie, not now.”