It was one thing to see Candy waltz into my dressing room like she belonged there, but seeing her standing next to Raven is unsettling. I thought I scared her enough to get her to back off. Apparently whatever Dominick is paying is worth her continued humiliation. Candy spent the entire time in my dressing room, sitting in the corner on a plastic folding chair. Blake even made her and her slutty sidekick face the wall just to make a point.
I force my thoughts back to Del Toro and the fight. Nothing can throw me off my game. Not one fucking thing. Ten minutes. I need to stay up for the first two rounds. After that, game over. My eyes slide back to Raven like they’re magnetized.
“Get your head in the fight, Slade. Your girl’s still gonna be there when it’s over,” says Owen from behind me.
I nod. He’s right. I need to focus on the fight and keep the buzzing in my head down to a minimum. Candy works for the enemy, and seeing her so close to Raven makes me wish I’d locked my girl in the bedroom. Maybe I shouldn’t have had her come tonight. I could have set her up somewhere, far away from here, until the outcome was determined. But I need to see her face to stay grounded, to control the rage that’ll be riding me hard.
Del Toro stands in his corner, giving me the stare-down. I’d give almost anything to knock that confident look right off his scarred face. Almost.
The ref motions for us to meet in the middle of the octagon. He gives us the speech they always give before a fight about no hits below the belt and make it a clean fight. His words may as well be spoken in Japanese as much as I’m paying attention. Instead, I’m locked eye to eye with Del Toro. The ref yells something and then repeats it. It’s on the repeat that I hear he wants us to tap knuckles. Fuck that.
“You’re going down, you little bitch,” Del Toro growls as he takes his fighting stance.
He has no idea.
I raise my fists and we face off. My blood sizzles with restrained aggression.
The ref waves his hand between us. “Fight.”
Del Toro and I circle each other, sizing each other up, fists at the ready. I focus on his hands, keeping his legs on radar. The crowd roars over shouts from our cornermen. Mine yell, “Take a hit!” His shout, “Take him down!”
Del Toro turns his fist, palm up, taunting me. “Come on, *. Take a shot.”
My jaw grinds against my mouth guard. This cocky fuck thinks I can’t lay him out. I mock swing. He flinches. Yeah, fuck you.
“Get movin’, guys,” the ref says. “Fans didn’t pay to watch two fairies circling the maypole—Fight.”
No more milking the clock.
I drop my guard. He throws the quick left. I dodge it. The crowd cheers. We circle again, and his right leg sweeps at my feet. I jump back. I feel the buzz in my head. My muscles coil. I find my groove and right jab a heavy body blow. He doubles, winded, but recovers. His fist comes at me. I duck. Shit. If this fight goes to decision, I’d win. I need to get hit.
I rush Del Toro and slam him against the fence, holding him in a clinch. A barrage of punches hammer my back.
My leg snakes around one of his, keeping him off balance. He attempts a knee to my thigh, but my hold locks him down. He tries for a chokehold. I bury my shoulder deeper into his chest. My body constricts around his. The clock ticks on.
“Break it up!” The ref pushes us apart.
Arms raised, I stand back. The ref waves his hand between us. Fight’s back on.
Del Toro comes at me, head down, aiming for my gut. His signature move. He’s going for the take down. The split second before he hits, I check the clock. A minute and thirty-two seconds left. His shoulder slams into my abdomen, taking us both down. I land on my back, my lungs contracting for breath, and he straddles my leg in half guard.
Shit. Not good.
He rears back for the ground-and-pound. I throw my head to the side and cross my arms to protect my face. Blow after blow pound against my forearms. Pain rockets through my body. The buzz a steady hum in my head. Adrenaline shoots through my veins.
With my free leg, I brace my foot against the mat. The blows continue. Ringing in my ears, the buzz goes nuclear. I need to get to my feet.
My heel digs deep. I thrust my hips, bucking Del Toro off. I’ve got the mount. I pull back, landing a blow that sends blood to the mat. My instincts want victory, to finish him now, but reason stills my fist.
A horn sounds and the black-and-white striped shirt of the ref is in my face.
Round one over.
I jump to my feet and head to my corner. My head starts to clear. Shit, that was close. My cornermen shout orders at me while I rinse my mouth out. Blake stands back, and my eyes meet his. He raises his eyebrows and tilts his head. He knows what happened. I came seconds away from flipping the switch. I nod. He holds up one hand, all five fingers splayed. Five more minutes. I need to hold it together for five more minutes. He drops his hand and motions to the octagon.
Round two.
Del Toro’s bleeding. Fuck, I need to get hit more. Concentrate on the end game. My girl.
In the stands, Raven covers her mouth. She looks scared. Five more minutes, five more fucking minutes and she’s mine.