“You all right?” His question is without ulterior motive or jealousy. He honestly wants to know if I’m okay.
I shake my head, tilting it to meet his inquiring stare. “I-I don’t know. Maybe too much champagne.” Maybe being near you blows my mind. I give a forced smile and K squeezes my hand under the table.
From the way he presses his mouth into a tight line, I’m pretty sure he doesn’t believe me. Or maybe he’s pissed over the dress. Thankfully, K doesn’t press for more. I couldn’t explain how I feel even if I wanted to, which I don’t. How do I tell him his eyes make me uneasy, but at the same time his presence sends a warm, protective feeling straight to my heart?
K glances over, dropping his gaze to the low-cut red dress and my voluptuous breasts. He gives me a dark, hungry look that leaves no doubt what he’s thinking.
Oh hell. I’ll never make it through dinner.
Killer
“Meu filho, where is your head?”
I flinch at Gabriel’s question. “I’m here, just… getting in my zone.”
He laughs loudly as he weaves the red wraps around my fingers and palm. “You? You’re always in the zone. You are the zone!”
I ignore the teasing. He’s right. I’m off today. My wandering mind won’t make a bit of difference on the outcome. Once I’m in the cage, I’m one hundred percent focused on my opponent, on the only thing I’m good for… fighting. Even if I’m not all there, I’ll still slaughter the other guy. I’m that confident in my skill.
Britt made herself scarce after fleeing dinner Thursday night. It didn’t make any sense. To let me fuck her into the mattress, show up in that dress, flaunt her delectable body, making me burn with jealousy, give boners to every single fighter and AFL executive in the room, and then take off without so much as a goodbye tossed my way.
We crossed paths briefly at weighin yesterday. Gabriel asked if I needed to consult Britt for any last-minute problems or issues. I could have used the opportunity to confront Britt, to ask what the fuck happened, but I decided it’s better to let her go. I’m not the guy who sits down and hashes out feelings. I don’t have feelings.
And she doesn’t owe me a goddamn thing.
Jackson Wolfe, however, needs to be at the receiving end of my fist sooner rather than later. When I saw him touching Britt Thursday night, I nearly jumped over the table and strangled him in a rear naked choke. The bastard is lucky Gabriel reminded me I would be disqualified if I made a scene. If he hadn’t, a hospital room was in Wolfe’s immediate future.
Fortunately, my memory is long, and waiting is something I can manage. I’ll be back in Atlanta and in the cage with Jack soon enough.
“Come, come!”
Gabriel claps his hands, waving the team in. The team consists of Gabriel, my cutman Pete Emery, that creepy little prick Max, and myself. I hate ritualistic bullshit team building crap, but I respect Gabriel, so I put my hand in the center of the huddle with everyone else and shout the proper cheer when prompted.
The door to our prep room opens, and a man in an AFL polo and a headset signals for us to follow.
Gabriel grins. “Let’s go!”
The man brings us to a halt at the doors to the event center, waiting for our cue. The beginning notes of Skillet’s “Monster” flood the arena and it’s time. AFL employees fling open the double doors, exposing thousands of fans screaming in the darkness, bright spotlights highlighting the octagon, and the undeniable thirst for blood hanging low in the rafters.
I start down the path, following a man who walks backwards with a massive camera aimed at me. The lyrics of the song convey what everyone who looks in my eyes knows to be true—I hide a monster, caged and locked up until the moment I step into the octagon, where the layers peel back and the monster is exposed.
Gabriel and Pete stop at the stairs leading into the cage. Journalists and who-the-fuck-knows who else form a tight, raucous ring around us. Gabriel grabs the back of my neck, pulling me close until our foreheads touch.
Gabriel’s dark gaze meets mine without fear or hesitation. It’s unnerving, and Gabriel notices the tension in my eyes.
“Stay focused, meu filho. You got this one, easy.” He removes his hand, smacking my shoulder.
Pete puts in my mouth guard after offering me water. “No problem, Killer. You’re gonna slay him.” He slathers Vaseline all over my face and brows and steps aside for the official.
I nod and turn to the AFL official. He pats me down, skimming his hands over my skin and doing all the required ringside checks—ears, hands, groin, feet—and has me open my mouth to check for my mouth guard. Satisfied, the ref does the same for my opponent, Darius “Demon” Fernandez. Like me, the guy is new, but this is his second fight.