highbrow nor classy. Trashy was more like it. People were staring because they were trying to decide what category to place me in. Easy or hard.
The men were trying to work out how easily they could get into my pants, and the women were gauging how easy it would be to cancel out their competition. I’d find no friends here, not that I was looking.
Pushing through the throng, I jammed myself against the fence, staring into the cage. It was a crude contraption with a concrete floor. No padding, no safety net…just a wire fence and a couple of beefy looking blokes that acted as security. There was nothing safe about it. When my gaze settled on the brown stains all over the illuminated floor, which were obviously dried blood, I swallowed hard.
“What are the rules?” I asked a guy standing to my right.
He looked me up and down and began to laugh. “Rules? There are no rules, sweetheart.”
I raised my eyebrows, glancing back to the dried blood.
“You look a little lost,” the man said, beginning to crowd my personal space. “You wanna—”
“No, thank you,” I snapped, moving back into the crowd, away from the creeper. No rules? I wondered how many fighters were hospitalized, or worse, killed in there.
Moving through the crowd, I found a space further along the edge of the cage, a sick fascination drawing me to the sidelines. The air was thick with excitement, an animalistic electricity…and it was catching.
Curling my fingers through the chain-link, I surveyed the faces around me, trying to see who carried more weight, who was in charge, and who was calling the shots. So far, it all looked pretty evenly split between the punters and the fighters. It was a very ‘them and us’ mentality. The gods and their subjects.
My attention was pulled to the side as a man entered the cage, positioning himself in the middle of the pool of light. He was in full referee garb, a cordless microphone in his hand, and when people began to notice him standing in the center of the ring, they began to fall silent. He raised the microphone to his lips and practically roared into the thing.
“Welcome, one and all, to The motherfucking Underground! ” Cheers and whistles erupted around me, the air alive with energy. “This is our first bout of the evening, and fuck, do we have a good one for you.” He pointed to his left, where a section of the cage swung inwards. “He’s the meanest son of a bitch out there, he’ll fuck you up with a single blow to the head…then he’ll stomp on it. It’s Crowbar !”
The crowd roared and feet thundered on the bleachers behind me as the first fighter strode into the cage.
He was all muscly and mean looking, his face hard, his eyes dark with pent-up energy. As he did a lap around the cage for added effect, I realized he had old bruises peppered all over his torso. Yellow splotches that must only be a few days old. How often did these guys fight?
“ And now …” My attention was pulled back to the announcer. “Please welcome the man the ladies throw themselves at, the king of the cage, and the animal himself… Rebel! ”
Sound erupted around me, cheers, whistles, and the thundering of feet against the bleachers increased ten-fold compared to what they gave Crowbar. Whoever this Rebel was, he seemed to be the crowd favorite around here. Obviously, I’d picked a good night to come crack this joint open.
Then he stepped into the light, and I understood what all the fuss was about.
Rebel stood tall and proud, a cocky grin on his face gave away that he was soaking up the attention like a sponge. He wore nothing but a pair of black shorts with a white Everlast logo stitched at the front. His feet were bare, his legs, and from the waist up. I’d never seen a man as beautiful and powerful as the specimen that stood in front of me. The crowd dropped away, and all I could see was him. Bloody hell , I was having a visual orgasm.
Crowbar was something to look at but Rebel…my gaze was
The men were trying to work out how easily they could get into my pants, and the women were gauging how easy it would be to cancel out their competition. I’d find no friends here, not that I was looking.
Pushing through the throng, I jammed myself against the fence, staring into the cage. It was a crude contraption with a concrete floor. No padding, no safety net…just a wire fence and a couple of beefy looking blokes that acted as security. There was nothing safe about it. When my gaze settled on the brown stains all over the illuminated floor, which were obviously dried blood, I swallowed hard.
“What are the rules?” I asked a guy standing to my right.
He looked me up and down and began to laugh. “Rules? There are no rules, sweetheart.”
I raised my eyebrows, glancing back to the dried blood.
“You look a little lost,” the man said, beginning to crowd my personal space. “You wanna—”
“No, thank you,” I snapped, moving back into the crowd, away from the creeper. No rules? I wondered how many fighters were hospitalized, or worse, killed in there.
Moving through the crowd, I found a space further along the edge of the cage, a sick fascination drawing me to the sidelines. The air was thick with excitement, an animalistic electricity…and it was catching.
Curling my fingers through the chain-link, I surveyed the faces around me, trying to see who carried more weight, who was in charge, and who was calling the shots. So far, it all looked pretty evenly split between the punters and the fighters. It was a very ‘them and us’ mentality. The gods and their subjects.
My attention was pulled to the side as a man entered the cage, positioning himself in the middle of the pool of light. He was in full referee garb, a cordless microphone in his hand, and when people began to notice him standing in the center of the ring, they began to fall silent. He raised the microphone to his lips and practically roared into the thing.
“Welcome, one and all, to The motherfucking Underground! ” Cheers and whistles erupted around me, the air alive with energy. “This is our first bout of the evening, and fuck, do we have a good one for you.” He pointed to his left, where a section of the cage swung inwards. “He’s the meanest son of a bitch out there, he’ll fuck you up with a single blow to the head…then he’ll stomp on it. It’s Crowbar !”
The crowd roared and feet thundered on the bleachers behind me as the first fighter strode into the cage.
He was all muscly and mean looking, his face hard, his eyes dark with pent-up energy. As he did a lap around the cage for added effect, I realized he had old bruises peppered all over his torso. Yellow splotches that must only be a few days old. How often did these guys fight?
“ And now …” My attention was pulled back to the announcer. “Please welcome the man the ladies throw themselves at, the king of the cage, and the animal himself… Rebel! ”
Sound erupted around me, cheers, whistles, and the thundering of feet against the bleachers increased ten-fold compared to what they gave Crowbar. Whoever this Rebel was, he seemed to be the crowd favorite around here. Obviously, I’d picked a good night to come crack this joint open.
Then he stepped into the light, and I understood what all the fuss was about.
Rebel stood tall and proud, a cocky grin on his face gave away that he was soaking up the attention like a sponge. He wore nothing but a pair of black shorts with a white Everlast logo stitched at the front. His feet were bare, his legs, and from the waist up. I’d never seen a man as beautiful and powerful as the specimen that stood in front of me. The crowd dropped away, and all I could see was him. Bloody hell , I was having a visual orgasm.
Crowbar was something to look at but Rebel…my gaze was
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