14. Chapter 14

Chapter 14

ORION

There’s something meditative about the moments right before a fight. It’s like everything else gets turned down and all my senses crystallize. I’m able to focus on the moment and the space I’m occupying. It’s the same thing that happens when I get my hands on Elio, the whole world blotted out around me so I can zero in on what’s in front of me.

Memories of Elio’s moans and the ghost of his skin under my fingertips are the last things I need to be thinking about right now. But it’s harder to shake off the thoughts than it should be. Even with the grounding smell of sweat and blood in the air, and the white noise of the crowd roaring just outside the tunnel, I’m not as focused as I should be.

Thoughts of the Mafia underboss aren’t the only thing messing with my Zen tonight though. I close my eyes and roll my head one way, then the other, stretching the muscles along the back of my neck and drawing in deep, calming breaths through my nose. The kind of calming breaths that don’t rattle or hurt. Breaths that don’t require a ventilator. Unlike the breaths Jack is taking tonight, still stuck in that hospital bed after three days without any improvement so far. And I’ve been pretty much living in the too-hard chair at his bedside just as long.

All the cues that it’s almost time to fight have my heart rate up and my senses dialed in, my muscles twitching expectantly, adrenaline giving me energy I haven’t had in days. I open my eyes and bounce on my toes, warming up with a few jabs at the air. But underneath it, I can still feel the bone-deep weariness from too few hours of sleep and a steady diet of hospital food. Tonight might be my first loss in an official UFL fight, and I’m too exhausted to even care the way I should.

I care , but compared to other shit, winning or losing tonight feels more trivial than it ever has. Or maybe I just want to convince myself it’s trivial, because there’s a staggering amount of pressure in accepting that if I slip off the top of my game, then the UFL checks dry up. I’m already older than anybody else in the sport, past my prime if you listen to the announcers and sports reporters. And if they’re saying that bullshit when I’m still undefeated, I don’t want to imagine the headlines if and when I finally go down.

My trainer, Terry, pats me on the shoulder, jarring me out of my thoughts with a wordless reminder that it’s time to shake it all off and go do the one thing I know how to do. Make someone hurt.

“You good, Barros?” he checks, giving me a little nudge and following me down the tunnel.

I grunt around the mouthguard shoved between my teeth and nod. I’m as good as I’m going to get, anyway. And even if I weren’t, the walk down the tunnel to the ring isn’t the time to spill my personal struggles to him. He knows about Jack. He trained Jack and was almost as devastated as I was when he ended up paralyzed. Poor fucker ended up stuck with the less charismatic of the two of us, and had to say goodbye to his dream of earning a cut of the sweet sponsorship checks Jack was sure to bring in. I know that’s not the only reason Terry gave a fuck, but sometimes it’s easier to let myself be cynical and bitter about it.

As soon as my feet hit the mat, my eyes snap to the crowd. I don’t even have to try to seek out Elio among the masses. He’s right there, front and center, exactly where I expected him to be. My lips twitch with a smirk at the eager way he’s sitting on the edge of his seat, his expression ravenous.

The bell rings and I jerk my attention to the man in front of me for the first time. My opponent, Greg Nelson, a scrappy up-and-comer who’s been making waves for months now. If he lays me out tonight, it’s going to put him on the map. Add in his winning smile and the way he’s been eating up the limelight lately, and he’ll be plastered all over cereal boxes and commercials for athletic gear in no time. It almost makes the thought of losing bearable.

Almost .

Now that I’m standing here under the bright lights with the cheers from the crowd throbbing in my ears, I want to win. I want to wipe the cocky grin off of Greg’s face and make him give his post-fight interview with a fat lip. I want the press to have to twist themselves into pretzels trying to justify suggesting that I retire when I still haven’t lost a fight.

I wait for him to make his first move, tracking every twitch of his muscles and shift of his weight, but for at least five seconds he doesn’t move. Five seconds is an eternity in MMA. Five seconds is enough time to knock someone’s head clean off their shoulders. It’s enough time to win or lose a fight.

His eyes dart into the crowd, and I’m not sure who he’s looking at, or if he’s trying to figure out who I was looking at. Either way, the half-second distraction is long enough to convince me to throw out my usual playbook and strike first. I knock Nelson back with a right hook to the jaw, but he recovers quickly and gets his head back in the fight. He comes back swinging, and the arena fades into nothing more than background noise as we trade blows.

I’m slower than usual, taking more damage than I would on a typical night. But even the points he does manage to rack up on me feel like they’re only half heat. Why the hell would he bother to pull his punches though? The question settles into the back of my mind, not important enough to worry about right now. Maybe he’s not going easy on me. Maybe he’s just having an off night too.

I knock him off of his feet with an uppercut. He tries to kick my legs out from under me on his way down, but I’ve studied his fights and I’m expecting the move. I don’t give him a chance to bounce back up before I’m on him, pinning him down. Greg doesn’t give up without a tussle and a few more body blows, but eventually he taps out and I’m hauled off of him, panting for breath as I spit out my mouthguard along with a mouthful of blood.

I even manage to smile for a change in the post-fight interview. Of course, I leave my mouth bloody when I do, just to see the way the reporters squirm. Shit like that is exactly why I’ll never be the star I should have been, regardless of my win record. My life would be easier if I could play nice, but I just can’t live with the hypocrisy. These people show up to salivate over our violence and then cringe over a little bit of blood when all is said and done. They don’t like the ugly side of life? Well, join the fucking club.

It doesn’t take long before they all clear out, leaving me alone in the locker room with my ears ringing from the sudden silence. My eyelids droop and my shoulders sag with a renewed wave of exhaustion that’s right on the heels of the fading surge of adrenaline. I grab a fresh towel and wipe the sweat and blood off of my face. I can feel myself moving at half speed, my limbs heavy like I’m moving through molasses.

The sound of the locker room door opening behind me isn’t a surprise, and I don’t have to look over my shoulder to know who it is. My lips spasm with another smirk. The motion splits open the small cut, filling my mouth with the salty iron flavor of blood all over again. I bring the towel to my mouth and dab at the flow, tracking the click of Elio’s shoes across the linoleum floor one step at a time. He doesn’t say a word as he approaches, but I can hear the uptick of his breathing as he gets closer.

“You planning to lurk back there until I give you a formal invitation or what, Brat?” I ask in a low rumble, hiding the smile in my voice.

He chuckles, and it’s startling how familiar the carefree sound is. I’ve barely started to accept that Elio might not be as evil as I thought. Meanwhile, some primal, caveman part of my brain has already decided to memorize the warm vibration of his laughter and claim it as something that belongs to me. Even entertaining the idea that any sound he makes is something I could own fills me with a deep sense of satisfaction.

“Not sure yet, Boss. I was actually trying to decide whether I wanted to wind you up or give you a break for a change,” he confesses.

I snort and toss the towel onto the nearby bench before turning around to take him in. He looks the same as always, his hair neatly styled, expensive suit fitted and unwrinkled. It’s the way he always looks before I get my hands on him, anyway. Before I leave him rumpled and used with a sated smile on his face. There’s a fading bruise on his jaw, right below his ear that makes me want to beat my chest and bite him again to leave a fresh mark before this one has a chance to disappear completely.

Elio steps over the bench, stopping right in front of me. I reach for him, a twinge in my shoulder making me groan through my teeth.

His eyebrows pull together, and he looks me up and down. “You okay, Boss?” A flicker of fire and rage passes through his eyes. “Did Nelson hurt you?”

I roll my eyes. “It was a fight, genius. Hurting each other is the whole point.”

He scoffs and reaches up to drag his thumb along the side of my mouth, pulling it back with a smear of crimson across the pad. Unlike the reporters, he doesn’t flinch. Why would he? As many criticisms as I’ve managed to come up with for Elio, he’s never been a hypocrite like everyone else. He licks my blood off of his thumb without a second thought and then tilts his chin up, like he’s expecting a kiss, hoping for one, but he’s leaving the decision up to me.

After three days of hell and stress, he somehow managed to figure out exactly what I need to feel like I’m on steady ground. An emotion I don’t bother trying to name swells in my chest, and I grab him by the tie to pull him into a kiss. The flavor of blood is still lingering on my tongue, but it doesn’t seem to bother him. Elio parts his lips for me and sighs into my mouth, his cock slowly swelling against me as I stroke his tongue with mine, coaxing him into a tangle of heavy breathing and roaming hands.

My dick reacts the same way his does, getting hard and heavy as I devour his lips. But fatigue is catching up with me fast, and I end up leaning on him the way he typically melts into me. Elio breaks the kiss and drags his tongue over his damp bottom lip, his face still close to mine, our noses bumping.

“You sure you’re alright, Boss?”

“I’ll live,” I assure him. “But you could probably talk me into killing a man with my bare hands in exchange for a hot bath and a comfortable bed.” I huff a laugh so he knows I’m not serious. I probably shouldn’t put ideas like that in his head, actually. Fuck knows he might just ask me to do it.

“Well, shit. Forget the plan for tonight then. We can do that instead,” he says.

“Did we have a plan for tonight?” I remember Elio’s suggestion that we hit up a bar and rattle some cages after the fight tonight before I’ve even finished asking the question. “Dammit,” I mutter.

“Don’t worry about it. One more night won’t be the end of the world. Whatever illegal shit Casimir is up to, he’ll still be up to it tomorrow.” He shrugs.

I release my hold on him and scrub my hands over my face, dragging in a deep breath and convincing my tired body to rally.

“No, let’s get it over with.” The sooner we get started, the sooner I get paid. Besides, I would rather get this over with. Maybe Elio isn’t what I thought he was, but working for the Morettis isn’t exactly something I relish.

He studies my face for a few seconds, and I can tell he’s about to argue. I bare my teeth and put a hand over his mouth before he can ask if I’m sure again, or worse, try to insist that he knows better than I do what my body and mind can handle.

“Let me get dressed and we’ll go. Be a good brat and go have a seat so you won’t distract me.” I leave my hand over his mouth until I see the argument drain from his expression.

I put both hands on his shoulders and spin him around, then give him a patronizing pat on the ass to send him on his way. He doesn’t protest, but I’m pretty sure I hear him mutter the words “stubborn ass” on his way out of the locker room.

I grin, imagining how I’ll punish him for that later. If he wants a stubborn ass, he’ll get one.

ELIO

Death it isn’t meant to unsettle anyone. A real damn smile feels better than I thought it would.