Chapter Eight

Cali

I'd like to say I forgot about Brooks.

But he was an ever-present star in my dreams, making me wake up twisted in my sweaty sheets, with a throbbing ache between my thighs.

And because I was determined not to play into that old schoolgirl crush of mine, I ignored the need for release. Until, of course, it became the dominant thought on my mind all through my workday, even there when I was doing fun shit that should have been taking all of my attention.

But nope.

There was Brooks.

His strong body behind mine, like he'd been on the ladder, but he was doing something entirely less chaste than trying to save me from my own anxiety.

"Ugh," I grumbled, dropping my eyeshadow brush down on my sink counter, watching it draw a line of bright silver glitter shadow across the surface.

I needed to shut him out of my mind.

I'd never struggled so hard to stop thinking about a guy before. Not even when stuck in that lovey-dovey phase of a new relationship.

I guess an argument could be made for this being different because I'd been into Brooks for so long. And, yes, there'd been a time after he'd walked out of our lives that I'd been angry and upset. But underneath all of that was, well, want.

There'd only been maybe a year or so of my entire life that he wasn't right there. In my heart, in my mind.

So when he suddenly came back, but in a very different way than ever before—talking about things like fucking, being protective, putting his hands on me—it just brought it all back up and intensified it.

I glanced at myself, letting out an annoyed exhale as I reached for my mascara wand to finish my damn makeup before I made myself late.

I wasn't exactly sure why I'd decided on this event. Fights of any sort were never my thing. Maybe it was as simple as the fact that Clay always ordered the big boxing or MMA fights, having friends over to watch, yelling at the TV, having a good time, and some part of me felt like this was an homage to him.

I wasn't sure if Clay even knew this underground fight club existed. That wasn't exactly something he would have told me about. A, because he knew I didn't like fights. And, B, because he wouldn't want me to be involved in something illegal like that. Even if, apparently, this fight club place had been running for literally like generations now.

I only found out about it because I'd been at Chaz's bar and heard some guys there talking about it. I managed to get the information out of him thanks to some simple flirting.

I didn't invite Sage this time. Mostly because if there was any risk of getting into trouble, I didn't want her involved. She likely had a nice, long life ahead of her. She didn't need an arrest for attending an underground fight to deal with.

I wasn't even sure what kind of trouble you could get into for this.

I'd grown up in a very average family. No one got so much as a parking ticket. And I'd been raised to be very afraid of getting into trouble. So, yeah, I had no clue what kind of bail or sentence would be ahead of me if the cops raided the joint.

I wasn't going to let that stop me, though.

But I did go ahead and stick a small eye-gouger that had been a Christmas gift from Sage into my little clutch I was bringing. Just in case.

With that, I got in my car, and drove across Navesink Bank to some random side street where a long, low building that had clearly once been a school, was located.

The back lot was fenced off with a little intercom waiting there.

Walking up, my belly flip-flopping with anticipation, I pressed my finger into the button.

"Yeah?"

"Papa Roach," I said, remembering the password the guys at the bar had told me about. Apparently, it changed weekly, so the owners could prevent just anyone showing up all the time. It was always, they'd claimed, a name of some random aughts band name.

There was a pause before there was a beep, then the gate slid open.

The back lot was jam-packed full of luxury cars whose owners clearly got priority parking and didn't have to park halfway down the street like I had.

There was a small group moving toward the back door ahead of me, pausing to give the second passcode, before the bouncer stood to frisk the men, letting the women in without touching them.

"‘Sup, babe?" he asked when I made my way up, both impressed and mildly insulted when his gaze didn't move over my carefully chosen dress that hugged me in all the right ways.

He was a looker himself, tall and fit with dark skin, and a very expensive-looking suit that was tailored to his wide frame perfectly.

"Oh, ah, twenty-one-thirty-seven," I said, offering a smile that I hoped looked more confident than I felt.

"Yep," he said, nodding. "Open your bag for me," he demanded, making panic shoot through my system, remembering the eye gouger just casually sitting there in all its bright pink glory.

"Ah, sure," I said, starting to sweat as I opened it.

He grabbed a flashlight, shining it inside, but not actually touching anything.

I knew it when he spotted the weapon.

His gaze cut up to me, then behind me, before looking me in the eyes.

"You here alone, baby girl?"

"I, ah, yeah," I said, nodding.

To that, he exhaled a little, clicking off the light, and nodding.

"Alright. Go on in."

"I, ah, thanks," I said, not wanting to test my luck, and rushed into the back door.

Where I was met with a stairwell, leading both up and down.

The bar guys had mentioned a basement, so I headed down, trying to pretend the thudding of my heart was anticipation, not anxiety, as I came to a set of doors with that push bar across it.

It wasn't too late to turn around.

But I was trying not to let my fear win.

So I slammed my hands into the door, and moved in.

I don't know what I'd been expecting.

Something seedy, I guess.

But this basement had been transformed into some sort of luxury bar.

Sure, there was a giant cage ring toward the side.

But the rest of the place was swanky.

Dark woods, moody lighting, a long wooden bar with two gorgeous people—a man and a woman—behind making drinks.

There were a ton of seating areas. Some tables and bar chairs, other intimate leather wingback chairs in sets of two.

The people moving around were equally as glamorous. Most men were in suits and the women in dresses, making me glad I'd opted for fancy instead of casual.

Sure, there were some men and women around in jeans and tees, but they were more in the minority.

This room reeked of money.

Both for the owners of this place, of course, but also in the pockets of everyone attending.

Obviously, any sort of sporting event was something people bet on.

This was no different. There was a man standing off to the side, accepting cash, and jotting things down in a notebook. Beside him, a bigger man stood with a briefcase on a table. A briefcase that was handcuffed to his wrist. I didn't miss the guns at his waist and under his arm, either.

"Can I get you a drink?" the female bartender asked, making my gaze shoot over, feeling like I'd been caught seeing something I shouldn't. Even if those men were clearly taking their bets right out in the open for anyone to see.

"I, ah," I stammered, thinking of how I was driving, but also figuring one drink wouldn't hurt. It might even settle my nerves.

"It's on the house," a voice said from the end of the bar, making the bartender's backs straighten even as I followed the voice.

And there was another man in an expensive suit. Tall, fit, handsome with his dark hair and incredible bone structure.

"Oh, ah, no, that's okay, I can—" I started to insist.

"It's on the house," he said more pointedly to the bartender, who nodded, but then he turned and left.

"Who was that?" I asked, wide-eyed.

"Jax," the woman said. "He runs the place."

"Oh, ah, okay. Um. I guess I'll have something fruity," I told her. "I'm not picky. I just don't want to taste the alcohol."

"Got it," she said, reaching for various juices, swirling a pour of some sort of clear liquid, a spritz of clear soda, and dropped some cherries in.

"What is it?" I asked, taking it.

"I don't know. I just fucked around," she admitted, smiling at me as I took a sip.

"You should fuck around more often," I told her, getting a wink before she moved off to take more orders.

I fought the urge to find the chair closest to the corner to hide away in, and forced myself to breeze around the room, catching snippets of conversation, checking out the raised cage.

"First time?" a newly familiar voice asked, making me glance over to see the owner, Jax, standing there. He'd lost his suit jacket, and the sleeves of his matte black button-up were rolled up to reveal surprisingly strong-looking forearms.

"That obvious, huh?" I asked.

"We don't get a lot of women here alone," he said, shrugging it off.

"The doorman seemed surprised too," I agreed. "Should I be concerned?"

"Nothing'll happen to you here," he said, and there was such a surety in his voice that I immediately believed him.

"So, who is fighting?" I asked, having nothing else to talk about.

"Tonight, we have Ig. He's the son of a man who fought when my dad ran the place," Jax told me, gesturing over toward a giant of a man. "And…" he said, turning in a circle to scan the crowd for someone. Finding him, he touched my elbow as he pointed in the direction of a much smaller and younger guy. "Conor."

"He's like a third the other guy's size," I objected, brows scrunching, wondering why anyone was placing bets when it was clear who was going to win.

"Don't count Conor out," Jax said, shaking his head. "He's smaller, but he's fast. And he's got a lot of rage in him."

"I assume that's an asset?"

"The best fighters I've ever seen haven't been the biggest, strongest, or the most skilled. They're the ones who exorcise their demons in the ring."

"And that's Conor," I concluded.

"It is. Here," he said, gesturing toward a fancy raised section of the room near the ring. "Have my seat here for the fight."

"Oh, I couldn't."

"I insist," he said, once again gently snagging my elbow, and leading me toward the chair, not seeming satisfied until I sat. He struck me as a man accustomed to getting his way. "Now if you'll excuse me…"

"Cali."

"Cali," he repeated, giving me a charming smile. "Enjoy the fight."

With that, he left me to sip my drink and people watch from a higher ground.

It wasn't long before people started to move closer to the ring, sensing the beginning of the fight.

I couldn't help but feel a pang in my chest, thinking how much Clay would've enjoyed this place, how he likely would have placed his money on Conor because he always loved an underdog.

My eyes were burning as a crowd of men moved in front of where I was sitting. If I hadn't been on a raised platform, they'd have cut off my view. And I was feeling annoyed about that on principle as my eyes scanned over their bodies.

This crew wasn't wearing suits like most others around, choosing instead jeans and tees, but they seemed neatly put together with that air of importance that suggested that while they might not look like high rollers, that they had just as deep pockets as anyone else around.

I would have missed it if one of the men hadn't raised his arm, pointing to the fighters as they climbed in the ring, looking as calm as could be, like they weren't about to be in a world of pain.

But he did.

And I did.

A flash of something gold on his wrist.

A watch.

Only, it wasn't just a watch.

It was Clay's watch.

I would normally try to tell myself that I was seeing things, that it was just something similar, that there was no way.

The thing was… it was a custom watch.

It had been passed down from my grandfather to my father and, finally, to Clay. It had a face I'd never seen the duplicate of.

It had the normal times in roman numerals, of course. But it also had little circles featuring the days of the week, a day/night display, the months to the year, and moon phase indicator.

On top of all of that which made it unique enough, it was a gold watch with a deep hunter green face.

And while it worked properly, so long as you wound it, the second hand hadn't been working in years.

Maybe there was another in existence.

Who knew if my grandfather's tale about it had been correct.

Still, though, I couldn't look away.

In fact, I laser focused on it, even as the crowd cheered, and the unique sounds of fists hitting another body, and the accompanying grunts, filled the air.

I was perched on the edge of my seat, trying to get closer, trying to get a good enough view of it to put my fears to rest.

I was watching the face.

Watching the second hand.

My stomach twisted hard.

It wasn't moving.

It wasn't fucking moving.

He was wearing Clay's watch.

The watch he never would have lost or gotten rid of.

The only time he ever took it off was to place it on the nightstand before bed, then on the counter in the bathroom when he showered.

He'd had it for over a decade.

I'd never, ever, seen him without it.

I guess, in my haze of shock and grief, I'd never thought to ask about it. I think a part of me assumed that he'd had it on him when he'd been buried.

But, clearly, he hadn't had it on him when he'd crashed.

Which meant it was with his possessions.

The ones Brooks had gone through.

Gotten rid of.

I wanted to jump up, to approach the man, to beg him to let me buy it back, to offer whatever it took.

The problem was, I didn't have that kind of money.

Even used, I was pretty sure that watch would cost somewhere in the five figures.

I didn't have it.

I couldn't buy it back, even if he was willing to part with it.

It was gone forever, this piece of my family legacy, of Clay.

My lower lip trembled as I watched the man throw his arms up in the air, cheering on his fighter.

But it wasn't long before my system, so intent on not crying, for reasons I didn't even begin to understand, turned from pain to rage.

At the only person who could possibly be to blame for that watch being on someone else's arm.

Brooks.

Brooks had done this.

Packed up all of Clay's things, shipped them off to charities and pawn shops like they meant nothing. Like they weren't all just little pieces of a brother I would never get to see again.

Suddenly, I was on my feet, my heartbeat thundering in my chest as I climbed off the platform, pushing through the crowd of people, dropping my glass on a table as I passed.

"Hey, are you okay?" Jax's voice called, and it was only a second later when I felt his fingers at my elbow again, making me turn to face him.

"Yeah. I just… I have to go," I said, yanking my arm away, and slamming my hands into the bar on the doors, leaving the noise behind me with a quiet click.

"Everything okay, baby girl?" the bouncer's voice met me as I charged past him, out into the thick air, the wind kicking up, a premonition that thunderstorm the forecast had hinted at was about to blow through.

"Yeah, I… yeah," I said, rushing past him, past the lot, and around the building, only to get to the closed gate, the intercom on the other side. "Ugh!" I yelled, reaching up to shake the fence.

Not a second later, I heard the beep, then saw it sliding over.

One look back showed me the bouncer standing there, his phone in his hand.

He gave me a nod, acknowledging my silent gratitude as I rushed through, making my way down the silent side street lined with cars, until I reached my own.

"That bastard," I snapped, tossing my bag on the passenger seat as I tried and failed to stick my key in the ignition twice because my hands were so shaky with my anger.

The clubhouse was only a few streets over from the fight club, and I only felt my emotions surging as I neared it, then pulled into the lot.

Now, logic might tell someone that storming into an outlaw biker club in a rage and ready to scream at one of the members might not be the smartest idea.

What can I say?

I was anything but logical as the knob turned in my hand, and I flew inside, making the heads of several men turn over to look at me.

But I didn't even notice them.

My gaze was focused on Brooks, who'd been leaning on the bar when I'd entered, then moved to straighten, confusion scrunching his brows.

"Cal—"

"How could you sell it?" I said as I stormed over to him.

Alright.

I probably screeched that.

Especially judging by the way Brooks's brows shot up.

"Come here," he said, voice hushed as he grabbed my wrist and led me away.