Chapter Fourteen

The hotel bar is empty.

Nobody bothered to check my ID, so I ordered an old fashioned even though I have no intention of drinking it. Andre and Elliott sit on either side of me. They gulp down their drinks as if the alcohol is water. Elliott holds a bag of ice on his nose, courtesy of the hotel clerk who panicked at the sight of his bloodied-up face. I tried to clean him up after Damon and Luke finally left us alone, but we didn't have much time before the convention hallway filled with guests going home for the night. Apparently, none of the other fights compared to the one between brothers.

"Are you sure he doesn't need a doctor?" I ask Andre for the third time.

"It's not broken."

"Are you sure?"

"Rose," he barks. "I'm sure."

I sigh, frustrated. The cloudy bruise on the bridge of Elliott's nose is darkening by the minute. Beneath the bar counter, our fingers are intertwined. He hasn't moved his hand away since our kiss.

Elliott King kissed me. I can still feel his lips against mine. I've only kissed one other person in my life, and that was Gemma, so this is brand new territory. Elliott's rough, all angles and ridges, but kissing him was soft. Safe.

Maybe he's exceptional because he's kissed half the school.

I swallow some of my drink.

Andre says, "I still can't believe you did that."

"I still can't believe you let her," Elliott replies.

Stepping into the fight was careless and impulsive, but it might have saved Elliott's life.

No lesson learned.

Orange lights brighten the empty tables across the bar. The two bartenders watch us, checking their watches impatiently. It's almost two in the morning. They'll be closing soon. But with the heat of adrenaline still pumping through my veins, I feel like doing anything but sleeping.

"Do you think your family went back home?" I ask Elliott.

"Hopefully," Elliott murmurs, pressing ice to his nose.

We spoke with them for a minute or two after Damon showed up. When Elliott asked why he didn't tell him that his brother was coming, his dad responded that it would make for "better entertainment."

"Please promise me that you won't agree to anything my dad suggests."

He sounds desperate. The last thing I expected when I stepped into the ring was to earn the admiration of Damon King.

"You think he would want me to fight?" I ask, tilting my chin.

"Maybe," Andre butts in. "There's not a lot of women in this sport. People would pay extra—"

Elliott interrupts, "It doesn't matter."

He meets my eyes with a pleading stare, which puts me even more on edge. Elliott is not the type to beg for what he wants.

"Promise me," he implores.

He doesn't have to ask again. I would be a fool to involve myself any further in this. I'm risking everything I've built: my college plans, my father's trust, by attending the bare-knuckle match tonight.

"I promise. Trust me, I want to keep all my limbs on my body."

Andre chuckles and finishes off his vodka soda.

"Do you ever fight in these?" I ask him.

"Sometimes. The men upstairs prefer that I stay on the sidelines. They want me to keep the Atlanta branch running, not dying in a ditch somewhere."

"You both keep mentioning the people above us like they're some sort of mythical creatures," I scoff, taking another small sip of whiskey. "Who are they?"

"Don't know," Elliott admits. "We've only met a few but never the bosses."

"There's not a single person in charge," Andre adds. "Most regions have their own hierarchies. Like the Northeast, for example. There are a few people there who oversee all of the New York, Pennsylvania, and Massachusetts rings. I met one, once. Scary lady."

"So, if the police want to make an arrest, who would they go for?" I ponder, narrowing my gaze on Andre. "You?"

Elliott and Andre laugh. They glance at each other as if recalling a private memory.

"We don't really have to worry about the police, if you know what I mean." Andre says.

Elliott leans into my ear. "The police are in on it."

He catches the glass when it falls out of my hand. I should have assumed given the amount of people in the arena tonight that the police at least knew something about The Ring. There's no way a secret this big could stay a secret.

"He's right," confirms Andre. "A lot of them show up to make bets."

I grimace. "That's so messed up."

From behind the bar, one of the staff members informs us that they're closing for the night. I slide my empty glass across the counter.

"What time do we have to get up tomorrow?"

Andre glances at his watch, then wearily back to me. "Four hours from now."

Elliott and I groan. Andre pays our tab then leads us back into the lobby.

"Sleep well," he yawns, turning the corner toward his room. My eyelids grow heavy with exhaustion as the adrenaline leaves my system. Elliott and I saunter into the elevator. He leans against the wall, squeezing the bag of ice in the hand that isn't holding mine.

"Are you okay?" I question.

"No."

His stare flickers between our intertwined fingers and my face, as if he's trying to figure out how this possibly could have happened. I can't read his expression, but he's not happy. I pull my hand away.

"My father," he sighs, frowning at the loss of touch. He's cold and distant again.

"There's nothing that he could possibly say that would make me want to be a part of this," I state. "Trust me."

"I do. It's him I don't trust."

The elevator stops at my floor.

"We'll talk about this later. Get some rest," Elliott suggests.

I don't argue. The tiredness has hit, turning my brain to mush. I move the bag of ice, which is now just a puddle of cold water, back to his nose.

I whisper, "You too."

He nods. The elevator door closes, and he disappears upstairs. Without his hand on mine, I feel like something is missing, like a part of me has been stripped away without my permission. I tip toe into my room and turn on the shower. Sofía is snoring by the time I get out.

For the next few hours, I barely sleep, kept awake imagining the feeling of Elliott's lips on mine. My alarm goes off right as I slip into a dream. A harsh cramp eats away at my stomach. I let out a hushed moan. I shouldn't have drank so much.

Across the room, Sofía pops out of bed. She's downstairs by the time I get up. I stumble into the bathroom and plop down onto the toilet. There's a small stain of blood on my underwear.

"Shit," I grumble.

Of course, I haven't had my period in weeks, and now that I have a long day ahead it shows up. Luckily, I spot a box of tampons on the ground that Sofía brought. I shove a few into my bag before making my way to the elevator. Elliott stares me down from the corner of the lobby. He's dressed in a pair of sweatpants and a long-sleeved jacket that hides most of the evidence from yesterday.

Everything that happened last night comes flooding back in a wave.

The kiss.

He wanted to kiss me, and he did. I kissed him. And it felt like heaven.

He starts in my direction. I push away a piece of hair from my face.

"Hey," Elliott says with a smirk.

He's holding a plate of scrambled eggs from the buffet. The injury on his nose is already healing.

"Hi," I respond.

"Muffin?"

I nod eagerly, then scarf down half of it in one bite. We join the rest of the group around Andre.

"If we get through this morning match, we'll be in the finals," he explains. He turns to Riley. "You're up first."

I high five Riley, who's nervously rubbing the back of his neck. Andre shoves a croissant into his mouth before herding the group of us out to the shuttle bus. I steal the seat next to Elliott and notice a layer of concealer across his nose. No wonder the injury looked so much better.

"Did you sleep?" I ask him.

"Nope."

Instead of going to the break room, we walk straight into the arena to watch Riley's fight. He's a bundle of nerves, but I'm not sure why. Strength and confidence radiate off of him when he spars, sometimes even more than Elliott. He's going to be fine. He pulls his locs into a bun atop his head and salutes us goodbye before entering the ring.

Riley barely wins the first round, but he finds his confidence again during the second and third. We rush him as he exits the ring, and in true Riley fashion, he credits all his success to us.

"You're up next," I inform Elliott.

He shrugs, not displaying the slightest bit of apprehension. The semifinals will take place at noon, two hours from now. We make our way back to the break room to wait it out.

"Every single one of you has impressed me this weekend. It's been incredibly rewarding to watch," Andre says, "Rose, your moral support is unmatched."

I smile not knowing if he is referring to my stint last night with Luke or my cheering during the tournament. Either way, I'm not sitting on the sidelines for our next competition. I don't care how many private lessons it takes.

"How are you?" I ask Sofía, who has barely spoken since this morning.

"Better. Ready to go home."

I couldn't agree more. This trip has been exciting but exhausting. I miss my own bed. At 11:30 a.m., Andre gathers everyone to stretch. Elliott sits on the floor next to me, half attempting to touch his toes.

"You nervous?"

"Nope," he replies, straight-faced.

The same bearded man from yesterday escorts us back to the arena. Elliott remains at my side.

"Good luck," I whisper.

For a second, I consider kissing him, but that idea vanishes when I remember that we still haven't talked about what happened. He fist-bumps Andre before making his way into the ring.