Chapter Twenty-Seven

Fighter was so uncomfortable. The place was packed and Allen Cook constantly kept touching him.

Ten grand. Just put up with it for tonight.He kept repeating the mantra and smiling at whomever the man introduced. Fighter checked his watch, but before he could tuck the pocket watch away, Cook plucked it from his hand.

“That’s a nice watch,” Cook ran his fingers over the face of it. “How much?”

“It’s not for sale.”

“Everything is for sale,” Cook smirked.

“That isn’t.”

“How about we put it up for auction.”

“No,” Fighter said tightly and held out his hand.

“I’ll wipe your debt clean.”

Fighter froze. No more smarmy dates with this asshole. No more having him send men to his place with threats. He’d be clear of Cook forever because he sure as hell had learned his lesson. If he kept track of who bought the watch, surely he could buy it back? With what money? He clenched his teeth so hard that his jaw started to ache. He was jostled from behind and he turned to apologize to the elderly lady and the man at her side. When Fighter turned back to Cook, he found the man handing his watch over to the auction administrator and signing a document. Stunned, Fighter hurried over and grabbed Cook by the arm.

“I said no,” he hissed.

“Watch it,” Cook snarled in a harsh whisper. “I’m powerful enough to take whatever you have. Besides, I’ll buy it back for you since you didn’t want to use it to wipe your dept. I’ll use it as a token of my affection.”

Affection? Fighter wanted to kill the son of a bitch right where they stood. It would take only a moment to crush Cook’s windpipe, but here and now, in the middle of high society, was not the place.

“You’ll buy it back.”

“I said I would.” Cook smiled and leaned closer. Fighter stepped back, but Cook gripped his arm.

“Allen.”

Fighter almost passed out at the sound of Brick’s low, gravely rumble.

“Brick!” Allen Cook flashed his mega-watt, fake-ass smile and gripped his arm harder. Fighter was dragged around until he was face to face with the last man he wanted to see tonight.

Fighter’s mouth went dry at the sight of Brick dressed in a tux that was tailor-made for his broad shoulders and trim hips. The crisp white shirt offset by the gray-blue cummerbund turned Brick’s eyes the color of a stormy sky. All that plus the black tux jacket were a contrast to the tattoos on Brick’s neck and hands, but holy fuck—the bad boy image combined with the formal attire was mouthwatering. Fighter wished more than anything he was standing next to Brick instead of this asshole. And it suddenly dawned on him that this was the event that Brick had wanted to take him to.

“I didn’t think you could afford something like this, Allen,” Brick said silkily.

Cook’s face turned red and Fighter looked down at Brick’s shoes rather than the man’s face.

“Who’s your date?” Brick asked, still in that same smooth-as-silk voice.

“This is Fighter,” Cook glared at Brick. “He’s with me.”

“Is that right?” Brick’s tone, if anything, turned flat and lethal, his eyes like dangerous steel, and Fighter finally flicked his gaze up and over to Cook. The asshole swallowed hard and wiped a hand at the sweat beading his brow. The fear was almost comical.

Finally, Fighter looked back at Brick. Why was Allen Cook so terrified of Brick? Brick’s eyes turned from steel to a warm gray when they caught and held his own. Fear punched his chest, because he also saw rage. He knew it would be there, but it hurt anyway. He hoped to hell that Brick remembered what he’d said.

Trust me.

“Did you know Allen and I are cousins?” Brick casually asked him, as if they weren’t in the middle of a nightmare.

Fighter felt the shock travel through his whole body when Brick’s words registered. He suddenly wanted to puke. How in the hell was Brick related to such a fucking asshole? Damn it, this situation was pure bad luck.

Were they close cousins? He’d venture to say no by the way Cook was acting, the man looked positively ghastly with anger and nerves. There was something else obvious though, the bastard was scared shitless of Brick.

Why? Where did the fear stem from? Fighter gazed back and forth from Cook to Brick.

“Well, we need to be going,” Cook said and pulled on his arm with a hard grip. Fighter didn’t move for a moment.

Brick continued to stare at him along with several of the people who’d stayed to listen as things played out.

I’ll call you. Fighter mouthed the words to Brick and the man’s eyes narrowed, but he was prevented from saying anything further when he finally let Cook drag him away.

When this night was over, Fighter vowed to punch Cook in the face and spend the rest of his life making it up to Brick. If Brick forgave him. The man was a sexy God and filthy rich, he could have anyone besides a poor man with responsibilities that were too numerous to count.

Fighter tossed a glance back over his shoulder, but Brick was already swallowed up by the crush of people wanting the man’s attention.

Brick pulled his cell phone out and made a call as he walked away from the crushing crowd vying for his attention. It took every ounce of his willpower to keep moving away from Fighter. He wanted to choke the life from his cousin. Something was off about the whole fucking thing and he was going to get to the bottom of it. Why was his man—yeah, Fighter was his—with Allen?

“Hey Brick,” Jenkins answered on the first ring.

“I need you to check and see if Allen Cook has any connections to the men arrested for breaking and entering Fighter’s place.”

“Your cousin, Allen Cook?”

“That’s the one,” he growled.

“I’m on it.”

Brick ended the call and gripped the phone, wanting it to be Allen’s neck in his clenched fist.

Eventually, you motherfucker, he silently promised.