Riot

I blink. “What will you do, Ellen?”

She beckons to Natasha who sidles over to her. When she bends over to hear what Ellen whispers in her ear, I bet she flashes the whole of the club.

I’d laugh if I could, but there’s a lump the size of Illinois in my throat.

Natasha straightens, a wad of pale pink cloth with a symbol—a castle?—embroidered in golden thread in her hands. She steps off the platform, striding away, strangely steady on those narrow heels.

“Will you tell me what’s going on?” My attention is back on Riot. He’s leaning against the ropes of the ring as a young guy tapes his hands. In the other corner, the Crusher is ready and waiting, cracking his knuckles. “Ellen?”

“This fight is rigged. Beating Riot up, putting all their money on the Crusher. Well, we are betting on Riot. Stand up.”

“What?”

She takes my hand in a shockingly strong grip and pulls me up with her. I have no idea what is happening, but I see Natasha climb onto the ring and tie the cloth around Riot’s arm, then gesture toward us.

What in the world?

He straightens, looking up, and a spotlight swings to bathe us in blinding light. Ellen lifts our entwined hands, and the crowd goes wild.

But all my attention is on the ring. On Riot’s wide-eyed gaze, the smile pulling on his lips. On the Crusher, at the fury and disbelief written all over his face.

“You gave him a token,” I whisper. “What is this, a medieval tournament?”

“That’s what it is to him. To Crusher. An old game of power.”

“Jesus, Ellen, what have you done? The Crusher is pissed out of his mind. He’ll kill Riot!”

“No, he won’t. See,” she explains as the spotlight swings away, leaving us in darkness so sudden I think I’ve gone blind, “this is a game of focus. And now I’ve taken it away from him.”

“Riot didn’t want me here.”

“Riot doesn’t know what he needs,” Ellen mutters.

“Why is the Crusher so furious?” I ask as we sit back down. “Who are you anyway?”

“He didn’t expect me here. I’ve never come to any of his matches, even though he always invites me. Now I’ve come, and not for him. In one moment, he felt all the elation and all the disappointment in the world. See,” she goes on, her voice detached, clinical, “I’ve just crushed him, crushed his spirit. Crushed the Crusher.”

So not funny. “Why would you know how the Crusher’s mind works?”

“Because I know my son.”

Oh shit. “The Crusher’s your son.” Of course. “And you’ve been backing his opponent.” Something bitter spills in my mouth. “Paying him to pet his hair. Why?”

“I already told you. Riot is the son I would have wanted. Clay...The Crusher, he killed Markus to get my attention. He fights for my attention, whereas Riot has always fought to survive in a bad life. I loved Clay’s father. Sergei was a kind man. But he took Clay away from me because I had...problems.” She waves a hand. “With drugs. I was young, and beautiful, and wanted to have fun. He spoilt Clay, made him think he’s the center of the universe, introduced him to this violent, bloody sport and then died of a heart attack.”

God. “And now what?”

“Now the crowd knows Riot has my protection, making it more difficult for the bastards of the club to hurt him on purpose or be unfair again. They know my bet is on him. And we will watch as Riot teaches Clay a lesson normally learned on the mean streets where he grew up.”

“What sort of lesson?”

“A lesson in love and compassion.”

Chapter Twenty-Two

Riot

Need to get my A-game on. Being here, facing the Crusher, is bad enough, and my concentration was shattered to bits when I was shoved into the wall in the lockers room, then punched off my feet and kicked around until I tasted blood.