Lazarus (The Henchmen MC 7)

"I thought you were bringing your brothers," Ross said, avoiding greeting me but I got the impression he just wasn't the kind of man for social graces and wasn't overly offended by that.

"I did. Cyrus is out there figuring out which girl he is bringing back to the clubhouse tonight. Renny is placing bets. The rest are at the bar."

Ross nodded at that. "Alright, I have Grant with Brady. Pagan is with Slate. And then you with Igor to wrap things up."

"Pagan with Slate?" Lazarus scoffed, looking both surprised and darkly amused. To that, the only hint of humor I had seen in the dark, intimidating Ross Ward played with his lips as they twitched. "Are you gonna fucking hose off the ring after so me and Igor aren't slipping the fuck all over the place?"

Whatever Ross was about to say was cut off by the appearance of another suited man who I figured was some kind of guard and informed Ross that he had five minutes.

Then, about ten minutes later, Lazarus, me, and all The Henchmen men were standing near the ring as two men stepped in. I had never really seen a cage fight before, certainly not in person, and I found myself both interested and slightly sick at the prospect.

The first fight wasn't too bad. There was some blood, some moments that I had to look away from, but wasn't all that awful.

The second fight, the fight Lazarus had joked with Ross about between men named Slate and Pagan? Yeah, I understood the joke about two minutes after the men got in the cage.

Both were similar size-wise- tall, solid but not overly muscular. The one named Slate was light- light hair, light eyes. The one named Pagan was all dark- dark hair, dark scruff on his face, covered in scars. And, strangest thing yet, the Pagan guy was fighting in jeans and a wifebeater. All the other fighters had been in basketball shorts. He was in jeans.

They both seemed casual as they pounded fists and separated as the announcer got out of the ring.

But all of two minutes later- they were like feral dogs.

The way they fought was positively animalistic.

There was blood everywhere.

My stomach rolled ominously and Lazarus' hand went to my hip and squeezed. "Come on, let's get you something to drink," he offered, pulling me away from the ring to stand at the empty bar- everyone else obviously apt at the godawful, bloody battle in the ring.

"Two," Lazarus said to the bartender who nodded and reached for two glasses, filled them with ice, and sprayed the soda gun into them. "You alright?" he asked as I took my drink and sipped, leaning some of my weight into the bar, my muscles still aching with the added pain of my sore feet from the heels. "I should have warned you about how those two fight."

"Do they get paid by the pint spilled?" I asked, giving him a wry smile as I sipped my ginger ale, glad for something to somewhat settle my stomach.

"Slate has a lot of rage," Lazarus explained, shrugging.

"And Pagan?"

To that, he snorted, smile a little warm. "Pagan? Pagan is just a plain old crazy mother fucker." Not having anything to add to that, I focused on stirring some of the bubbles out of my drink. "You okay here for a minute?" he asked suddenly, making my head jerk up to look at him. "I need to get changed for my fight," he explained.

"Oh, ah, yeah... I'm fine. Just going to rest my feet here for a minute," I said with a reassuring smile.

"Alright. Be back in five and I'll stay with you until my fight." With that, he pressed a kiss to my temple as he put his drink on the bar and he moved away, leaving me completely alone there as the crowd yelled, cursed, hooted, cheered.

A minute later, another woman moved to the bar beside me, ordering a martini. "I need about six to forget all that blood," she explained, shaking her head at me.

There was a loud eruption of both joy and anger as the fight ended, Slate knocked out cold in the center of the ring as Pagan raised his arms up, victorious.

He left the ring covered in blood but didn't turn back to where Lazarus had disappeared to change which was, presumably, the locker room of sorts.

No.

Instead he walked right toward me. Us. The bar. Whatever.

He moved between me and the other woman, ordered whiskey straight and tossing it back in one swig, slamming the glass back down on the bar, leaving bloody fingerprints on the glass.

His dark eyes went to me, brows together. "You're with Laz."

"I, ah... yeah," I stumbled over my words, feeling a strange urge to squirm under his deep attention. There was something primal about him. Maybe it was the fact that he was covered in blood and sweat, but I felt it was more, it was something that seeped out of his pores.