Making Their Vows
“No, Collier,” I say firmly, pushing him off me. “Please don’t ask again.”
“You’ll cave eventually,” he laughs, but there’s something ugly in his eyes. This boy doesn’t like to be rejected. It doesn’t happen to him very often—if ever. “Maybe once I beat the shit out of some poor asshole in this club, you’ll get turned on for the first time in your life.”
Everyone laughs at that.
Heat steals up the sides of my neck, making my ears throb.
It’s no secret they think I’m a prude.
But there’s nothing I can do about that image unless I start sowing my oats—and I can’t seem to locate them. My oats are missing in action.
Darkness envelops us as we walk beneath the overpass, stopping outside of an unmarked, steel door. A passerby would walk right by without acknowledging the beat-up entrance. The only thing to indicate there is something unique on the other side is the stark white and green arcs of paint splashed above the door.
Collier strides right up to it, yanking on the handle, cursing when it’s locked.
He knocks loudly while our friends huddle together, giggling, drunk, this dangerous situation just another amusement to them. They believe we’re untouchable. And in most cases, I would agree. Money makes us immune to almost anything negative.
But the Hellmouth is an unknown.
There are rumors that people have died in fights at this place, their bodies tossed unceremoniously into the river. Or found weeks later in the trunk of a car at the airport. It’s a bloody, no rules, ruthless place that is a far cry from the gentleman’s matches Collier is used to.
Maybe it’ll do him good to get his nose broken.
Startled by that bloodthirsty thought, I wrap my arms around my middle, trying to keep warm. We went to dinner earlier tonight at the country club, so I’m wearing a silk, dove gray dress that brushes me mid-thigh. There are pearls in my ears. To say I’m going to be a fish out of water in this establishment is a major understatement.
The steel door groans open and a giant man with a newsboy cap fills the space, a lit cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth. When he sees us, he immediately starts to laugh. “Well check out the cast of Riverdale,” he drawls in a thick, South Boston accent. “Yous lost or something?”
“We know exactly where we are.” Collier holds up a fist fill of hundred-dollar bills. “I’m here to fight your best guy.”
The doorman takes a long pull of his cigarette, the sound of raucous cheering bursting out of the doorway behind him. “That right, pretty boy?”
“Yeah. That’s right,” Collier sniffs, starting to look irritated with the man’s lack of immediate respect. “You got anyone in there who wants to take on the regional champ?”
Slowly, the man’s mouth pulls into a grin. “Oh yeah, I think we’ve got someone.”
A few seconds later, we’re walking down the dark, dripping stone hallway, following the doorman. Up ahead, the light grows brighter, the cheers louder. More distinct. And then the heart of the Hellmouth comes into view. It’s a makeshift boxing ring. More like a slightly elevated platform surrounded by actual rope. Bright spotlights are situated in the corners of the stone den, highlighting the faces of spectators in a harsh glow. Casting scary moving shadows on the walls. There are two men in the ring battling with bare fists wrapped in a few layers of tape, their bodies glistening with sweat.
One of those men stops me dead in my tracks.
Future Grace sets down her teacup and lowers her glasses.
Who…is that?
My attention whittles down to the brutal young man throwing punches to the sound of shouts and whistles. He’s unlike anything I’ve ever seen in my life. There is nothing gentlemanly about him. With a cut bleeding under one eye and a savage smile on his face, he’s not from my world. His muscles are cut and glistening, his eyes black with focus. Determination.
A little bullet of heat fires right into my belly and knocks me back a step, the warmth spreading to…everywhere. Suddenly I’m not just hugging myself for warmth, I’m hugging myself to hide my erect nipples. To hide the goosebumps popping up all over my arms.
The fighter throws a right cross, his back muscles flexing, that fist connecting with his opponent’s face—and down goes the other man, lying motionless on the platform.
And without delay, the fighter’s gaze zips straight to me, his sweaty, dark brown hair flopping down over one eye, a frown pulling his brows together.
He takes a slow step in my direction and I start to tremble. What is happening to me?
“Holy shit, look at Grace,” laughs Bianca. “Mystery solved. She likes to slum it.”
Without taking my attention off the fighter—I don’t think I could if I tried—I feel Collier’s gaze rake me head to toe. “Grace,” he barks, yanking me closer by the elbow.