Renewing Their Vows
That is, until I sense someone’s attention on me and the hair on the back of my neck stands up. Glancing around, it’s not long before I find the source of my discomfort.
Curtis Tennison sits on the opposite side of the ring.
Watching me.
He licks his lips, throwing me a wink, and I blanch, acid rising in my throat.
As if sensing my alarm, the bodyguard sidesteps and blocks the gangster from view.
But it’s then that I notice he’s with several other men. I don’t have a history with them, the way I do with Tennison, but they’re also known for being integral in most of the illegal practices that take place in South Boston. While Tennison was in prison, these men were more or less in charge of running the streets and I only know that because North pointed them out to me, unnecessarily telling me to keep my distance. As if I would have some reason to come into contact with men who run illegal gambling rings and extort local business owners for protection money. It never occurred to me now that they’d be in league with Tennison, but of course they are. His influence stretches into every dark corner of Boston, it seems.
Does this mean more than just Tennison will have my husband under their thumbs after he throws this fight?
When the lights go out and the announcer’s voice blares from overhead, a sick feeling pervades my belly, making it swim with nausea. This is it. It’s happening.
“Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the main event.”
The cheers reverberate through the arena, lights flickering, bass shaking the ground.
My heart starts to pump.
North told me to trust him and I’m trying. I’m trying so hard. If I didn’t have faith in him, I wouldn’t have come here tonight. But it’s hard to be trusting when I saw the deal made with my own eyes and North never denied it once. It’s even harder when I haven’t held him in my arms for a week. Haven’t been in our home, experiencing his comforting presence around me. Our encounter at Whiskey Tavern almost seems like an erotic dream I conjured up. If it wasn’t for the fingertip bruise marks he left on my hips, I might believe that.
With that encounter at the forefront of my mind, a hot shiver works its way down my spine when his name is announced. The sight of him storming out of the tunnel, backed by his trainer and manager, packs a sensual punch. I cross my legs tightly to lessen the impact of my clenching sex, but it doesn’t help. He’s incredible. A male work of art. A muscular marvel with a severely beautiful face. It’s hard to believe this man being celebrated by thousands is the same man who has been following me in the shadows for a week. But it’s him. It’s my husband.
As he draws closer, his gaze zeroes in on me—heats considerably—and remains for long moments, right up until he climbs into the ring, taking his corner. Women scream when he removes his robe and throws it to his manager, but he doesn’t acknowledge the praise. He’s too busy prowling like a sleek animal side to side, waiting for his opponent. Shadowboxing.
Pride moves inside of me. Look at the boy from Southie I fell in love with at first sight. Regardless of the outcome, he’s about to have his first professional fight—and that’s something. It’s damn well something.
Through a veil of moisture, I watch the fight start.
My fingernails dig into the edge of the seat cushion, breath suspended in my lungs.
They trade jabs, getting used to each other.
North takes a hard right across the jaw, but his eyes remain focused and he comes back swinging, moving like a machine, the ridges of his back flexed and sweating. And he wins the first round. It takes all of my willpower to remain seated as they bandage cuts and squirt water into his mouth between rounds. His eyes find me once again over his shoulder before the second round. They flicker to the bodyguard, too, as if to reassure himself I’m being protected.
North loses the second round, but it’s a close call.
Finally, we reach the third and my chest fills with cement. I glance over at Tennison and the other men and they’re nodding at each other, looking smug, while the rest of the audience has no idea the outcome has already been decided. I ache to shout at North to come down out of the ring. To come home. But I know that’s impossible. He’s in too deep now. He’s agreed to deliver a loss. Failing to do so now would endanger him even more.
The bell dings and the fighters dance toward the center of the ring.
They trade a few left jabs—and then I see it. North leaves the other man an opening. Just a small window, leaving the boxer no choice but to take advantage. Oh God, North is really doing it. He’s going to throw the fight. A right cross comes speeding toward his jaw like a fist-sized bullet. But at the last second, he feints left, the punch sailing right past him. And with his opponent off balance, he delivers a right uppercut that has the crowd going wild.