Page 27 of The Masks We Burn

Focus, Cassidy.

My father’s voice snaps me back to where I am, back to the hotel room, and to what has me all caught in Amora’s web in the first place.

I open my bag and grab the Under Armour shorts with the looser running shorts and make quick work of changing. I wrap my hands before shoving on gloves, taking time to stretch and practice a few moves from Blaze’s light training this morning.

Here’s the thing about MMA and boxing and why people claim the two can’t mix. Boxing is a hands-only sport, where hits consist of punches above the belt. While in MMA, guys can do just about anything. They kick, twirl, jump, and a lot of other fancy shit to get their opponent down. Normally, you’ll hear one can’t stand a chance against the other when performing the opposite type of fight, but that’s where they’re wrong. If a boxer understands their ground techniques, it helps even the odds just a little. And a little is all I need.

I’m a big guy, so I know my first fight is gonna be up against a heavy hitter, giving him a bigger edge. But what helps me secure a permanent spot with Orlov—and an in-house trainer when I win—is that I wrestled every summer from middle to high school. It’s a perfect base to learn the ground techniques, so while I may not twirl and jump kick, if I land a hit, or get him on the ground, it’s over.

I stretch one last time, staring at the white door to my room until finally an older gentleman opens it. He’s short, stout, with graying hair along the edges of his hairline, and a wicked grin on his face as he sizes me up. “Oh, kid, I may have to change my bet.”

“Sir?” Confusion must cross over my features and the man chuckles, pointing to the hall with his head.

“I just took the other guy out to the cage. He’s a brute of a thing, but you? You, son, look like a beast. My money’s on you.”

I press my lips together in a tight smile, not sure if I should be excited or disappointed by his words. I’d hope for a challenge. “Thank you, sir.”

The gentleman nods, and we walk down the hall in the opposite direction from where Amora and I came until we find a black elevator. We enter and ride down to level B. With every floor we descend, my pulse thrums faster, my breath coming quicker to accommodate the change. My nerves vibrate through my body until I’m aching to move and bounce lightly on the balls of my feet.

With myself anchored and ready to face what’s coming, I crack my neck and smile at the man as we reach level B.

When the doors slide open, I fly.

CHAPTER TWELVE

I’m sweating.

Like profusely. Which doesn’t really make sense considering I’m wearing the thinnest, sheerest piece of clothing I could find. Not to mention, it’s about thirty-five degrees outside. But standing near the floor seats in the small arena, I barely have enough time to secretly blot the sweat with a Kleenex before more forms. Slipping my hand in my purse, I discard another tissue and dig among the others for a fresh one.

Why did I bring this tiny ass clutch?

I literally had to jam pack my key fob, phone, a pepper spray and a small pack of tissues. I was so concerned with looking good for him, I didn’t—wait. That didn’t come out right. I didn’t want to look sexyforhim, just my normal sexy. I take pride in my appearance, and for no one other than myself. Okay, that’s kind of a lie too. Dammit, I know what I mean.

I shake my head, ridding myself of the internal ramblings, and dab my forehead yet again, taking in my surroundings.

My father’s association, the one I didn’t know anything about until this afternoon, is a fight club. I mean, it’s got a prestigious-sounding label, like Elite or Ultimate or whatever, but really, it’s just a sophisticated fight club, that’s somehow legal. It didn’t really surprise me to find out my dad runs something like this. He’s always been close-lipped about the majority of his doings, and he doesn’t miss watching any UFC fights, but I am intrigued as to why William is involved.

It’s a tad baffling why a farm boy from Idaho wants to brawl in an MMA fight he’s not even really equipped for. Remy mentioned that Blaze boxes with him, but even I know martial arts is a whole other ball game.

Don’t get me wrong, William is a big guy, packed with lean muscles, and is intimidating as hell, but he’s no karate kid.

Are you worried about him?

“No,” I snap at myself, garnering a few wide-eyed looks from an astute couple sitting next to me. They’re both dressed in Armani’s finest, a pretentious scowl marring their pale faces.

I raise my brows and stare back until they feel awkward enough to look away. Like damn, how did they know I didn’t have an AirPod in my ear or something. That’s the one thing about the rich I still haven’t been able to adapt to—being nosy when it doesn’t concern them.

Ugh. Literally as I’m thinking it, I realize I need to do exactly that when it comes to William. Nothing he does is my business, and for obvious reasons, it needs to stay that way.

Leaning back in my chair, I survey the underground arena. It’s in the basement of one of Dad’s hotels in the art district. But don’t let “basement” trick you into thinking small and dingy. It’s pretty damn big, and if I had to guess, I’m sure it’s an exact replica of a high school basketball gym with a dozen high risers. Only instead of a court, there’s a cage—a knockoff octagon—with a black gate surrounding all sides. Faint blood stains cover the mat from the girls that fought a few minutes ago.

It was… brutal. I don’t have a weak stomach by any means, and I’ve been in my fair share of scuffs, but watching them nearly kill each other was an entirely different experience. It physically hurt me to see one of the girls give everything she had, then lose anyway, covered in snot and blood, her ear so swollen it looked like a mushroom.

I don’t want to see William like that. Petty grudge aside, I don’t want him to get hurt at all, and if he does, I’ll feel partially responsible. I’d been a smart-ass in his room, almost baiting him to lose. But even though we both know I was being facetious, I wonder if he entertained the thought of kissing me.

No part of me was being sarcastic aboutwantingto kiss him. His lips were inches from mine, and the way his gaze bore into me, I thought for sure he was going to take me right there.

Crazy thing is, at the time, in the heat of the moment, I wouldn’t have rejected it.

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