Page 95 of Resurfaced Passion

She curled under his chin, ran her hands around his waist, along his studded belt and held on. “You can still come by. If you want.”

If he wants.She had no idea how much he wanted everything.

“Here.” She pulled from his arms and walked over to her purse, digging into the big tote. God knows how she found anything in there. She came back and handed him a key. “To let yourself in. If you want.” She whittled her lip with her teeth.

“I want.” He all but growled, some of the tension in his shoulders faded, dipping down he gave her a kiss to remember him all night. “Let me know you got home okay.” She nodded, smiled at him. “And keep these lips warm for me.” He got her perfect blush next.

He hated knowing he wouldn’t have eyes on her to make sure for himself, but it just meant he’d get back to her all the sooner.

A last kiss and she watched him climb onto his bike.

The club knew most of the cops around town. Charlie Timmons, the youngest sheriff in more than two decades, would have a shit fit if he saw some of his officers in the very illegal underground fight club that night placing their own bets, drinking and putting hookers on their laps. They were the guys who knew Grinder—probably owed the Tracker a favor or three since he was in with most of them, he paid for information and they supplied it. Reaper didn’t pay the cops in their street clothes any mind as he walked through.

He found a corner and stayed there a while, people watching. The place was always a buzz when Tag was top billing. The guy was like an underground celebrity in the fight world. and it showed by the swelling crowd. There were official bookies around the place taking bets before the first fight and so far he’d seen nothing out of the ordinary to suggest thebratvahad somehow gotten their people in to fuck around with the betting system.

It wasn’t unheard of.

Sometime last year a fighter from New York came through town, someone on his team placed a high bet for the guy to lose. Not only lose but the bet was tripled if he went down in the 6th. Low and fucking behold, the fella, big as an ox, hit the mats so hard in the beginning of the 6thwith hardly a touch and didn’t get back up.

It was after the third fight of the night that Reaper took another sweep through the rooms while the fresh bout was going on. The smell of expensive booze saturated the air, sweat, blood and tears no doubt clung to the concrete floor and no one noticed Reaper as he ghosted through the masses, eyeing everyone like they were in a line up.

He saw a couple private bets going on that were against the club rules, so he sent a text to Capone who got rid of the guys and banned them from coming back.

Then he caught a couple fucking in a stairwell. Fucking wasn’t against any rules, so he left them to it. Truth be told he would have loved to be balls deep in his girl right now.

He rolled the gold band around his finger and went on so he could get home sooner rather than later.

A scuffling sound alerted Reaper to one of the changing areas the fighters and their crews used. There was only one bout left and that was Tag’s fight, being the main event.

“Hurry the fuck up before one of those fools sees you!” He caught in a hushed whisper.

He approached on silent feet.

None of the areas had doors, for good reason. The fights might be illegal, but they tried to run them fair and in the early days there’d been too much cheating going on. Tampering with the hand wraps, usually soaked in some solution to harden after a while, making the punches that much more lethal. Or there was the druggies who came into the ring so fucking hopped up on dope it was like fighting the incredible hulk.

Most things flew in their fight club but being a cheat was not one of them.

And that’s exactly what Reaper walked in on. The guy meant to fight Tag, local to Denver, Duke Woods—a former MMA star who was disgraced years ago when he was banned for using steroids—had a belt around his forearm and a much smaller guy hunched over, injecting him with … well Reaper was guessing it wasn’t good old vitamin C, that was for fucking sure. Not with the way the guy was already pumped as fuck with every vein dangerously protruding on his upper body.

“Seriously?” He announced his presence from the doorway.

Startled, they both looked over. It wasn’t hard to pick Reaper as aSoulsmember once he opened his jacket and flashed his cut with the patch on the front. It was better than flashing a cop badge, he reckoned.

“Hey, man. Just giving my boy here some meds. All good now, just fluids, you know.”

“Which is it, fluids or meds?”

“Yeah, yeah.” the trainer smiled, shoving the drugs paraphernalia into the bag he was carrying. Trying to hide the evidence. Reaper advanced into the locker room. The fighter himself seemed unfazed as he straddled the bench and carried on winding the cloth around his hand and rolling his tree trunk thick neck from side to side.

“How fucking dumb do you have to be to take dope on our ground? Seriously right before you fight our boy. Fucking hell, that’s some brass balls or plain fucking stupidity.” Reaper chuckled, roaming the room. He’d already text the boys before he let his presence known and now he watched the trainer with sweat dotting on his brow. “It’s not like that, he’s sick. Just vitamins.”

“Sure.”

“It is, man. We got a lot riding on this fight, we ain’t gonna ruin it. We wouldn’t do that to theSouls.”

Reaper switched his gaze to the fighter who was still winding the cloth and tape around his hands. His whole body looked like concrete encased in too tight skin with his veins bulged off the surface. “Cat got his guilty tongue?”

“He don’t talk.”

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