Page 15 of Vicious Behaviors
“Jesus,” DeLuca mutters, clearly unimpressed with his clientele as I tug the shorts on. “See? This is what I was afraid of.”
I strip off my hoodie and tank top next, revealing my white sports bra underneath. DeLuca winces as if someone just fed him expired milk when the rowdy crowd goes wild.
“Is this really necessary?”
I shrug, tossing my shirt aside. “What can I say? I really want this job.” I wink at him and then climb into the ring. “Don’t worry, boss. After I’m done with Mr. Clean over there, your boys won’t have anything to laugh about.”
“Hope you’re right,” DeLuca mutters under his breath, looking like he’s getting cold feet with all of this.
However, he’s not my concern right now. Knocking out Rico is. My job is on the line here, and I don’t mean the one Carmine is offering me.
I’m halfway done wrapping my hands in gauze and tape when I hear Rico snort, stepping in closer to me.
“You sure you don’t want a helmet? Or a head start?” He chuckles in amusement.
“I’m good,” I say, rolling my shoulders.
The mat beneath my bare feet is rough and sticky, while the air in the ring is somehow thicker than everywhere else in this gym.
DeLuca steps up to the edge of the ring to give us the ground rules.
“No head shots. Clean hits only. First one to knock the other down wins.”
Rico cracks his neck. “Won’t take long.”
I say nothing. Just raise my fists.
The bell—whether metaphorical or real, I don’t know at this point—rings a split second before Rico lunges at me. He comes at me heavy and fast, fists like wrecking balls, but predictable. I duck the first attack, slide out of range, and pivot. My body’s not fully warm yet, and these damn borrowed shorts are sliding low on my hips, but luckily, the adrenaline begins to sharpen my edges as well as my instincts.
Rico grunts and swings again, this time with a wide hook, but too slow to catch me. Seeing my chance, I step in close, ram my elbow into his ribs, and twist away before he can grab me.
The guys watching don’t cheer. I’m not sure if it’s because they’re all waiting for me to fail or if they are just curious as to who is going to end up laid out flat on the mat.
One thing’s for sure—it won’t be me.
Rico comes at me again, and this time I let him get close. He aims for my side, but I grab his fist and use his momentum to spin behind him. I slam my knee into the back of his leg, causing him to stumble forward.
Now the room’s not so quiet, since a few scattered “Ohhhs” erupt from the sidelines.
Rico growls as he gets back on his feet, still red-faced with embarrassment, and spits out, “Lucky shot.”
“You keep telling yourself that,” I murmur.
His next swing is faster, though. And that’s because he’s mad now. Which also means he’s about to get sloppy. He rushes at me with a one-two combo that grazes my shoulder but leaves his center wide open. I duck under his arm, slide forward, and drive my fist right into his gut.
All that bulk is useless when you don’t protect the core. And when he folds for a second, that’s all I need to end this.
I hook his leg with mine, grab his shoulder, and throw my weight into a takedown, a move that I haven’t used since Quantico. It’s not pretty, but it is effective. Rico hits the mat with a solid thud, the crowd going silent for half a heartbeat. Then it explodes.
Laughter, shouts, disbelief. “Holy shit!”
“She dropped him!”
“Yo, Rico? You good, bro?!”
Rico groans, flat on his back, staring up at the fluorescent lights as if they personally betrayed him.
I step back, hands on my hips, my chest rising with some effort as I seek out the man who will tell me if the little show I just performed for him merits my employment. My brows knit when I realize he was on the phone the entire time, instead of watching me kick Rico’s ass.
