Page 100 of Wilde's End
Booker’s at the door to the Lair, and he eyes me as I approach. “This should be interesting. Like watching him play with roadkill.”
“Don’t count me out yet.”
He waits until I pass him and reach the door to speak again. “Your boy came to watch.”
“The fuck.” I swing around to him. “This is a closed event. Why did you let Hudson in?”
“Because I invited him.” I’m about to lose my cool when Booker goes on. “Interesting, though, that you immediately knew who I meant.”
I think back over his words, insides shriveling as it hits me that Booker never said his name. Goddammit. I storm inside before I can give him any other wrong ideas and go in search of Hudson.
People already fill the tiered seating, ready for the first match that has just been confirmed. I watch as money trades hands, gaze searching out the one man who shouldn’t be here.
He’s closer to the floor, irritating blond lock flicked up over his forehead as he looks around like he’s never seen a room so full of people before. There will end up being a few hundred once everyone arrives, and while the Lair is big enough, it’s not huge. The noise gets deafening, and the heat bakes into your skin by the time you walk out of here.
I take the seat beside him. “Why are you here?”
“Wanted to know what all the fuss was about.” Hudson turns his bright expression on me. “Where’s Foley?”
It only takes a quick glance around the room to spot him. He’stall, bigger than I am, with smooth black hair and a skeleton mouth tattooed over his own. “Over there.”
“He looks like even more of a dickhead in the light.”
“Agreed.”
“Fucking hot though.”
I cut a look Hudson’s way, hating the darkness that hits at those words. “When he wins, why don’t you offer to fuck him then?”
He leans in, almost nose to nose. “Maybe I will.”
“Good luck with that.” The words barely make it past my teeth. Looks like I’m going into Wayward after all. I stand, intending to put as much distance between us as possible, but Hudson tugs me back down next to him.
“Not so fast. I need you to teach me the rules.”
“Why?”
“I want to know what I’m watching. I’ve never seen one of these matches before.”
I huff and point to the platforms at all the different heights in the middle of the room. “The aim is to stay on those and use this”—I tap my post—“to knock your opponent off.”
“So you run around hitting each other with sticks?”
“Basically.”
“Sounds like how my brothers and I used to sword fight when we were kids.”
This is nothing like that, but I don’t bother pointing it out. Just wait for the first match to begin. The people new to Peril are up first, but even with their inexperience, they’re good to watch. A man and a woman take their starting points on the floor, and once the buzzer sounds, they launch onto the platforms. There are ten in total, with bars hanging overhead that I like to use to evade Foley’s long reach, but most of the novices ignore those. These two are the same, jumping from one platform to the next, mostlykeeping their distance until one of them gets confident and moves in for a hit. The firstthwackechoes over the cheering around us and has Hudson jump in his seat. “Whoa, that sounded hard.”
“It was.”
He takes the post from my grip and inspects it. “Heavier than I thought.”
“Most people prefer the lighter ones because they’re whippy and easier to move with, but the heavier ones mean every strike counts.”
“This could do some real damage.”
“It’s why hits to the head are banned.”
