Page 79 of Marcus: Sins of the Father

Brandy stands at the very end. She grabs my face in her hands and kisses me to the hoots and hollers of the crowd.

“Go fucking win,” she urges, still holding my head in her hands, our foreheads pressed together.

I grin, loving this little badass. “Yes, ma’am.”

We separate, and I climb into the cage, my focus zeroing in on Holt.

He leans against the other side, looking casual, almost bored, but his eyes are seething. Probably from the kiss he just witnessed.

Take that, asshole.

“Everyone set on the rules?” the ref asks.

We both nod.

I slip my mouth guard in and bounce back and forth, trying to get my blood flowing and my heart warmed up.

“I want a nice clean fight, understood?” the ref calls out, his arms outstretched between us as we size each other up from across the octagon. “Let’s go!” he shouts and backs out of the way.

We move toward each other, two predators ready to attack.

***

Brandy—

I watch the two approach each other, feeling like I’m witnessing a slow-motion car wreck I can’t seem to turn away from.

I study the two men as they circle each other, bouncing on their feet and jabbing at their opponent. They’re about the same size. Holt has maybe an inch or two and his build is lean, but his muscles are focused in his arms. Whereas Marcus’s muscles are evident from his arms to his back and shoulders and even his thighs. No skipping leg day for him.

The sound of the blow Marcus gives Holt snaps me out of my thoughts. His fist connects with Holt’s cheekbone. Holt swings a punch at Marcus, but he blocks it and kicks Holt in the chest, knocking him back a step. As they continue to attack, it’s clear Marcus has the upper hand. Holt throws another wide swing, and as Marcus goes to block it, Holt jabs him in the throat. Marcus sets a knee down, gasping for breath.

“Where’s the call, ref?” Cole yells.

Holt takes the opportunity to knee Marcus in the head.

More shouts from the crowd.

“That was illegal!” Crash roars.

“What’s going on?” I cry out.

“The jab to the neck was questionable, and the knee to the downed fighter was straight up illegal, but nothing’s being called,” Crash yells over the noise.

Marcus seems to realize no fouls are being called and backs out of striking distance, quickly regaining his bearings. Holt pursues.

Once Holt steps close enough, Marcus bursts forward, knocking him to the ground. They become a tangle of bodies, and it’s hard for me to tell which body part belongs to whom.

The brothers cheer as Marcus maneuvers Holt into a chokehold, but Holt holds out until the round ends.

Each man moves to a corner. Crash climbs in and towels Marcus off. I see him rub petroleum around his eyes and across the bridge of his nose. He squirts some water in his mouth. The crowd erupts in noise. The brothers are furious, while the other side is cheering. Crash climbs out and moves to stand between me and Cole.

“What’d you tell him?” Cole asks.

“That the ref and judges aren’t on his side, so he better go for the knockout.” Crash shakes his head. “He was the obvious winner. I cannot believe they gave the win to Holt.”

Cole’s eyes narrow. “I can. Money buys a lot of things, including people.”

“What’s going on?” I ask, worried. The ref yells to start the next round.

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