Scythe & Sparrow (The Ruinous Love Trilogy, #3)(40)
“What were you doing at the car wash? You don’t have a car.”
“I was bored. Thought I’d take a little wander and got to talking,” she says, unaware that two men have started a shoving match behind her, one pushing the other against the side of the empty ring before they’re separated by their respective friends. “Anyway, this place seems just fine to me.”
“You hurtle yourself though a metal cage on a death machine and you subsist on a diet of waffles and sugar. I can’t say I trust your self-preservation instincts.”
Rose lifts a shoulder and takes a lollipop from her pocket, holding my gaze as she slowly pulls the wrapper free and slides it past her lips. Those fucking lips. Strawberry red, glistening, sweet and plump. I can almost feel them, warm and yielding as they wrap around my—
“Next up is the Humphrey Hurricane,” Tom booms into his microphone. Cheers and boos interrupt the ache that’s already starting to build in my cock. I shake my head, trying to clear my thoughts and refocus on my purpose for being here. “And please welcome a brand-new challenger to the ring: Ballistic Bill.”
The crowd descends into a frenzy of betting and shouting as the new guy ducks between the ropes and throws his hands in the air, turning a slow circle as he basks in the mayhem. He’s fucking enormous. He shrugs off his black robe and he’s like a square block of muscle and tattoos. Shaved head, wrapped hands, scarred face. This guy knows what he’s doing. And I’ve seen the Hurricane fight. I’ve stitched him up. He’s capable and fast, light on his feet. But I know the same thing the rest of the crowd does. The Hurricane is about to have his ass handed to him.
“Rose, seriously. You need to get out of here,” I say over the cheers as Ballistic Bill roars like a feral beast. The crowd surges and a drunken onlooker bumps into Rose’s crutch as though proving my point. He sloshes a few drops of beer on her arm, and it takes everything in me to swallow down a burst of rage as he apologizes to her before moving away. “It’s not safe here. Fights break out on the sidelines all the time. You don’t have anywhere to put your foot up.”
“Chill, Doc.” Rose brushes off the drops of alcohol and then hobbles toward me. She taps my hip with her crutch and I rise from the stool, internally berating myself for not giving her my seat earlier, though it’s not like I want to encourage her to stay. As soon as I’m up, she plops herself down, then brings her injured leg onto the empty stool. “See? All good. Promise I’ll move when you get your next patient. The Hurricane, by the looks of things. Yikes.”
“Rose—”
“You should get us something from the grease joint.” She nods toward the concession stand when I tilt my head and furrow my brow at what must be more of her circus lingo. “I wouldn’t mind a beer. I’ll hold down the fort and make sure nobody takes your doctory shit. If they do, I’ll stab them in the fucking eye.”
Rose whips my scalpel from the table and stabs an invisible assailant, twisting the blade, a look of maniacal glee plastered on her face. I cover her hand with mine and pry the knife from her grasp. “Please do not go stabbing anyone,” I say as I take a sterile pad and disinfect the handle before setting it back in its place. “I’m only going to be the one to put them back together again if you do.”
Rose shrugs as though that’s not her problem.
“One beer.”
“Might as well bring two, save you another trip.”
“One. You’re recovering. I’m your doctor. Doctor’s orders.”
Some fleeting wisp of emotion passes across Rose’s face, the meaning of it too complex for me to discern from her furrowed brow before it smooths. “Fine. But I’ll take a bag of Skittles too, please.”
“I don’t think they have Skittles.”
“Trust me, they do.”
Though I roll my eyes, we both know I won’t deny her. It’s hard enough not to bring an entire keg back for her just so she can have the two beers she wants while I keep her in sight. She grins at me as though she can read my thoughts. I shake my head at her, but when I turn my back and walk away, I smile.
The bartender sees me coming and I’m able to jump the line, grabbing the Skittles and a free beer and a bourbon for myself before I return to the table just in time for the start of the fight. Tom yells the rules into the mic. Closed fist only. No slapping, no elbows, no knees or kicking. Anyone knocked down has ten seconds to get back up. And then he steps back from between the two fighters, and with one simple word, the battle is on.
Fight.
The crowd roars as the Hurricane lunges forward with a hook that doesn’t connect. Ballistic Bill leans away from a cross jab. And another. Another. A punch finally connects but only with Bill’s arm as he blocks his face. He dodges more hits, allowing a few past his defenses, always leaning away just as a punch connects. The blows he lets through are nothing more than taps. The crowd cheers, and heckles, and shouts at both men. But Bill doesn’t seem to notice. He’s only focused on his opponent, his feet light and quick on the bloodstained mats despite his massive size. And he hasn’t thrown a single punch.
“He’s wearing him out,” Rose says over the din of the audience, not looking away from the fight. She gestures toward the ring with a Skittle. “The Hurricane is so fucked.”