Punching and Kissing (2 page)

Jesus
onto her upper boob and then trickling down into the scoop neck of her t-shirt, painting a trail of moisture over the soft flesh.

I could feel my cock swell against my thigh.
Damn,
she was hot.

She opened her eyes and I finally got a look at them. Big and liquid and the color of some lush, enchanted forest grove. And her lips! Soft, perfect pillows, flawless and pink. She popped the top of the can and drank. I couldn’t take my eyes off that elegant throat, flexing and swallowing. God, she was beautiful. What the hell was she doing here? Some rich kid, slumming it? Her clothes didn’t look expensive, but she must be some rich guy’s girlfriend. What else would a woman be doing here? This was a guy’s world—women had more sense.

And then she looked up and, for maybe half a second, she was looking right at me. A jolt went through my body, as if I’d touched a live wire. I felt every muscle go tense, my hands making fists so tight my knuckles ached. It was like I’d dropped right into a fantasy world for an instant, a heaven where I knew her, where we could be together. I felt like I was coming alive, the last few years beginning to slough off and fall away from me.

An angel. Fate had sent me an angel.

Then she came to her senses and looked away and I felt like an idiot for staring at her. I was pretty sure she couldn’t see much, under the hood, but maybe she’d seen. Or maybe she’d sensed what I was like and that had scared her even more.

I couldn’t tear my eyes from her, though. I drank her in because it might be the last time I ever saw her. I watched until she finally finished her soda and headed out of the main room, down the long, dark hallway that led to the bathroom. I caught my breath. The sight of her ass in those jeans, pert and tight and just the right size of my hands…I had a new favorite part of her.

She disappeared into the shadows and the spell was broken. Reality returned like a punch to the side of my head.
Yeah, and you’ll never even touch her, you feckin’ idiot.

I liked her and that was why I had to stay away from her. Because if I got tempted and actually got close, all I was going to do was hurt her.

And then I frowned, because I saw another guy watching her retreating back. Not one of the rich guys in a suit, one of the locals. He nodded to his two buddies and all three of them disappeared into the shadows.

Oh God, no.

Sylvie

The Pit was some kind of industrial building, once. Most of it is just bare concrete and graffiti, but some of the fluorescent lights still work and there’s running water. The crowd has to be able to see; the organizers have to hose the blood off the floor.

Hidden away down a long hallway, in what I guess used to be the office area, there’s a bathroom. Not many people know about it. I normally avoid it because I don’t like being off on my own in The Pit. But after draining a whole Dr. Pepper, I suddenly needed to go.

The roar of the crowd died away as I turned one corner, then another, hurrying past disused rooms with broken windows. It wasn’t much cooler than the rest of The Pit, but at least there was space to think.

Had that guy really been staring at me? It didn’t seem likely—no one ever looked at me. I couldn’t help thinking someone could have rolled the genetic dice better. I could have been some tall, leggy blonde with bags of confidence and my brother could have been short, dark and shy.

Because then maybe he wouldn’t be downstairs, waiting to take his turn in the ring.

I locked myself in the bathroom. There was only one in the whole place, so it’s a good thing people don’t know it’s there or it’d get pretty nasty in there on fight night. I pushed my jeans and panties down around my knees. A few seconds later...
relief.

I understood why Alec was doing it. Without the cash from fighting, we’d be on the street already. But watching him risk his life each month was almost unbearable. I hated The Pit. But sitting waiting for him at home...that would be even worse.

I was just about to stand up when the door rattled. Not hard, just like someone was leaning against it, but it made me jump. I cleared my throat. “
Occupied!”
I called out, wishing my voice didn’t sound so high and nervy.

A low laugh, the sort that’s shared between friends. And then I saw the bolt on the door slide back.

I grabbed for it, but it was too late. The door was swinging wide and the guy was already inside. Not much taller than me but wider, with heavy muscle under a layer of fat. He was still holding the coin he’d used to open the lock from the outside.

I started to get up. I wasn’t all that scared, yet. My mind was still occupied with humiliation, one hand reaching for my jeans while the other tried to cover my groin. In my head, it was more on the level of some high school prank where the guys invade the girls’ bathroom and laugh at them.

Then his hand slapped across my mouth, his sweaty palm tight against my lips. With his other hand, he lifted me off the toilet and pressed me against the wall. Two more men were crowding in, almost filling the small room. And the true horror of it began to sink in.

One guy closed and locked the door. I could barely hear the roar of the distant crowd, now—even if I could scream, no one would hear me.
And no one knows I’m in here.

The guy holding me had wiry brown hair that lay in tangled curls. His foot, when he stamped it down on my jeans and panties to ram them down my legs, was in a work boot, white with dust. I felt my legs bared, then his knee between them, stopping them from closing.

I tried to scream, but my lungs couldn’t get any air. In his excitement, the guy had pushed the edge of his hand right up against my nostrils. I tried to kick, but my ankles were still tangled in my jeans and the bundle of cloth was pinned to the floor by his foot. I heaved myself away from the wall, but his chest was pressed hard against me.

I still couldn’t breathe. Every panicked attempt just sucked his hand tighter against my nose and mouth.

His other hand pushed between my legs. Fingers on me. God...
in
me. I wanted to throw up. I clawed with my hands and managed to scratch his neck, but then one of the other men grabbed my wrists and pressed my hands hard against the wall. All three of them were laughing, the sound ringing in my ears. I heard a belt buckle being unfastened.

I was still straining against their grip, but my vision was going dark. I wondered if I was going to pass out before it happened.

The door gave a single, solitary creak, as if someone was leaning against it. I looked towards it—anything was better than looking at the men’s faces.

With a sound like the end of the world, the door was ripped off its hinges and lifted away, trailing shattered wood. Then it was tossed aside and I saw—

Him. The man who’d been staring at me.

The lead guy’s two buddies ran at my savior, yelling at him. Now my arms were free, but I barely had the strength to lift them away from the wall. My body had gone limp, my lungs burning for air.

The hooded guy grabbed the first man by the t-shirt and hurled him across the hallway as easily as if he was tossing a garbage bag into a dumpster. The man hit the wall with a sickening crack and went down.

The other man tried to land a punch. Mystery guy blocked it easily, then slammed his fist into the man’s side, right over his kidney. The man crumpled, just in time to get a knee to his chin.

My vision had narrowed to a tunnel. My face was wet with sweat, my life measured in seconds, now. The guy holding me glanced between me and my rescuer like a predator unwilling to let go of its meal. He finally released me and turned to run.

The hooded guy took a single step forward and slammed a fist up into the man’s chin. The uppercut lifted him off his feet and his head smacked into the top of the door frame. He crashed unconscious to the floor.

I slid to the floor. I was wavering at the edge of consciousness, barely capable of taking a breath, but my tortured lungs managed one weak little gasp. The fetid air of The Pit poured down my throat and it tasted like it came from the Swiss Alps. I took another breath and another, each one a little stronger, until I was gulping it down. It took long seconds for my vision to clear and, when it did, nausea followed it. I wrapped my arms around myself and just sat there, staring at the floor.

My rescuer’s boots stepped into my vision. Then his knees appeared as he crouched down. I didn’t look up at him—I couldn’t. I felt as if I was going to throw up. My jeans and panties were still around my ankles but I couldn’t pull them up while I was sitting and it didn’t feel like my legs would hold me if I tried to stand. I settled for pressing my knees together and hugging my calves tight to my thighs. I hoped most of me was hidden in shadow.

I could feel him watching me. Waiting. Giving me time.

I was shaking. I couldn’t stop shaking.

He didn’t say anything and he didn’t attempt to touch me. I think I would have screamed, if he had. He just crouched there next to me, guarding me. I don’t know how long I sat there—minutes, at least. Once, I heard someone approach down the corridor and saw his head snap up. “
Fuck off,”
he snapped, and the person scurried away.

Except it didn’t sound like
Fuck off.
It sounded more like
Feck off.
He had an unfamiliar accent that reminded me of cold, unyielding rock.

At last, I felt strong enough to try to stand. I pushed myself unsteadily to my feet, trying to pull my jeans up at the same time, knowing that whatever I did, he was going to catch a glimpse of my pussy.

But instead, as he stood up with me, I saw him twist and look off down the hallway. He kept his eyes averted while I got my jeans pulled up and only looked back when all the rustling of clothes had ceased.

Now that I was standing, I could see more of him—all the way up to his chest. But I still didn’t dare look up at his face. I was burning up inside with humiliation and raw, sick fear. I knew, on some level, that it was over and that I was safe, now. But I’d been shaken on a deeper level. I’d thought I’d known how shitty the world was, how terrifyingly, casually evil men could be, but I’d been wrong.

I was safe, but I’d never feel safe again.

And then he did something—he put his hand out towards me. A big, calloused hand, each finger easily twice the thickness of mine. He didn’t touch me with it. He just rested it in the air, an inch away from cupping my shoulder. He left it there, saying nothing.

And I felt a warmth flow through me, expanding outward from that almost-touch. Reassurance that he wasn’t like them. That he’d never, ever hurt me.

It shouldn’t have been possible from someone who’d just dealt such violence. But I knew it was true.

I finally looked up at him. His hood was still up, his face hidden in shadow. His comforting hand was still almost touching my shoulder, but it wasn’t enough. I needed to see
him,
not a mystery savior.

I stared up into the shadows, my eyes pleading.

Slowly, reluctantly, he pulled back his hood just enough to show his face.

Soft black hair cut short and messed up. His strong brow was creasing into a frown at having to reveal himself. But he didn’t look angry—not with me, at least. His gorgeous, electric blue eyes seemed to burn with concern. It was when he glanced down at the three men on the floor that I saw the look change to hatred.

The dark stubble on his cheeks made his skin look even paler. Black hair, white skin, blue eyes and that strong brow...I knew that look, but I was way too messed up, right then, to place it.

I saw the fight again in my head. It had been so
quick!
I’d seen plenty of fights in The Pit, but nothing like that. He’d hit with unstoppable power. It had been like watching the men get hit by a truck.

I was still shaking, but it seemed to be dying down. I wrapped my arms around myself and that felt better. But his presence felt better still. It made no sense. I’d seen him destroy those three guys—I should have been terrified of him. But I felt...protected.

“Are you okay?” he asked. That granite-hard accent again, brutal yet beautiful.

He kept glancing down at the guy on the floor—the leader, the one who’d had me pinned against the wall. He was giving the guy such a look of pure, undiluted
hate
that I thought the floor was going to start bubbling and melting. The guy was still breathing—for now. But I realized with a lurch that whether he lived or died depended on my answer.