Riding Dirty (16 page)

Terry’s hand shook with indignation as she held up her ring finger for him to see her rock. It was all she could do not to scratch him in the eye with it, but she remembered that he had to look intact. “Because I’m legit,” she stuttered. “A low-life gangster like you will never know what that is.”

Bronson almost laughed, but choked a little on the nose hose. “Coming from a borgata slut, that’s actually funny. Legit! If you can convince yourself of that, you really are stupid.”

“Besides I’m not killing you,” said Terry, “This will keep you four points above critical. This won’t actually kill you unless you have a weak heart…which, on second thought, is what I hear about you, actually. You want to find a woman to blame? Try your blonde bimbo. She’s what brought you down.”

Bronson stiffened. So they definitely knew about Rowan, and there seemed to be no way for him to warn her. God damn it! He’d brought this on himself when he’d patched in to the club, buying a life and death of crime. But Rowan didn’t deserve this shit. Rowan needed him. Rowan…

“Fuck!”

Nothing he could say to this psycho nurse bitch was going help Rowan or to stop them drugging him. Bronson watched with sickening dread as Terry gathered herself for the finish, her hands moving over the last bits of equipment.

Terry smirked at Bronson as she shook the SPS powder into water, rattling the mixture until it was fully dissolved and she could pump it through the tube into his belly. He watched the liquid disappear, drop by drop, and felt it congeal coldly at the pit of his stomach. Terry almost enjoyed ripping the tube back up and out through his nose when she was finished, causing a small nosebleed and a lot of discomfort. Satisfied, Terry ripped her gloves off with a smack. Everything was neat and tidy and done.

Terry paused before leaving the scene, thoughtfully surveying Bronson in his chair. It was a shame he’d pissed off Joey and thrown away his fame and success, but that was his choice. She reminded herself not to have any sympathy for him. He was a trashy biker, an outsider: an enemy. He was everything that was dirty and wrong with Vegas, Joey said: anarchy and violence on the streets, mindless rebellion against the organization and cleanliness that the Auditores would bring.

“Keep him upright for as long as you can,” she instructed the enforcers. “Give the solution a better chance to absorb.” Biting her lip, she tried to think of something clever to say like in the movies, but drew a blank. “Well,” she said, “That’s that. Enjoy the fight, champ.”

A club fieldtrip to the Mandalay Bay was venturesome bordering on stupid, but Axle had mandated that all the ranking officials of the mother chapter risk the trip to Auditore territory. This fight included a historical bet for them, an all-eggs-in-one-basket situation. At Axle’s order, Dolce had tracked down an old bookie acquaintance and laid a substantial sum on Bronson Ramsey’s victory. In doing so, the Ruiners had discovered that the Auditore’s money was on the Jewish newbie from Detroit. Normally the pairing would be insane—a badass UFC champ like Bronson versus a twenty year old with only two professional fights under his belt?

Axle could read the writing on the wall; this was judgment day. Desperate times called for big choices, and Axle was never one to shy away from reality. He wanted his officers to be up close and personal at the octagon to make sure that nothing sideways went down…and if it did, the Ruiners sure wouldn’t be caught sleeping.

The odds were Bronson Ramsey -675, Alin Silverman +200, and so the club had needed to put down most of its reserves to stand in the way of any profit. But Axle’s faith in Ramsey was unshakeable. He’d told Ramsey they were betting to win. Ramsey had to come through no matter what, and the brotherhood of the Ruiners Motorcycle Club had presented themselves for glorious defeat or bloody victory at his side.

President Axle, Vice President Rex, Treasurer Dolce, and Road Captain Luther sat with Voski, Lola, Mara, Rowan and Chitto in Bronson’s reserved row in section 4, spitting distance from the octagon. Chitto shook hands all around, quickly scanning the tattoos peeking down sleeves and around necklines. If he had any misgivings about Rowan’s companions, the veteran kept them to himself.

Anyway, this was supposed to be a fun evening, a thank-you for putting her up. Rowan had offered him a free ticket and a hug. Now, Chitto’s instincts told him to be alert and read between the lines.

Lola and Dolce barely spoke to each other, evidence of a recent argument visible in a blotchy purple ring under her left eye. She’d kept her sunglasses on, but tendrils of bruise swirled around the lens. Both sat morose and glum, immune to the energy of the arena.

Axle and Voski nestled together and spoke low in Armenian, making Rowan smile at the incongruously tender sight. How had they kept their spark alive through all the craziness of running an outlaw club? It amazed her. Next to his parents, Rex explained the sport to his wife. Mara’s bland expression echoed Rowan’s own ignorance of mixed martial arts. At Dolce’s side, Luther balanced two cartons of nachos on his knee, slurping a massive coca cola and periodically dripping liquid cheese-food across his neighbor’s lap.

“Jesus fucking Christ!” grumbled Dolce when the hot orange mess splattered across his crotch for the second time. “Why don’t we just hook you up to a fatso IV and save on the dry cleaning bills. You couldn’t have just gone for the candy bar with the convenient rapper. Asshole.”

“What?” Luther paused mid-bite with his mouth open. “You want some?”

Voski and Lola laughed, drawing an impatient growl from Dolce as he blotted off the cheese. Lola glanced down at a new watch she was wearing—the consolation present Dolce had given her after their little misunderstanding. She saw it was game time, and painted on a smile.

“I gotta piss,” said Lola, standing and causing a ripple of movement along the aisle.

“Too much information,” muttered Dolce.

“Excuse me Mr. Manners. I gotta powder my fucking nose. That better?” Lola bent and kissed Dolce’s forehead on her way past. “Adios, hombre.” Lola made a point of stepping on Rowan’s toes on her way out.

“Ouch!”

“Oopsies.” With a smug grin, Lola vanished up the steps.

The women were all there as a buffer against any Italian suspicions; this was supposedly just family supporting their guy. Heck, the Ruiners MC weren’t even flying their colors tonight, having left their conspicuous cuts in a neat heap at the clubhouse. Tonight was strictly under the radar. Hotel security had received grudging permission from the headman to grant entry, but the delay had cost them a view of the first round of the bout.

Finally settled, there was a collective exhalation when the second round bell clanged. This fight would make or break the club, determine their strength in taking on the Auditore family. It was phase one of taking back the Strip, a crucial battle for resources. Tonight Ramsey was the Ruiners’ champion. All eyes turned to the octagon as Bronson shuffled to the center of the ring, shaking his head and muttering to himself.

“Something is wrong,” Rowan hissed to Chitto, clutching his arm with a clammy hand. The entire concept of the UFC sport sounded awful, mean, and cringe-worthy. Yet when Bronson had relayed his unexpected schedule change and asked her to come, she had agreed.

“This will be the fastest title-fight turnaround ever,” Bronson had whispered between intoxicating kisses. “Puts me at a disadvantage and I could use the boost, knowing you were in there cheering.”

How could she say no, with his body entangling hers and his lips wrecking her thoughts? She’d told herself this was what ‘old ladies’ do—show up and offer support even if they're grossed out on principle. And that was her job now as his old lady, his girlfriend. Watching Bronson in a UFC fight sounded stressful, but then, their entire relationship was outside her comfort zone.

But she'd shown up anyway. And as soon as Rowan saw Bronson falter to the center of the octagon, she’d caught the lethargic slump to his movements. Usually the man was graceful and powerful as a wolf, everything about his body wiry and virile.

One minute in to the second round of the bout, he was barely wavering out of his opponent’s reach in time. The entire fight so far had been a slow dance of evasion and avoidance, and the crowd was growing restless. There had been absolutely zero attempts on Bronson’s part to throw a punch, set up a grapple, or plant a kick. The commentators were crucifying him. Even with her lack of knowledge about mixed martial arts, Rowan could see Bronson was on the defensive.

That wasn’t like him. He liked rush and risk. Glory. Orgasm.

“The shortest title-fight turnaround in history,” the announcer had said during the introductions. “With only a total of four weeks between The Avalanche’s victory at the heavyweight championship and the surprising injury that removed Sasha Pinkerton from tonight’s roster, it’s beyond a short rest for Ramsey and may do much to equalize the players in tonight’s bout. In a last-minute schedule adjustment, Ramsey will take Pinkerton’s place against league newcomer Alin “Gator” Silverman. If Silverman has any edge over our reigning champion Ramsey, it may have something to do with his ten weeks of focused fight camp and Ramsey’s extremely short time to recoup and prepare.”

That couldn’t be it, though. Rowan knew that Bronson’s body was a powerhouse, capable of long nights of pleasure and fast days of punishing work. He could ride hard on the road, in bed, in life. Her road warrior’s chest was heaving, perspiration flowing freely over pale skin. His fists hovered too low, and Rowan was close enough to see them shaking. Her chest constrained with the effort to remember to breathe.

“Chitto,” she murmured, her brain whizzing through various scenarios. “I think they did something to him. Look, he’s not moving right.” With increasing anxiety she watched a flurry of jabs from Silverman slide past a weary block and glance off Bronson’s face. A red ribbon of blood flashed across his cheek and he stumbled backward, bouncing off the side of the ring like a drunkard.

“Yeah, he don’t look right.”

Chitto’s cool assessing eyes flashed from the heavy figures stomping around the ring to the concerned, ethereal face at his side. Soon everyone noticed and the expectant faces of the Ruiners officers were stricken with strain.

“What the fuck is going on,” rumbled Axle, frowning. “Ramsey! Get in there! Shit. He looks like a god damn zombie.”

Rowan’s phone buzzed violently in her pocket. She never turned it off, always worried that Lacy might be trying to reach her, so she reflexively pulled it out and flipped it open. The number was Bronson’s, the message brief.

Locker room after the fight,
it said.

“Strange,” she whispered, her mind racing. Piece of crap that it was, her messages weren’t usually delayed. Had he tried to send it earlier or had it just come through? So much depended on the answer. Wordless, Rowan handed her phone to Chitto, his troubled eyes echoing her distressed thoughts.

“You just got this?” When Rowan nodded, Chitto watched her face closely. “Any theories baby girl?”

“I don’t know.” She was helpless to account for or interpret the mysterious message, but a sinking feeling told her that it would all become painfully clear very soon. She pulled her keys out of her pocket and handed them over to Chitto. “Maybe you should go get the Bronco, just in case. We should tell the guys.”

Bronson was having serious trouble. The last hour before the fight he had felt like Samson after his haircut, almost able to visualize the drainage of potassium from his blood that sapped his strength and functionality. When Joey’s guerillas had finally ripped the duct tape off and dragged him out of the chair, Bronson hadn’t been able to stand through the intense cramping in his legs and torso. He’d fallen, banging his head on the coffee table. And they had laughed.

He’d never felt so weak, not even as a kid. Not when he’d found his mom unconscious, not when he’d had chickenpox, not when he’d been sent to foster care, not when he’d been kicked out of home after home. His fucked up electrolytes were breaking him, body and mind. Images from his life were floating in his confused brain like hallucinations, voices and echoes of the past swimming before his eyes and obscuring the bright lights of the octagon.

“You deadweight,” his mom slurred, her eyelids drooping under the weight of heroin. “I don’t want to look at your face no more. Get out and don’t come home without money.”

Another face wove in and out of his field of vision, this one with an arched nose and prominent brow, heavy and strong like an eastern European prison inmate. Bronson knew that face—Alin Silverman. He was real, fighting. Real time. Now.

Bronson’s thoughts were jumbled and slow but he tried to force his breathing to slow down, tried to calm the panicked beating of his heart. He was in the octagon, for fuck’s sake! How did he get here? That nurse with that tube choking down his throat…Joey laughing…“You gotta lose.”

“No,” Bronson mumbled, blinking desperately. “Wake up!”

Axle’s voice floated up from the desert over the roar of a bike, “Conserve,” it said, “Hop on. You have got to win.” Conserve? Bronson’s arms twitched like a squid and the effort of holding even the most basic boxing block was exhausting. The round clock seemed to grind to an indeterminable crawl with each almost hit of Silverman’s fists.

Bronson’s heart hammered from the effort of standing. Conserve…
energy
! That was what he was trying to do, yes! Store it up to pump it out. All he needed was one burst of strength, one perfect punch. He just had to find strength somewhere, command his body again and push through the fatigue. He had to win even if it would be the last time.

Silverman fluttered closer, jabbing, his arms splaying wide as Bronson stumbled toward him. This was it, his last chance before darkness. Bronson’s hamstrings contracted in preparation, his elbow sweeping along his ribs.

Boom.

Bronson’s heartbeat seemed to stop altogether as he exploded up and in, his uppercut shattering Silverman’s jaw and sending the surprised contender head over heels. He bounced off the floor, rippling like jelly. Disjointed. Broken.
“Hello haymaker!” shouted the announcers, babbling and screeching as the audience surged to their feet. Bronson’s ears couldn’t process the words, the crowd, the bells. Flashes of light, spinning ropes, his own fluttering chest were all that he could see.

Rowan’s face twisted, gaping, distraught, floating over the seats. Her lips formed his name, but there was no sound. He couldn’t hear any sound, only a blank, faint echo as if through water. Sonar. Under water, six feet under, dark.

Keep standing,
Bronson ordered himself, shaking his head violently. He had to wake up, snap out of this mental confusion. All he had to do was get himself out of there on his own two feet.

His feet. They were itching, swollen. He looked down at his body, not processing the sight of his enlarged hands and ankles. He swayed softly as the ref catapulted his arm into the air. Looking up into the golden lights, it was like golden hair cascading around Bronson over soft shoulders, the heat of the ring like the heat of Rowan’s kisses, golden, enfolding him, warm. An angel riding with him, riding him, his angel, Rowan…Rowan needed him…they’d be after her next…they knew…
I love you
, she’d said…fuck. He had to keep standing.