Page 34 of Rent a Bad Boy

“A guy named Vasquez,” he tells me. “Southpaw. Good. Fast hands.”

I nod but don’t say anything else. I won’t tell Reece what’s happening, because there’s nothing he can do. The more people who know, the more chance of things getting worse for her.

So I step into the circle.

Vasquez is already there. A few inches shorter than me, but he’s built like a fire hydrant, compact and dense. He’s bouncing on his toes with the kind of energy that tells me he came here to win.

It has to look real. That’s what the guy said. Convincing.

The first round, I do what I always do. I move, I jab. I test his range. I let him think I’m warming up. The crowd is buzzing the way it always buzzes when I fight—they’ve seen me put guys on their backs in under two minutes, so they’re expecting fireworks. I can hear my name in the noise. They’re calling out bets. Someone shouts the word “Stone” like it’s a war cry.

I don’t look up at the catwalk. I can’t.

In the second round, I start pulling my punches. Not obviously—I still throw them, I still connect. I still make the right sounds. But I’m holding back. I’m taking shots I would normally slip. I let Vasquez land a jab that catches me on the chin, then another one that splits the skin above my eye.

The crowd noise changes. They can feel something is off. Somebody boos.

The blood runs down my temple and into my eye. I let it. It looks more real that way.

In the third round, Vasquez throws a right hook I see coming a full second before it lands. I could’ve dodged it. I could’ve stepped inside and put him on the floor with a body shot. That would end this in three seconds flat.

Instead, I let the blow land. And while I do, I think of her. I see her in my head when my head snaps sideways, and my vision goes white for a second. My knees buckle, and one knee goes down, then the other. My hands hit the concrete, and the crowd goes insane—not happy insane either. Angry insane. Shocked insane. There are people in this warehouse who put their rent money on Everett Stone and just watched him drop for the first time in two years. They don’t understand, so they’re pissed.

I don’t care. I stay down.

Reece calls it. The noise is deafening, and somebody throws a beer can that clips my hip as I stand. Vasquez celebrates in the corner, his arms up like he just beat the best. Maybe he did, technically, except he didn’t. He beat a guy who was never trying to win.

My ribs are screaming from a shot he landed in the second round, and my left eye is swelling shut. There’s blood in my mouth, but none of it matters. None of it.

Because when I look up at the catwalk, she’s still there. And she’s alone.

She’s gripping the rail with both hands, staring down at me with her mouth hanging open. I don’t wait for Reece or for the payout, or any of it. I push through the crowd, ignoring the grabbing hands and the voices yelling. Somebody calls me a fraud, but I can’t give a shit as I take the stairs two at a time until I’m on the catwalk, and she’s in front of me.

Her gaze moves over my face, taking in the damage. “You lost.” Her voice is barely more than a whisper. Her eyes are locked on my face, on the blood, on the swelling. “You never lose.”

“I didn’t have a choice.” I’m breathing hard. My ribs are on fire, and I think something might be cracked on the left side. I don’t care. “What about you? Did they hurt you?”

Her head swings from side to side. “No. The tape kind of hurt on my mouth, but that’s it. I can’t believe…” One hand lifts, lingering close to my face. “I can’t believe you did that for me.”

“They had you. I had to protect you.”

Her chin quivers. She presses her lips together and blinks fast. I see her fighting the tears, trying to hold it together the way she always does.

Then she stops fighting it. She steps forward and puts her arms around me—careful, like she’s afraid of hurting me, which she probably should be because everything hurts right now. But I pull her in anyway with one arm around her back, my face in her hair. I hold her like she’s the only thing keeping me upright, which she might be at this point.

Against my chest, she mumbles, “We need to get you to the hospital.”

“I can’t do that.”

“But your face⁠—”

“I can’t explain how I got it,” I remind her, holding her a little tighter. “I would have to explain the rest of it.”

She pulls back and looks up at me. Her eyes are red, glasses smudged, face flushed. “Fine. Then I’m taking care of you myself.”

“You don’t have to⁠—”

“Don’t you dare say I don’t have to.” That fierce edge is back in her voice, and I love to hear it. “I already know I don’t have to. I want to. So shut up and give me your damn keys.”