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What passed for local police in Tritt, Georgia, were happy to look the other way unless strong-armed by someone else.
A senator, for example.
Which was why I wouldn’t be recruiting for the fights any closer to home than I already was.
Sure, McNeely had big money to drop—and frat bros who’d bring in even more—but the last thing we needed was a high-profile kid like him getting us the wrong kind of attention.
Not that he’d ever soil his hands by showing up at an abandoned biker bar for an illegal fight. He was way too prissy. Besides, he probably had to keep his nose clean to avoid risking daddy’s precious political reputation.
I expected tonight to follow the same pattern as usual.
Two to three matchups, usually starting with the newbies and finishing with bigger names or grudge matches people were eager to stick around for.
Fighters were matched as evenly as possible. When a bout was over too fast, nobody felt like they were getting their money’s worth, and the whole idea was to keep the spectators entertained as long as possible, to keep the money rolling in. That was why those of us who’d been around the longest didn’t fight every week—so it’d be more of an event when our names were on the docket.
Fighters were announced a few minutes before each match, giving them time to warm up and the spectators time to look them over before placing their final bets.
Once the fight began, there were a few rules about what was allowed. No biting, no eye-gouging, no groin shots. But if you let yourself get pinned, a fight could get dirty real fast, which only added to the fun.
When my turn came, I fought a sophomore who’d done some MMA training in the past.
He should’ve gone down fast. Mostly, it felt like I was deciding when to end it. But the kid kept getting up, slow and sloppy, but stubborn, even catching my leg once and trying for a half-assed single-leg takedown.
It impressed me enough that I made a mental note to have Dalton give him better billing. But it wasn’t a close fight. And when it was over, I wasn’t satisfied.
All it had done was ratchet up my aggression.
The September night was hot as fuck, so when the chick who’d been hovering around me all evening finally shot her shot, I shrugged her off. “Listen, hon. I need to get back to campus and take a shower. Maybe another night?”
She finger-walked a hand up my chest. “Know what would make that shower even better?” She leaned in and whispered in my ear. “Company.”
I was wiped, not only from the long week but also from fending off Dalton’s stress, dealing with the usual drunken spectator fights in the audience, and running my head around in circles over my shitty new roommate. All I wanted was to shower and fall into bed.
But with my blood thrumming the way it was, I had to admit an orgasm would go a long way toward helping me sleep.
Besides, McNeely had the season-opening football game tomorrow, which meant he was trying to get a decent night’s sleep.
And we couldn’t have that, could we?
“Okay,” I said.
As soon as I got back to the room and saw the blanket-covered lump on the other side of the room, I felt a thrill of victory. McNeely hadn’t found anywhere else to crash tonight.
I immediately realized fucking in the hall showers wouldn’t be enough.
“Shower, then sex,” I told the girl, grabbing my bodywash and two towels from the stack of fresh laundry in my closet. “Let’s go.”
I rushed the foreplay, rubbing bodywash all over her while she lazily stroked my cock and kissed me with her very interesting tongue piercing. By the time we stumbled back to the room, I was hard and ready for her mouth on my dick.
I was even more ready to make my roommate regret coming back here tonight.
“You going to let me fuck that wet pussy?” I asked at a normal volume.
“Oh fuck, Vaughn,” she said. “Please.”
The blanket-covered lump shifted. C’mon. Wake up, princess.
“You gonna take my cock?” I prodded, sucking a mark onto her neck while keeping my eye trained on the far bed.
