Doesn’t matter, I tell myself. He’s not your boyfriend.
He’s a guy who has sex with escorts and dates porn stars. A guy who has been nice to me a few times. On a rational level, I know my feelings for him are about as realistic as a middle school girl’s crush on a pop star—and the chances of it being realized are pretty much the same, too.
But I have a bad gut feeling when I think about him dating Priscilla. It’s her I should be worried about; I did see his hands around her neck. But when you look at Priscilla, you can see the bad in her. It’s a woman thing, I think. Women convey so much without using words. Once you’ve seen one wicked bitch, you’ve seen them all. And I know how to spot a bitch. Whatever Hunter is doing with her, she wants it, and what I really believe is that he does not. Maybe I’m kidding myself. I’ll probably never find out.
The two men fighting first start to circle each other, and it’s a good distraction. As I watch, I’m buoyed by the other girls’ enthusiasm. It only takes a second before word reaches my ear that the fighter with long black hair, Dominique Domino, is one of Marie V.’s clients. His opponent, a muscled guy with buzzed hair, is a porn star.
Loveless cups her hands around my ear. “But he also pays for Marie V.”
I gape. “Why?” I say near her ear. I try to lower my voice while still being audible. “Can’t he get all the booty he wants on the job?”
She nods. “But he likes it kinky,” she hisses. “He wants to keep his image clean, so as not to limit his films. That’s why he pays Marie V. for the weird stuff.” I don’t even want to imagine what kind of depraved acts could ruin a porn star’s reputation.
“I think he likes her more than just professional,” Loveless adds, and I arch my brows. “Oh.”
She rolls her eyes. “That’s a nice way of saying it.”
I spend the rest of the fight wondering what she means, eventually deciding Marie V. is probably not a fan of either of these men’s affections.
The fight only lasts two more minutes before Domino clocks the porn star—hard—making the other man’s nose spray blood and gaining his title in a fit of screaming and applause, and Loveless leans in close to me. “Domino is the possessive kind. Marie V. will have to cut him off soon.”
I wonder how many of those types of situations working women find themselves in, and I think I’ll ask later. I’m feeling more comfortable with Loveless and Juniper now.
Juniper passes me a huge tub of popcorn, smiling, and it’s like a confirmation that I’m right. We are becoming sort-of friends. I don’t want to enjoy the feeling since it’s not “real,” but I let myself off the hook. It’s easier to face everything with friends, even ones who don’t know your real name. I feel okay for the first time since I arrived at the ranch.
That feeling lasts through two more fights. Then Hunter walks into the ring.
Hunter
LOCKWOOD IS IN the corner opposite mine, looking surly but not threatening in red shorts and black sneaks. He’s shorter than I am—maybe five-foot-ten—and without clothes to give him bulk, I can see his upper body is well-defined but lean.
His biceps and pecs are oiled, and his black hair is slicked back, so his sunken cheeks and square jaw stand out like a caricature. His wary brown eyes haven’t left my body since I came into the ring, but I’ve noticed he won’t look me in the eye.
The crowd around us cheers and he widens his legs, trying to adopt a more intimidating posture.
Riiight.
I’ve got maybe forty pounds on this guy, four inches or so, and I hate him down to his fucking cells. I think I’d kill him with my bare hands here and now if I didn’t need him alive. I flex my hands inside my gloves and try to ignore the pain radiating from my back.
We’re announced, and then we step forward to tap gloves. I look into Lockwood’s eyes, and for a second he looks into mine, and there’s plenty of hate there. I keep my expression cool, because I can’t let him know that I know what he’s up to.
Lockwood swipes at the air as he bounces back to his corner, and the crowd cheers. In addition to doing camera stuff for Priscilla, Michael Lockwood also fights semi-professionally—meaning he has fans.
The fight begins with the loud honk of a bullhorn, followed by another roar from the crowd. He steps out of his corner first, but he’s waiting for me to come at him.
I circle, looking for an opening. Of course, he doesn’t give me one, so I lower my guard. He takes a swing. I jump back. He gets me in the shoulder, a hard sting that sends a ripple of pain across my back, but I keep moving, arms up, ready when the moment comes.