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T oday is the second worst day of my life. Tomorrow I’ll be thirty, so that will be the worst day. But the day before is still pretty rotten.

As a teenager, you don’t think you’ll ever turn thirty. Thirty is a number for “old” people. Like my parents.

“You don’t die just because you turn thirty,” explains Nina, my best friend.

“Of course you don’t die,” I say, as if it’s totally obvious, “but you suddenly get old overnight. One day, you have youthful skin, a full head of hair, and a firm ass. Then, poof , the next day, it’s all gone. Then it’s hello wrinkles, cellulite, and saggy boobs.”

Nina laughs as she strokes her baby bump. “That idea is only in your head. You’ll still look the same tomorrow as you do today.”

“Oh, I’m afraid not. Basically, I have to find a guy tonight who will still love me when I’m old and shriveled tomorrow.”

Nina grins. “So you’re celebrating your birthday like the old days?”

“Yes, exactly.” I squint at her expansive stomach. “Sucks you can’t come.”

“I see, now it’s my fault, that you won’t find true love before thirty.”

“Correct. Why did you have to get knocked up before I turned thirty?” I laugh, only teasing, and place a hand on her stomach, where my future godchild is growing.

“I sincerely apologize, and promise to hold Jared accountable as well.” Nina puts her hand on mine and squeezes my fingers.

It’s always been the two of us against the rest of the world. Sure, we had family, we had other friends, but we’d always been best friends. We met at school when we were ten, and for years, we hardly left each other’s side. Vacations without each other had been hell until our parents began taking both of us along. We’d gone to the same college and shared our first apartment.

And then along came Jared.

Don’t get me wrong; I think he’s great. As great as any man who leaves his socks everywhere and doesn’t put the toilet lid down can be.

But he ruined our togetherness.

Of course, Nina is also really happy with him. So happy that cartoon hearts are practically dancing in her eyes. She’s got it bad.

And I really wish her all the luck in the world. I also wish Jared had a hot single friend he could hook me up with, but they’re all punks or nerds. Nothing against it. Jared is one too and I like him. But still.

I’d rather have a bad boy; someone with a shady past. But a guy with a golden heart, not some mafia asshole or a pimp. A half-bad boy, so to speak. One who looks like he’s going to steal a granny’s purse but ends up offering her a seat on the bus. Got it?

And tattoos. He’s got to have lots of tattoos. Otherwise, what’s the point of being a bad boy?

“Jenna?!”

I shake my head, breaking out of my daydream. “Yes?”

Nina grins. “I was saying we should go out tonight. I won’t be able to for a while. Soon, it’ll just be crying babies and changing diapers.”

“Are you sure? You can’t drink, and it might be hard for you to dance.” I widen my eyes dramatically. “You can’t even flirt with guys!”

She raises her hand. “Hey, if I wanted to hook up with a guy, I totally could. I mean, I have Jared, and wouldn’t want to, but I could. Just to be clear.”

I grin. “Okay, you’re right, you totally could, but still. But that’s not partying.”

“We just have to work with what we have. Which means you, me, and the bump are going to celebrate tonight. We’ll go to Juicy’s first and then go dancing.”

“Can you still lift your feet?” I tease.

She glares at me. “I can lift them enough to kick your ass, Jenna Scott,” she says with a laugh. “Remember, I took that kickboxing course in college.”

“Haha, very funny.”

“So, what do you say?” She waggles her eyebrows. “Wanna party like the old days but not quite?”

I laugh, conceding. “Fine, let’s do it.”

“Good.” She looks me up and down, eying my faded jeans and T-shirt. “You probably want to go home and change?”

“Definitely,” I joke. “When I’m going to be old and lame starting tomorrow, I need to show what I got today.”

Nina rolls her eyes. “So, I’ll meet you at Juicy’s at nine?”

I nod. “Sounds good.”

I kiss her on the cheek, then head home to get ready.

By nine, I’m standing in line in front of the trendy bar. By a quarter past nine, I’m still standing there, and I’m still alone. I pull out my phone and call Nina.

After a few rings, a man answers. “Hello?” Jared.

“Hey! I’m supposed to have a birthday date with Nina. Where is she?”

He pauses, and my stomach clenches. “Oh, crap.”

I stifle a groan. “What?”

“She’s sleeping next to me on the couch.”

My heart plummets through my shoes and onto the San Francisco sidewalk. “Wow, pregnant women are annoying,” I joke, trying to hide how hurt I am.

“Do you want me to wake her up?” I can hear in his tone that he wants me to say no.

“No, of course not. She needs to sleep and keep growing that baby,” I say, trying to smile.

“I know she’s going to feel terrible about this tomorrow.”

I force my face into a tight smile. “If she remembers it at all. Pregnancy-brain and all that.”

He laughs, then sounds awkward. “So, um, happy birthday!”

I smother a sigh, still smiling my fake smile. “Thank you. Give Nina and the bump a hug for me.”

“Will do. Night.”

So, now what? I ask myself after he hangs up. Just then, the club doorman nods at me and opens the door.

All right, guess I’ll go in.

Inside, I’m walking into a solid wall of noise, smell, and clouds of vapor from fog machines placed in every corner.

Within three steps, it’s like being trapped in a cocoon. As if I were leaving reality outside and stepping into a dream.

I don’t usually go out partying alone, but since I’m already here, I might as well sit at the bar and have a drink. After that, I can figure out what I want to do.

I weave my way through a swarm of bodies, making my way to the bar. Behind it, two men are having a discussion, both of whom look exactly like my next mistake. Tall, broad, tattooed. What more could a girl want?

When I finally get to the bar, I stand around indecisively for a moment. Luckily, someone gets up from one of the barstools, and I quickly hop onto it. I try to get the attention of the barmen, but neither of the two guys seems to notice me.

I wait for a solid two minutes before getting annoyed. “Hey! What does a girl have to do around here to get a drink? Show her tits?” I shout.

One of the men, the one at the far end of the bar, looks over at me and grins.

God, he’s hot. Clearly my next mistake.

But then someone next to me speaks. “If you’re offering, I wouldn’t mind a look.”

I glance over at the man who spoke. I have to tilt my head up and up and up until my eyes reach his face. Shit, he’s tall.

And he grins at me so devilishly that my interest is roused, to say the least. Besides tattooed men, that arrogant, smug charm on men is something that I can’t resist. Not a bit.

“Men usually pay more than a drink to see them,” I reply cheekily with an equally flirtatious grin.

He laughs, shamelessly looking at my cleavage. I let him—it’s my last official night on Earth as a young person, after all, and I’m showing off the twins to their best advantage.

“I can imagine,” he says, licking his lips.

One of the tattooed men behind the bar comes up to us and gives the cocky guy a shove on the shoulder. “Careful, Roan, or I’ll have to tell your mother you’re being a sleaze.”

The guy, Roan, looks up. Close together, there is a certain family resemblance between them. “Don’t be a fucking snitch, Finn.”

The other man laughs before turning to me. “Sorry, didn’t see you there, but I promise we serve drinks without anyone having to show their breasts. What can I get for you?”

“That’s good to know. I wasn’t sure,” I reply with a grin. “I’ll have a gin and tonic and a shot of Patrón.”

He nods professionally. “Just a moment.”

“I’ll have a tequila, too,” Roan interjects.

“Do you have any money?” returns Finn with a grin.

Roan shrugs, sulking. “I thought cousins drank for free here.”

“Haha. Not a chance,” Finn says good-naturedly.

“Tell you what. It’s on me,” I say, pulling out my card.

Roan smiles at me—a smile that melts my panties. Poof. Gone. “Thanks. Let me know how I can return the favor.”

His eyes are filled with dark promises. I swallow hard as I feel a gush of wetness between my thighs. To distract myself, I reach for the slice of lime, moistening the back of my hand with the juice before sprinkling it with salt.

Roan does the same, but before I can lick the salted lime juice off my hand, he reaches out and does it first. I shudder as his lips caress my bare skin.

I grin, trying to stay cool despite the fact that my entire body is trembling. Then I lick his hand, tasting the calloused skin along with the salt and citrus.

We both down our tequila shots and bite into our limes.

“You taste good,” he comments afterward, casually, like my heart isn’t racing like a train.

“You’re not so bad yourself,” I say, not trusting myself to say more.

He licks his lips again. “Are you always so generous with your compliments?”

“Always.”

He grins at me.

“Another one?” I ask, raising my eyebrows in challenge.

He nods. “One more, but then I have to go.”

I tilt my head to one side. “Oh, are you up to something more important?”

“Indeed.”

I frown, curious. “So, what else are you doing?”

He leans forward and whispers in my ear, “If I told you that, I’d have to kill you.”

I laugh, shivering at the feeling of his lips so close to mine. “Is that so?”

He winks at me. “Did you know that the French refer to orgasms as le petite mort ?”

My mouth falls open. Why are we suddenly talking about orgasms? Can he tell that the mere sensation of his lips against my ear sent a bolt of lightning straight to my core?

“But you’re Irish,” I reply dumbly with the first thing that comes to mind.

He nods with a laugh. “What gave me away?”

“The red hair and freckles.”

He strokes his dark red hair, which is shaved short on the sides and a little longer on top. “I’d say it’s more auburn.”

I stroke his short beard with a laugh. “Which is a shade of red.”

Roan suddenly grabs my hand and presses it against his cheek. “What’s your name anyway?”

I swallow hard. “Um…Jenna.”

“Well, it’s been a pleasure, Jenna, but I really do have to go in a minute. Can I have your number?”

I like him. He’s cocky, tall, and good-looking. And from what I can gather, he’s well built.

I feel like I just got a bull’s eye. He hits all of my usual marks for a good time and he looks like the kind of guy that likes to have fun. Without any commitment.

Which also suits me very well.

So I reach for a pen that’s lying on the counter near the credit card machine. Then I take Roan’s hand and write my number on his arm. In large digits. From wrist to elbow.

Just so he can’t say that it washed off before he could read it.

He laughs. “I don’t need glasses, you know.”

I smirk. “I don’t want to take any risks.”

“I see.” He leans toward me, pressing his lips against my cheek, giving me goose bumps. “I’ll definitely call you.”

I nod, and the gorgeous auburn-haired man leaves. Or, at least, he takes two steps in the direction of the exit. Then he stops, turns to me, and tilts his head. “Or, I don’t suppose you want to come with me?”

“What, and make it a threesome?”

He grins devilishly in a way that makes my toes curl. “I like the way you think. But no. To something else.”

“To what then?” I ask, still feeling bold.

“To an adventure.” He grins and holds his hand out to me.

I grab it. Because of course I do.

But first, I have to stop and pay the bill for our drinks, which kind of ruins the whole thing.

“Where are we?” I ask as we get out of the Uber in an industrial district.

I’m not usually the anxious type, but right now, I’m feeling uneasy.

Maybe I shouldn’t have hopped into a car with a stranger. Especially not when I’m dressed like Marilyn Monroe in Gentlemen Prefer Blondes . Of course it’s not the dress, if something bad happens, but I’d prefer a snowsuit right now anyway.

He grins at me. “Let me surprise you.”

For a moment, I consider recalling the Uber driver to take me home, but I’m too curious to go back now.

Curiosity killed the cat, a voice in the back of my head whispers.

But it’s too late. I’m already walking toward the building. Roan quickly catches up, taking my hand and pulling me along.

“Not so fast!” I shout, stumbling as I try to follow in my ridiculous heels.

“We’re already late,” he explains as I try to keep up.

If an axe murderer doesn’t kill me tonight in this warehouse, my shoes might.

Roan knocks on a door, which opens immediately.

“You’re late,” a deep voice booms. My mouth falls open when I see the body that belongs to it.

Holy Hulk.

Roan is tall and well built, but he’s a toothpick compared to this guy. He’s built like a brick house, with huge biceps that threaten to burst his shirt and a girth I couldn’t even try to get my arms around.

“I’m here now, Dima.”

The hulk, who is obviously called Dima, nods at me. “And her?”

“She’s with me.”

Dima leers at me, and I really wish I had that snowsuit now. A shiver goes down my spine that has nothing to do with desire. This guy scares me.

“Tell her to behave,” he growls.

“Dima!” someone calls out from inside the warehouse. A shorter, slim man appears next to the bouncer, dropping a hand on his shoulder. “Is that the proper way to greet our guests?” He smiles charmingly at me. “I am Boris. Please excuse this peasant. He has no manners.”

He offers me his hand, and I take it hesitantly. He presses a kiss to the back of it, which has never happened to me before.

He winks at me. “Roan has to go, but I’d be delighted if you’d keep me company in my private box.”

I swallow hard. Private box? Just what kind of place is this?

Roan leans toward me, shielding me from the gaze of the two men. “Is that okay with you? Or would you prefer to sit ringside?”

Ringside? My brain echoes numbly.

I don’t know what to say, but Boris’ smoothness makes me almost more uncomfortable than Dima’s coldness.

I make up my mind in an instant. “Since this is my first time, I’d like to sit ringside where I can see everything,” I say confidently, but with a smile that I hope is charming.

Boris smiles, shrugging casually. “Then, at least let me walk you to your seat.” He offers me his arm.

I have little choice but to take it. I look back at Roan, who gives me an encouraging look.

All right. Guess I’m on my own.

Boris leads me down a long, narrow corridor. “Since this is your first time, allow me to give you a few details along the way. It looks brutal, and it is.”

Brutal? That doesn’t sound inviting at all. I really have a talent for getting myself into trouble.

“But we have taken all possible safety measures. We have a doctor and paramedics here. The fighters will be taken care of immediately, if necessary. And don’t worry.” He pats my hand. “Roan has never lost before.”

Somehow, that doesn’t reassure me at all. Finally, my head clicks about where I am. “Fighters? So…wait? These are boxing matches?”

He laughs. “No, MMA.” When I look at him uncomprehendingly, he explains, “Mixed martial arts. Cage fighting.”

“Oh.” That’s all I can think of to say. At the same time I also feel a kind of excitement flowing through me. My idea of MMA fighting probably doesn’t match the reality, but a bunch of half-naked men glistening with sweat is the first thing I think of. Not a bad image.

“Roan obviously didn’t tell you anything,” Boris says. He pulls a hundred dollar bill out of his jacket. “Here.”

“For what?” I ask, waving the money off.

He pushes the bill at me again. “Your first bet is on the house.”

I frown, confused. “Bet?”

He laughs. “Of course. Everyone bets on the matches. That’s half the fun.”

Before I can answer, we step through a curtain and enter an arena. Rows of seats enclose a large platform in the center of the cavernous room. The ring in the middle isn’t square, like a boxing ring, but instead has eight sides. An octagon. There’s a cage around it, but not the menacing thing I had imagined when I heard the word “cage.” It looks well…rather…harmless.

“Come on. Friends and family of the fighters get to sit ringside.”

I open my mouth to tell him that I am neither, not even an acquaintance, but instead, I follow him anyway and let him lead me to a seat.

Before he leaves, Boris grabs my hand, presses his lips to it again, before folding the hundred-dollar bill into my fingers, and standing to wave at a plump, balding man wearing a bookie’s cap. “You can place your bet with Serge.”

I nod in thanks as I sit down. The other seats around me are still unoccupied.

The bookie arrives. “Who would you like to bet on?”

“I’m not sure yet. I’ve never done this before,” I admit. “Can I have a little more time to think about it?”

“Of course. My name is Serge. Just wave me over when you decide. But you can only bet on a fighter until their fight starts. After the beginning of the first one, betting is closed until the next fight.”

“How many fights are there?” I ask.

“Twelve,” he explains.

“And which fight is Roan in?”

“Roan? I’m not sure I know that name?”

I shrug my shoulders. “Sorry, I don’t know his last name.”

Serge scratches his head. “Roan…could you mean the Irishman?”

I nod. “He’s Irish, yes.”

“He’s in the tenth fight.”

“Okay, thanks. I’ll bet closer to that time if that’s alright.”

“Just let me know.”

I nod, and the bookie leaves. To be on the safe side, I put the hundred-dollar bill in my bra, wondering again what the hell I’m doing here, in an MMA fighting arena, on the night before my thirtieth birthday.

Just go with it, Jenna. I tell myself.

Up close, I can see that the cage is made of wire mesh. Basically, it’s an oversized rabbit hutch, and I smirk at the idea of a bunch of bunnies duking it out in the ring.

The seats begin to fill up. I look around, curious to see if I might know anyone, but it’s clear that these people are part of a different crowd. Everyone around me is dressed nicely but ostentatiously. There are a lot of flashy gold watches, loud jewelry, and open cleavage.

I fit in nicely in my form-fitting Marilyn Monroe dress.

Suddenly, it gets dark around me.

The show is about to begin.