Page 56 of Player

Clarissa

I expected the underground to be a combination of a dance club and a bar. The ninety-to-ten male-to-female ratio changes that assumption. Dance club? Definitely not. Bar? Perhaps, though it feels more like a Muscle-Mania convention than a night at the pub. Underground fight club? Yes. That’s definitely what this place is.

And I suppose that makes Finn a sexier, smooth-talking knockoff of Brad Pitt?

Luck my ass. You don’t knock a man off his feet with a single punch without skilled precision.

Finn can fight.

He refuses to look at me as he hustles me into the back room. We pass a huge, octagon-shaped ring that takes up the center of the space and over to a line of men in front of a wooden table by the wall. Finn scowls, his attention on the two seated men checking names to what must be paid admission. I glance around, curious about my surroundings.

The ring is exactly as I would have imagined. Eight walls made of fencing and covered in thick padding. Wrestling-style mats on the floor. Five steel steps leading into the one entrance/exit. It’s a set up you’d find at a professional MMA fight.

Almost legitimate.

I turn back to Finn and catch him mid-shoulder roll. Going through the same movements he had back by the bar, before hitting that man.

“You aren’t planning on fighting?” I hiss.

He swings his body my way but keeps warming up. “I am.”

“Tonight?”

“No time like the present. You have any cash on you?”

“What?”

“Cash.”

“God, you’re infuriating.” I place my hand on his arm in an attempt to stop him from moving. He glances down at it with amusement. “Will you answer my question?”

“If I can get on this feckin’ list, I’ll be fighting. How much do you have?”

“Two hundred dollars.”

“Think of it as an investment.”

“I don’t gamble,” I tell him.

He snorts. “You can’t bullshite a bullshiter. You tagging along with me is a gamble.”

I jump as a white-haired man behind the table pounds his fist on it. “Get on with it. We haven’t all bleedin’ day.” His antics makes me think of an article I read about Prince Philip of England and his suffering from irritable male syndrome.

“We’re up,” Finn says.

I sigh, then do what I’ve done since meeting this unpredictable man and take a gamble on the unknown, digging in my purse for my wallet.

“You won’t regret it.”

He’s confident or insane, or a combination of both. With an arm around my shoulder, he pulls me into him. Reminding me of his strength and reassuring me that I’m part of this mad plan.

Finn slaps the money down on the table. “Five hundred on Finn McDuff.”

My eyes go wide at the sum.

“Who?” the man asks, eyeing the money.

“The last name’s McDuff. With a lowercase c.