Page 60 of The Loves We Lost

“Where the fuck is your prospect cut?” I ask Noah when I see he’s only wearing a T-shirt.

“It’s on the hook,” Noah says, continuing to putter, wiping down the solid wood counter.

“So put it on your fucking back and have some pride instead of hanging it there like you would your bath towel.”

“But it’s hot.”

“Fuck me,” I mutter. “I swear to god this is the weakest set of fucking prospects we’ve ever had. You see me and Niro without our cuts? No. Because we’re in the fucking clubhouse. Feel free to take your T-shirt off, but don’t let me see you behind the bar or in here without your fucking cut. It becomes a second skin. If you have any doubts about wearing it for the rest of your life, you shouldn’t be one of the prospects. Make your mind up if you want in or out.”

Noah looks like a deer in the headlights, but he has the good sense to slip his cut back on. “Sorry, Bates.”

“What’s up with you?” Niro asks as Noah pours me a beer.

“Nothing’s wrong with me. But I’m surrounded by incompetence today.” When the beer is placed in front of me, I take several big gulps.

Niro huffs. “Or you aren’t surrounded by your girls.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You’ve been an asshole since we got on our bikes and drove back from dropping them off at home, in spite of the endurance workouts.”

“I’m fine.”

“Whatever. What’s the name of that river in Egypt? Oh, right, De-nial.”

“That’s a fucking awful joke.”

Niro’s laughter fills the bar. “It’s your mood that’s awful. So, what are you going to do?”

I tap the counter with my fingernails. “Do we have any work tonight?”

“None. That’s why everyone else is out back, drinking beer. I’ll be grilling later for those sticking around. Cat is over at Rae’s with the rest of the old ladies.”

My shoulders drop, and I realize Niro is right. I’ve been itching for a fight since I woke up this morning. “I’m gonna challenge Clutch to a fight.”

“We haven’t had fight night in forever. I’m in.”

And that’s how three hours later, I find myself in a makeshift ring in the rear of our yard, facing my VP, who is rubbing his hand over his jaw as blood drips from a cut above his eye. There’s a makeshift bracket written out on the wall. Niro took out Saint. Spark beat Prez. Halo and Switch are still up to fight. Vex is referee, given he’s only just back on full duty after being shot. While he was down to join tonight, King told him to save his fingers for all the work that needs to be done at his keyboard.

“Gwen’s gonna be pissed you wrecked my face with that uppercut,” Clutch says as we dance around each other.

“Need to work on that speed, old man.” My body glistens with sweat, and my knuckles ache.

Clutch comes out jabbing with a lot of volume, fast and furious, but his aim is lazy, and I’m faster on my feet.

“Just fucking hit him, Bates,” Niro shouts from the sideline.

He has a hundred on me to win.

We end up in a clinch, and Clutch’s bearlike hug squeezes the air from my lungs.

“You . . . hug your . . . old lady . . . like this?”

I manage to slip out beneath his grip and start landing jabs. They strike faster and faster, as if I’m hitting a punch bag.

Clutch tries to defend, but the anger that’s been biting at my control comes out. One fist after another fist. I manage to knock my VP onto the ground, where he holds his ribs as Vex counts him down.

“Fuck, fine. I’m out,” Clutch calls, and I continue to bounce on the balls of my feet. “Feel better, fucker?”