Page 125 of The Vigilante's Lover

11: Jax

I hate leaving Mia out there alone, but I can’t bring her inside.

Jovana and Klaus are both trained Vigilantes who want us dead.

I won’t have that on my conscience.

They probably won’t notice her in the car even if they go out to the lot.

If they are even here. This could all be for nothing.

But the prickle down my spine tells me it isn’t.

I head to the back door of the arena. I’m stopped by a security guard, and when a friendly chat doesn’t get me through, I drop him with a pinch to the vasal nerve. He won’t be out long, but by the time he comes around, I’ll be where I need to go.

The corridors are a maze between small dressing rooms and larger spaces for gatherings.

A message beeps through from Colt. I scan it quickly, passing a young woman carrying a tray. She notices me, but her look is more flirtatious than authoritative, so I move on.

Green room, the message reads.

That will be closer to the front. The halls get progressively thicker with people as I head nearer the arena doors. I blend in with groups as wepass the guards who prevent guests and low-level employees from entering the arena floor.

“There he is!” Colt spots me from up ahead. He pulls his own backstage pass off and sticks it over my head. With his face and public recognition, he doesn’t need one himself.

“Let’s head back,” he says. “This way.”

Colt and Parker make a point to gab about the fights as we walk the back halls to the green room. I follow their conversation only in the background, instead scanning the environment.

I pay the thoughtful and classy amenities little mind and focus on doors and layout. Whoever designed this place had crowd flow at the top of the list of concerns.

Easy to move around. Hard to defend.

The noise of the party crowd grows as we approach the entrance to the room. Through a set of double doors lies a decent-sized space filled with people in all manners of dress. Most hold drinks. A few carry small plates with appetizers.

A crowd at the bar keeps the two bartenders busy. A shorter line trickles past the buffet table. Opposite the doors are huge floor-to-ceiling windows looking out over the city. Nashville’s lights dance beyond the glass.

I take all of this in over the course of the few seconds that pass before two men head over to us. They both wear off-the-rack suits that I’m sure they think are suave. One of them scowls beneath a felt fedora. The other has a glossy black mop with a suspiciously even hairline.

Colt groans. “Here comes the sleaze brigade,” he mutters.

They bear down on us.

“Gunner!” the black-haired one cries and grabs Colt’s hand, pumping it vigorously. “And Power Play!” He shakes Parker’s hand as well and claps them both on the shoulders. “Strong as ever, I see! Thinking about going back in for that title again?”

“Ha, no thanks, Benny,” says Colt. “I’m just a pretty face these days.Parker’s the one on a hot streak.”

Parker shrugs. “Finally found the right weight class.”

The man laughs. It’s a practiced, hollow sound. The kind you do on demand. He’s not built like a fighter. A promoter or agent, then. His companion’s only contribution to this exchange is a quick nod beneath the hat.

“And who is this?” The loud one turns to me, his hand out. “Benny Rand,” he says.

I give Benny a polite smile and a firm but stilted handshake.

“Benny, this is Jax, an old friend of my family,” says Colt.

Benny’s eyes widen. “Whoa, quite the grip you have there, Jax.” He gives a nervous laugh as I release him. “You a fighter, too?” His eyes study me, sizing me up like a rancher appraising a horse.