Road Tripped (Satan's Devils MC Utah #1) - Manda Mellett Page 0,18

having been promoted from bouncer would probably be a cinch.

I glance around the table, but none of the men lift their hands, or indicate in any way that they’re this Swift. I wait for the man to introduce himself, or for Pip to point him out.

But neither thing happens. Instead, Pip stands. “Now, I think Swift and Stormy have a score to settle? I suggest we all adjourn to the gym.”

Everyone, including the woman, gets up and stands, and they filter out through the doorway. I busy myself getting hold of the cane and getting myself upright once again. By the time I do, I’ve missed satisfying my idle curiosity to see just what is written on the back of the woman’s cut.

Like any man, I’m more than happy to watch a fight. We hold them regularly in Tucson in our own gym. There, I’d know who to place my money on, knowing exactly how each man handles themselves, sometimes using my knowledge of who might not be up to fighting strength having laid one on the night before, or who had put extra training in and might have an edge. Here, where I don’t know anyone, seeing how they fight could give me some indications of what I’d be up against if eventually they decide my face doesn’t fit. Do they fight dirty or play by the rules? How a man faces up to another may give me some clues of what I’m up against. Of course, I’m particularly interested as one of the fighters is the man I’m going to be partnered with.

Thor is hovering, waiting for me to follow the rest, ensuring I go with them, I expect. I make no outward sign I’ve realised it’s not him being polite, instead he’s checking I don’t make a break for it and run, or rather limp, to my bike.

Still, this behaviour, more typical of members of an MC, settles me slightly. Especially when I see money changing hands. I open my ears and gather more money’s being placed on Swift being the winner rather than the other man, Stormy. At least I’m being paired with someone who can presumably look after themselves. I’ll be a liability for a bit where anything physical is concerned. Hey, can we pause the fight for a moment while I put my knee back in place? My lips curve slightly as I imagine how that would go down.

The gym is at the rear of the building, reached via a maze of corridors. As soon as I enter, my eyes open wide, noticing some serious equipment here, and lots of it. Peg would be green with envy at some of this shit. And there, in pride of place in the middle, is a full-sized professional looking boxing ring. Three people approach and swing themselves up and through the ropes.

Well, I’ll be fucked. The woman, like the others now minus her cut, is in the ring as well. What is she? Some kind of cheerleader or referee? She’s also pulled off the long-sleeved top she was wearing and now is just dressed in a sports bra and jeans. I notice her stomach’s flat and there’s no fat on her at all. She’s fit, while I prefer my women to be curvy. But no matter, any port in the storm. If she’s a sweet butt and I’m staying on for a while, I wouldn’t turn her down.

The man who’d sat with arms crossed looking sulky is also there. He’s about my age, and around my height of six foot two. He’s ripped off his tee showing a six-pack, or is that eight? The smirk on his face suggests the exposure of his chest was meant to intimidate, confirmed when he puffs it out. He looks a worthy opponent. Is he Swift? I fucking hope not. I’ve already picked up he doesn’t care for me. If he turned nasty, in my weakened state, I’d be no match for him.

The girl, I’ve decided, must be a sweet butt, though to be fair, she’s not flaunting herself. She’s just deep in conversation with the other man there. Unlike the others, he’s not doing much to get ready, not even taking off his shirt. If that’s Swift, I like his style. He’s acting as if he’s confident he can take down the other man with one hand tied behind his back. A bit older than my thirty years, perhaps, shoulder-length brown hair he’s not bothering to tie back. A mistake,