it, but I didn’t want to take any chances either. But still . . . my gut said he wouldn’t recognize me.”
“Still,” I muse, “it’s best we keep you two apart. On the off chance he would, I don’t want him having any inkling we’re on to him. Taking him down with surprise is going to be key.”
“Agreed,” she says softly. “And besides . . . we don’t have much longer until this all starts heating up.”
That’s true. In five days VanZant should take a dive. Dennis says JT’s bookie is poised to collect hard and fast, because he knows JT could be a flight risk with those stakes. I figure by the middle of next week, JT will be paying me a visit to ask for money.
And if not, then Sela and I will be at the police station, reporting her rape, and we’ll let the chips fall where they may.
Chapter 19
Sela
It’s fight night and I’ve somehow slipped into hostess mode for the men. I’ve never entertained before. Cooking Thanksgiving dinner for Beck, Caroline, and Ally was my first and only attempt at playing Martha Stewart. I was terrified, mostly because I wanted Caroline to like me, but it all ended up being fine. So when Beck told me he invited Dennis over to watch the Mariota-VanZant fight with us, I immediately decided we would need snacks and alcohol.
I spent the morning at the grocery store and bought enough food to feed an army. My menu consisted of sweet-and-spicy meatballs, buffalo chicken dip and little ham and cheese sliders. My afternoon consisted of making these snacks and batting Beck’s hands away when he tried to taste.
I then focused on making Devil’s Brew, a secret punch handed down through the generations of the Halstead family. I had to call my dad for the recipe, as I’d never made it before, but it was pretty simple: brut champagne, vodka, brandy, frozen limeade, maraschino cherries, and ginger ale. Mix it all up and prepare for your worries to melt away. I thought it was important to have a concoction like this because frankly¸ until I saw VanZant take the dive, I was going to be stressing out about it.
Dennis came over at five o’clock when the prefights started, lesser-ranked MMA fighters hoping for their chance at fame and fortune. This was opportune, because it let me get acquainted with the sport and Dennis and Beck explained things to me as best they could. While both men sneered at my Devil’s Brew, once they heard it had champagne in it, they tried it. By the third glass, they were mellow and happy and waging personal bets on the fighters, yelling at the TV and high-fiving each other when something amazing happened.
I liked hanging with Beck and Dennis. It was fun watching them have a good time, given the heavy nature of the fight that was about to come. I was enjoying everything myself until about 8:30 p.m. when Mariota and VanZant were brought into the cage.
The fighters went at it in an octagonal cage bordered with vinyl-coated chain-link fence, which lent a sinister air to the match. I’d learned quite a bit watching the early fights, including some of the rules. Dennis told me when the Ultimate Fighting Championship was first created, there were very few rules in place to ensure the safety of the combatants. But over time and in an effort to legitimize the sport, rules had been enacted to help prevent serious injury or even death. That didn’t mean there still weren’t serious injuries though. In the ten preliminary fights before the main event, every fight ended with either a knockout—where one fighter was knocked unconscious—or a technical knockout, where the ref intervened and stopped the fight based on his opinion a fighter could not continue. It’s a vicious sport where the blood flows freely. So freely, in fact, that by the time Mariota and VanZant enter the octagon, there’s blood smeared over most of the flooring, and I have to wonder what possesses men to get in the ring to do that, especially when the pay isn’t all that great for most of them.
“Anyone want a refill on something?” I ask the men before I sit down on the couch beside Beck. They both look at me and shake their heads, eyes going immediately back to the TV screen as the fighters are being announced.
Mariota is shredded, rocking a tattoo-covered eight-pack and a shortly trimmed Mohawk. Most men tonight