Player - A Deadliest Lies Novel - Michele Mannon Page 0,37
in a jar. “Better hope so.”
I struggle between laughter and a healthy dose of concern. What has Finn gotten himself into? Us into?
“Don’t give me that look,” he comments as we sink into the crowd and move toward the fighters warming up by a wall.
“What look?”
“The kind a stunner like yourself gives a fella when she’s expectin’ to be disappointed.”
“Sounds like you’re familiar with that look.”
The laugh that follows is cut short as Finn removes his shirt. Is it my imagination or does he look better and better every time he takes off his clothes?
“Eyes up here.” He drags a finger up his body to his twinkling baby blues. Completely aware of my very appreciative reaction to his body. He kicks off his shoes, his socks follow, enjoying tormenting me and loving the challenge of the fight to follow.
“You’ve done this before?”
“A time or two.” He makes a production of rolling his shoulders, making a pained expression. I’m suddenly filled with doubts. In Finn-talk, a time or two could mean anything.
“What’s wrong?”
“You were a wee bit rough on me last night.”
He’s says it loudly, earning the attention from the men around us.
I flush pink from my chest to my face. Nothing happened last night so I don’t know why I’m reacting this way. There must be something in the Guinness. Finn might be a hot Brad Pitt knockoff but our sexual history tells me his definition of rough differs from my own interpretation.
“Can you rub my shoulders, colleen?”
The men snicker.
With a mental curse at him for teasing me, I shift closer, my heart racing at his invitation to touch him. With a deep breath, I knead my fingers into his muscles.
“See the women over there,” he softly murmurs for my ears only and nods toward the lone cluster of women. “Go on over there and lay on the magic.”
Excitement takes hold of me.
“Be my eyes and ears while I’m occupied.”
“Our eyes and ears,” I correct. A rush of adrenaline rolls through me. Finally, I’m back on track and moving forward with my story. My turn to do what I do well, expose the truth along with the ugly little details that accompany it.
“Don’t be shy,” Finn voice booms. “Despite being a Yank, they’ll take to you once they discover you’re a Kennedy.”
I grimace. What a liar.
“Go on. Let a fella warm up.”
He goes through a series of awkward Jackie Chan moves followed by wild air-punches and kicks with no height. Amateur MMA, even I know that. A pre-school kid has more skill. The fighters warming up next to us turn away. They sized him up, took notes—pages—of his many weaknesses, then wrote him off.
He makes it so easy for them, doesn’t he?
I speak up, feeling the sudden need to defend him. “I’ve got two hundred dollars on you, baby. So, get in that cage and kick some Irish ass.”
“That I will. That’s a promise.”
The men snicker.
Finn winks.
And I suck in an excited breath, hoping he proves them wrong without getting hurt, while I focus on discovering everything I can about O’Brien.
15
Clarissa
Blood. Is. Everywhere.
Fight after fight a parade of unconscious men have been carried out of the ring. Inside it, anything goes—punches, knees to groins, head butting, biting fingers, arms, ears, weapons.
One fighter brought a six-inch blade to the match. His opponent didn’t appreciate it. Sweeping the legs out from beneath the man, he claimed the knife then cut him behind both knees. Advancing along in the fights but ending the other man’s ability to walk.
It’s barbaric.
And the crowd loves it.
Each participant fights three times. Every night, the two older men whom we met earlier declare the night’s big winner. These winners advance to something called Complete Domination. The best of the best, who, at the end of the month, fight for the championship. Finn is thirty-three percent of the way to winning tonight’s fights.
He won his first bout by forfeit. In a freak accident, his opponent fell victim to a punching bag. They loaded the semi-conscious man into the back of a truck with the others to be taken to the hospital.
That’s not to say I’m not worried. Finn could be injured, and seriously. This is insane yet he’s all-in, with not a care in the world. It’s a gamble. With his person and with finding out more about the reason we’re here—O’Brien.
I struggle to ignore the chaos and focus on the women around me.
“You can drink for a Yank,” Lucy, a girlfriend of one of the fighters, teases.