People shot their fists into the air, holding bills, shouting bets and winners. Maddox looked at me with a light in his eye I was sure no one had seen in a while—not even him. He’d just barely broken a sweat; his buzzed hair and dark eyes screamed invincible. Most of the men I’d met were all hat and no cowboy, but Maddox didn’t have to pretend. He lived it, and had the balls to back it up. The apex of my thighs tightened, and my panties were suddenly soaked. I took another step, forcing my way closer to the middle. I’d never seen him before, but he looked a lot like my next mistake.

The way he moved, I could tell he was extending the fight much longer than needed. Blow after blow—none by the bulky douchebag in the backward red hat—more glass broken, more blood spilled and beer sloshed onto Mother’s custom, Italian shag rug.

It became a pattern of Red Cap throwing a missed punch, and Maddox using the opportunity to land his. He was unbelievably fast, precise, and ruthless. I could almost feel his knuckles against my jaw, rattling my teeth, vibrating down my spine.

Too soon, it was over. The tattooed champion stood over his bloody opponent like it was nothing. Someone handed Maddox his T-shirt, and he used it to wipe specks of blood and sweat from his face.

Someone handed me cash, but I didn’t pay attention to how much.

“Tyler … let’s get the hell out of here. I don’t want to get fired, man. There’s about a dozen underage, wasted kids in here.”

Maddox kept his gaze on me. “What’s the rush?”

“I don’t feel like explaining to the superintendent why we got arrested. Do you?”

Maddox pulled the white cotton tee over his head and the defined curves of his chest and abs. When the V just above his belt disappeared behind the shirt, my shoulders slightly sagged in disappointment. I wanted to see more of him. I wanted to see all of him.

His nervous friend gave him a black White Sox ball cap, and he put it on, tugging it low over his eyes.

A friend patted Tyler on the shoulder. “You made me fifty bucks, Maddox. Feels like old times.”

“You’re welcome, dickhead,” he said, his gaze not leaving mine.

The crowd exchanged money, and then, in mass exodus, left for the kitchen where the kegs were tapped and flowing.