According to him, tonight will host fifteen bouts. The first bout, the promoter says, is between Lucky Vince and Mike the Truck, to settle a beef they had over a girl. Each bout will last three minutes. He goes on to ramble out a list of rules.

I did a little Googling on the subject of MMA fighting before we got here, just to be prepared. Mixed Martial Arts. Pretty much, anything goes in that ring. A few minutes might not seem long, but when you’re locked in a barricade and there are little rules to follow…the sport turns into a bloodbath. Unless a contender taps out or there’s a knockout, the winner is chosen by the roar of the crowd.

As the promoter wraps up, I note the medical personnel along the sidelines.

“There he is,” Blakely says.

I follow her line of sight to where a group of suits are being led to the top of the bleachers. Ericson is amid them, followed closely by Brewster.

A band of apprehension threads my spine as I realize I’m the one up now…until I remind myself that this is all a farce. Unlike Blakely, I’m not here for Ericson. He’s not my concern. His wife isn’t my concern.

Blakely is all that matters.

The lights of the warehouse blink out, quickly followed by dim emergency lights flashing on. A spotlight circles the ring as a card girl wearing a blood-red bikini walks the length with a sign held high announcing the first round.

The sudden uproar of the crowd announces the contenders as they enter the caged ring through their gates.

Blakely turns my way. “We need to get closer,” she shouts.

I nod in reply.

Moving away from the center is easier as bodies push forward. Like cattle, we’re being funneled toward the back of the warehouse. Blakely decides on a spot right near the first row of bleachers. As the crowd oohs and cheers in response to a fist landing a punch, I consider now might be the time to broach the topic of head injuries. It’s a segue even my less than tactical self can manage.

“They’re fighting bareknuckle,” I remark. When Blakely doesn’t comment, I add: “I wonder what their brain scans look like.”

She glances around the crowd. “Probably like mush.”

“With your line of work, have you ever gotten into any fights? Any brain injuries with the job?” Maybe too blatant, but I’m running out of time to get my answers.

She doesn’t seem to notice, however, as she distractedly searches for her target. Then her eyes land right on me. “Are you asking me if I’m brain damaged?” She doesn’t give me time to respond as she returns to scanning the crowd. “No, Alex. I’ve never suffered any brain injuries. Satisfied?”