“Fuck,” he muttered, put his hands to the arms of his chair and folded out.

He had a woman and boys to feed, TV to watch, a wife to fuck, and sleep to sleep.

That was where his head was at.

Tomorrow, he’d see.

CHAPTER FOUR

Tasted as Good on His Tongue

Joker

THERE WAS NO ring. Just cement and a throng of bystanders who got out of the way whenever the fighters got too close.

Bare feet. Bare chest. Bare knuckles.

Joker hit him with a right hook but knew even before he threw the punch the guy would take it and go down.

With a jarring thud, he did.

The crowd roared.

Joker just stood there, staring down at him, taking deep breaths and flexing his fingers.

There was no referee. There was just a promoter, a sleaze named Monk who had a legal business running a local nightclub. But for this business he took bets and had a few of his bruisers act as crowd control and bouncers, ousting anyone who showed who didn’t lay down a bet.

So he waited until Monk wandered toward him, grabbed his hand, and lifted it.

The crowd again roared.

Joker tore his hand from Monk’s, not liking the little weasel touching him, and he turned away.

He didn’t look to the cinderblock wall, where he knew Rush and Shy were leaning, watching the action through the crowd. His brothers knew he fought underground. Rush and Shy weren’t the first to come and watch him. Hound was at nearly every fight.

No. He looked to the girl he’d clocked earlier, jerked his head, and she grinned huge, immediately moving toward the door.

Then he walked to his shit, tugged on his tee, socks, and boots and grabbed his cut. He went to Monk’s boy and got his pay. He shoved the envelope in his back pocket, shrugged on his jacket, and after that, enduring claps on the back, bumps to his arms and ignoring anyone who tried to stop him, he pushed to the door and out of it.

Up the steps and into the alley.

She was at his bike.

They wouldn’t have company. He was one of the last fights of the night, but everyone stayed until the end. There was blood to be drawn. Sweat to be leaked. Money to be won. Or lost. No one would leave.

Even if there was, he didn’t give a shit. And she was a fighter groupie, she wouldn’t either.

“Hey,” she whispered when he got near and she shifted closer to his bike.

He let his lip curl and grunted. “Wall.”

She looked disappointed but he didn’t give a fuck.

She might have been disappointed but she moved right to the brick wall of the alley.

She stopped, facing him. Joker jerked his head once in a no.