Part 18 (2/2)

”I hate that you can't take this as seriously as me,” Ca.s.sie tells me. ”I hate that I like you, and have no control over it.”

She takes a deep, shuddering breath. The skin on my face tingles.

”And I can't wait for this s.h.i.+tty family vacation to be over, and for you to go back home, so I'll never have to deal with you, with any of this, again.”

She turns around and walks back into the hotel, shoulders drooped.

I walk off into the street without looking back.

I flick my b.u.t.t, and light up another cigarette.

Chapter Twenty One.

The pub's called The Spotted Hen, and it looks different from the rest. Whereas it's neighboring establishments are all buzzing with people, some even spilling out onto the street, this pub is basically empty.

I've been walking winding, cobbled-stone alleys for hours, touring central London myself. I walked along the River Thames, past the London Eye, Houses of Parliament, and Big Ben.

There was never a moment when I wasn't surrounded by streams of tourists, many part of package tours, but not all.

It was a little surreal, walking around a first-world, metropolitan city, and seeing more tourists than I did locals.

But as the daylight faded, as the sun dipped below the horizon, they all disappeared. Off to package-tour dinners or wherever the f.u.c.k.

And my thoughts stayed on Ca.s.sie, how I'd let her down.

How much it matters to me with her when it's never mattered to me before.

She thinks I make her act out of character?

She does the very same thing to me.

Outside the pub, two mean looking bouncers wearing leather jackets and scowls deny everyone entry.

”Sorry, mate,” I hear one of them say to a group of college-aged boys. ”Venue's booked tonight.”

They've got tattoos extending up their necks, and on the backs of their hands I can see more ink peeking out from beneath their sleeves.

Their crew-cuts make me think ex-military. At the very least, it's clear they are trained.

And this piques my curiosity. Obviously this particular pub is being used for shady business. A front? A headquarters for some crime gang?

Either way, it's interesting.

I stand on the opposite side, spark up a cigarette, and wait to see what kind of people go into this place.

There's a slight drizzle, and so I pop the collar up on my jacket, move a little to stand beneath a tree leaning over the sidewalk.

In the shadow of it, all that can be seen is the bright orange burn of my cigarette, and the misty smoke that drifts outward into the cones of light cast down by streetlamps.

That's when a black cabbie pulls up, tiny wheels and chugging exhaust. Out of it steps... Frank Kaminski.

I blink, do a double take. Kaminski is an ex-professional MMA fighter. He retired a few years ago after a string of humiliating losses to young bucks. Rather than remain middle-of-the-pack, he decided to call it quits.

He lost all his endors.e.m.e.nt deals, practically dropped off the face of the planet.

But what the h.e.l.l is he doing here? What the f.u.c.k are the chances that I see him here, now?

From the taxi another two people emerge. One of them is a woman, wearing a disgustingly showy fur coat. She's got cheekbones all the way to the moon, paired with square-ish features. The wolf's head is still attached to her fur coat.

She's wearing a pouty b.i.t.c.hface, seems to check every stereotype box.

The other person, a man, is the visage of a body guard. Tall, broad, sungla.s.ses at night.

Every stereotype indeed.

He taps Kaminski on the shoulder, nods at the woman, and then together the three of them make their way past the bouncers who let them by without saying anything.

I notice the bag Kaminski is carrying. It's a duffel bag, black, and the zip is open. Inside, I see a roll of red tape. It's the kind you use to tape your hands and wrists before a fight.

I lick my lips. So there's a fight going down tonight. Underground, illegal, unlicensed. That means the money will be flowing. Mobsters will all be here to place big bets, especially if they've got an ex-pro.

It'll be a show for sure, but likely a brutal fight. An ex-pro in an underground cage match? It's not altogether a rarity, but there's no fanfare about this pub, everything looks extremely discreet.

It's not a big event, and that likely means Kaminski's opponent is going to be very outmatched. At least, that's my guess.

But I can't place what the angle is. Who is going to bet big on some amateur fighting an ex-pro? It doesn't make sense.

Another cabbie pulls up, and this time there's just a single man that gets out. By the build of him, the gait, it's obvious he's here to fight as well. I don't know if he's going to be fighting Kaminski, or if tonight there is going to be more than one fight.

My bet is the latter.

My thoughts go back to Ca.s.sie's slap, but I push it away. I want to distract myself, and there's no better way than watching a cage match or two.

I begin to unb.u.t.ton my s.h.i.+rt, then take it off. I'm wearing a black singlet beneath. I stuff my s.h.i.+rt into my back pocket, and walk up to the pub. As I antic.i.p.ate, one of the bouncer's stops me.

”The f.u.c.k you think you're going, mate?” The bouncer looks me up and down, sees that I'm no average Joe that just stumbled in off the street.

His eyes wipe over my arms and shoulders, and he considers my tattoos, my build, my scarred knuckles.

”You fighting tonight?”

”Yeah,” I lie. ”I heard there was an opening, somebody dropped out.”

”You're early.”